The Hills are Alive! with the sounds of shagging

My walk today left me in no doubt.  Spring has well and truly sprung and there is little you or I can do to halt it.  And why would we want to dampen this fulsome explosion of warbling and coupling?  The hedgegrows are bursting with saucy overtures and one (particularly drab) little bird was making downright lurid approaches from her elevated bower.  Pairs of swallows were jostling in the air and the forest was quite palpably aquiver. Mallard Ducks are in bill to bill combat over their lady love in the marsh at the foot of Gorse-Hill.  Yes, the Finn Valley is all a-shaggin'.  

One should not however assume that this extends to the human folk of these regions and instead I have already encountered my fair share of sour faced of flat capped codgers today.  Alas I too can lay no claim to be all a flutter in a daffodil field.  Utterly, utterly crap and no sign of the drought breaking before said daffodils wilt.  

Nothing for it but to go out and get oneself a puppy, you can never have too many.  And so here she sleeps, curled up on my lap, all 9 weeks, two ears and one waggy botty of her.  Mrs Thatcher,  (not her real name) has already been mistaken for a quinea pig twice, once by the hot vet (one can only hope the identification was made in jest) who really should know better. More disturbingly, whilst I was escorting Mrs Thatcher outside on her 3am toilet call, it was quite chilling to hear the owls hooting very very close by.  I snatched puppy from the exposed lawn just as soon as she was done and we beat a very haste and frightened retreat. 

Collie Wobbles and Banana McFly (not their real names) are not exactly thrilled by the new arrival.  Banana McFly sensibly just removes her self from the annoyance og the upstart constantly wanting to bounce and play and gnaw on ones superb licourice colored ears. Collie Wobbles is less English about the whole thing and tends to bare her gnashers and then boot Mrs Thatcher to the other end of the carpet as she makes a speedy and pointed exit.  I am surprised she doesn't slam the door and shout "I hate you! you don't understand me!"

I think she's lovely and we are already firm friends.  

PS Poor Seabiscuit, only recently back from the horse-pital were he indeed had his biscuits unceremonially removed, is back at the fine equine facility having come a cropper out on a hack.  You wont be surprised to hear that it was indeed carnally cavorting sparrows in the hedge that spooked him- no telling what horrors his young eyes fell upon, whatever they were they caused poor innocent Seabiscuit to flee the scene of the crime in some haste.  Lets all hold hooves he recovers well and can come home soon.