A Dozen Years Old

Herbie was 12 on Monday! I never thought I'd see the day - but we did. His lymph nodes are big, he's getting over a touch of conjunctivitis, and his back end is weakening, but he's still here, and still springs to life whenever he sees a cat.

No excuses for not posting, it's all down to general idleness and nothing much to say. I did wonder if Herbie would make it through the winter - his 14-year old black Lab friend, Guinness, only just did, but she died with the first daffodils. Her dog-parents, Nick and David, are bereft, and now I don't see them on our dog-walks. Herbie hangs around their garden gate, and I don't know how long Guinness's scent would have lingered on, but with all the rain we've had, it'll surely be gone by now. The south of England may be in drought, but here I'm thinking of turning my lawn into a pond.

Holly is her usual weaselly self. And my car died, so now the dogs have to cram into something smaller. Holly has made a pile of the old "car beds" and is doing her celebrated Princess and the Pea impersonation in one corner of the living room. We made it through the winter.