Polly the puppy

Polly the puppy is twelve weeks old now and has easily doubled in size.  She’s still quite obviously a baby, but she’s gained in swagger and confidence.  She’s chewing, chewing, chewing, and the living room floor is usually littered with damp bits of tattered cardboard, or earth from the plant pots she insists on stealing from the garden and bringing in to gnaw.

She’s got a colourful selection of proper doggy chew toys, of course, it’s just that stolen goods are sweeter and more fun.  A couple of nights ago, I took my eyes off her for five minutes, heard a mysterious clinking sound, went to investigate, and found her all bright eyed, happily chewing a large piece of broken glass (an escapee from an earlier breakage).  But don’t worry, there must be an exhausted canine guardian angel who looks after little dogs: she was fine.  She's now met tractors, children in push-chairs, horses, and other dogs.

Here she is, making friends.... 

Polly in flight.  How joyful is that?  How great to be a puppy in springtime!  As Wordsworth almost says,

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,

But to be a puppy was very heaven.