Sometimes life is difficult for a pooch.  Like the other day: I’m pretty pooped after a long session on the beach but wanted some amusement.  Could I decide what toy I wanted?  A  rope, a bone, Gordon (an early stuffed bear named after the Scottish village where I was born), Rudolph’s remaining leg (a favourite), a sock, Piglet?  Nope.

I stuck my head in the toy basket and came out empty mouthed so many times that my mum tipped the basket over to make it easier.  Aren’t I a lucky dog to have such an understanding, helpful mum?



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