Friday.

797 words written; one sunny day; one blissed-out mare; one joyful dog. I think he even may have caught one of the bluebottles, after a week of trying. Here is how it went: buzz, buzz, buzz; snap, snap, snap; buzz; snap. Silence de glace.

One of my ridiculous accumulators even came good.

The thought of the red mare with the old people still makes me smile.

And the Dear Readers of yesterday touched my heart with kindness.

I think I have to chalk that down as a good day, to end a good week.

I have, however, run out of words. I’ve typed them all. Luckily, I have a photo essay for you instead, of one delighted dog in the dazzling morning sunshine. It is for the Stanley-lovers amongst you.

He is still prone to the occasional freak-out, when I shout too loudly at the racing on the television, as the scars of his early life continue not quite healed. He does slope off when he is bored with me working the mare, and goes to my mother’s house, lets himself in and sits himself down. (He can open every single door in all our houses, except for one here, which has a round handle. However, I have caught him up on his back legs, a paw on either side of the knob, practising. Nobody told him he does not have opposable thumbs.) He does still get a bit carried away and barks at cyclists whose lycra he considers too garish, but he no longer woofs at Pearl the Postwoman, just gazes at her with eyes of love. He makes my mother smile every single morning, and sends my stepfather’s dog into transports of love. He comes when he is called, and knows sit and stay and wait. He still steals any food which is not nailed down, but he is a lurcher, and must stay true to his heritage. He is the first rescue I ever owned, and one of the best decisions I ever made. And at top speed, he is so fast over the ground that he looks like a wild brindle streak.

 

The first of the honeysuckle is out:

I was quite pleased with some of the HorseBack photographs I took this week:

The red mare made great strides and was really rather brave and gave me mighty gifts. The particularly touching thing was that I could not resist posting her all over the internet, and people I have never met, some from the other side of the world, celebrated her gloriousness as if she were their own. My showing days really are over, so she will never go anywhere and win a silver cup. She famously trundled around the back in her blessedly short racing career, and then turned out not to be very good at polo. (We don’t like to speak of it.) I sometimes think that I plaster her all over Facebook because I want her to get the credit she deserves. Every kind person who admires her sweetness and brilliance is the equivalent of a judge, pointing at her to come in at the head of the line. Every little internet thumbs-up is Supreme Champion in Show. Of course the idiot thing is that she does not give a bugger. She does not want credit. That is a human concept. She wants to be at peace, and this morning she was more peaceful than a philosopher queen who had just found the answer to the Universal Why. I have no picture of it, but it lives in my mental camera. Here is she is in her Prettiest Mare pose instead: