It's interesting that the urge to 'oo er missus' is so evident in both this tiny male dog (who has had his natural talents removed) and this ancient female dog (about seventeen) who was parading her assets for all the horrible dogs of the chemin to admire.
We have the usual suspects twice a year without fail. The small depressed poodle who stands by the gate in the rain, his discoloured white coat dripping, a small cloud of failure hanging above his head. The awful brown thing, size of a pregnant sheep, that somehow gets in the compound and destroys objects in his lust frenzy. Last year it was the innocent blue plastic mob bucket, this year the 'outside' dog bed, completely shredded — pieces of yellow sponge and leopard fabric everywhere. The mad black Alsatian with eyes like Steve Bell's cartoon of Tony Blaire, and lastly, the huge white and tan dog that is actually a man dressed up in a carnaval dog outfit.
This morning the compound is quiet again. The hideous things have melted away, the old dog has gone back to her knitting and runty dog is holding the wool for her.