Little White Dog

Cousin’s new dog is Not Cat in canine form. He’s not quite a year, and previously lived with a family. Unfortunately, one of the children developed an allergy to him, so he swapped his urban Belfast environment for the wide open spaces of the country.
He’s a bundle of energy and joie de vivre; busy as a bee in summertime. He took one of my boots to the hearth, and strewed my washing round the kitchen. I haven’t managed to unpack completely because he is so eager to explore my bag. When I zipped it shut, he lay on it and chewed a corner. His idea of helping me make the bed was to make off with the patchwork cover made out of old shirting. It’s a lovely object, and I’ll photograph. It belonged to my aunt, Cousin’s mother.
I keep calling him by Not Cat’s name, and having investigated my trousers pretty thoroughly, I’d guess he knows a fair bit about my boy.
I wish my foot were better, as taking this boy out for a walk would be a delight. His wonder and excitement at the world is marvellous to behold.