My Nana's new pup, Bonnie made a bid for freedom this morning. Or so we thought.
Cue frantic phone calls to me, as if I'm in any state to go dog-hunting at any hour of the morning. If the time of day ends in AM I do not want to know, let alone move from my bed.
After much protestations from my legs, my head, my bladder and many other parts of the anatomy unaccustomed to moving at 9 AM, I get up and hose myself off ready to pursue my quarry.
I get around to my Nana's house, with my dog, in the vain hope that the Hairy Idiot™ will be able to sniff her out. And a fine job he did too.
90 minutes after setting off on The great Dog Hunt of 07, we return, with sunken hearts and disdain for the hound and his mad tracking skillz.
Who is there to greet us at the back door? Well noted reader, it was Bonnie. Gold stars all round. My cousin had discovered her when she was manning the phone in case someone handed the pup in at the Cozzer Shop or the Dog Centre. She went to the toilet and amid a flurry of chewed toilet rolls, there was the small fuzzy one.
We all thanked Glorious Cousin for her expertise on ringing us to tell us the dog had been found 10 minutes after we'd set off.
Apparently, its better this way. Appreciation of the fuzzball or something.
Next time the dog vanishes, she'd better have the good graces to do it in the afternoon, or else.
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