Dear Diary,
I dogone done somethin' I 'ain't never done before. Yesterday a friend of Janie's said they had a four year old dog that needed a home. I flatly resolved to not take him. I am not a 'pet person' having flea-bitten wild animals defecating all over t'shop while I am in quiet contemplation, is not usually my imagined personal paradise. It means I cannot go away (for very long) which bugs me, and also will cause untold disruption both in my peaceful studies, and knocking over dice and miniatures during D&D.
So. The Land Rover turned up, and a little white and brown head popped out. I was adamant that I would not, could not, give the little fella a home. "I'll take him." I said, falling for his tiny twinkling baby-brown eyes.
"Ronny" is a mongrel, he's been abused and comes from a mysterious farm, somewhere outside the Vale of Avalon (Glastonbury). He's adorable and has much in common with me. He's lived outside for much of his life. He's skittish, nervous, very needy, affectionate, he farts a lot, he smells, Ron is the runt of the litter (in Dorset parlance he's the 'Nestletripe') we're two of a kind. A smelly mongrel hobo who's had to endure violence and homelessness. What a guy.
More later (and perhaps a photo),
Maximus Fleximus.
