Alexander
The usual undertone of desolation is absent as i make the drive across to Hampshire on Sunday afternoon. Even Brutus seems to grin at me, his overbite looking especially slobbery as he pants in the passenger seat.
I think he liked having Amy in our house again last night.
Having a new cleaner in the house first thing this morning, not so much. “You’ve got to stop doing that s**t,” I tell him, as though he stands a hope in hell of understanding. “You’ll get us into trouble one day, boy.”
Having to rescue a damsel in distress from behind your kitchen doorway at seven a.m. – dressed in nothing but your bathrobe – raises the heartrate somewhat.
Brutus still looks thoroughly pleased with himself. At least our sweet Amy slept through the fracas.
My sweet Amy slept like an angel.
