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Saga of a woman old enough to know better who lets her life be governed by the ridiculous hobby of breeding and showing dogs, musing on life, the twenty first century, Cameron and his mini-me, and the occasional sheep.
"IN DOG YEARS, I`M DEAD"

Thursday, December 30, 2004

HO HO HO! 

Of course Christmas went well. The merry picture shows my excellent hosts at the beginning of the traditional ritual of Pudding Cremation. You can see from her face that his partner has absolute trust in his abilities with dangerous tools. She is not a bit disturbed by the cries of her daughter - "Remember when he burned the tree down?"

We had a great time, only minimally affected by Afghans - the "doing out" was put off till Boxing day, and only two Afghans visited the dinner table. We laughed happily as we pulled crackers - and doghairs out of the gravy - and discussed the technicalities of canine AI. (No, not Artificial Intelligence - not even Spielberg could give Afghans that.)

The next visit, to seriously non-doggy cousins on Boxing Day, was severely curtailed by the necessity to do out Afghans, pack them into a car and see himself and them off down an icy road to Stranraer to cross the Irish Sea in midwinter.

I have heard nothing since.

I know better than to ask
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