Mellow Fruitfulness

What gorgeous weather we've been having. Crisp and cold with clear skies and the sun, low as it is, flooding the countryside with light. We've had some great walks, Hugie and me, admiring the colours of the hedgerows and the fallen leaves, and breathing in the clean autumnal air. Yesterday we trotted along beside the mere under the castle walls where the reflection of bright colours in the shining water was breathtaking. For the first time I bemoaned the lack of a smart phone with a decent camera. But the cooler nights have brought consternation too. I had decided that Hugo should sleep in my room from now on, concerned about the vulnerability of the rubbish bin and the larder which I can't secure apart from with chairs. Soon there will be festive food everywhere too. And who wants to rearrange their kitchen before they go to bed every night? He came willingly, eagerly even as I carried his bed upstairs and he realised he was coming too. But in the morning I discovered that's he'd dragged the cushion out of his bed, and was perched atop this on one of the coldest mornings we've had so far, with no surrounding protection or warmth. He was shivering. The next night he was back in the warmer kitchen on his lovely soft sofa, but during the dark hours he'd pulled the throw into a clumsy attempt at a nest. He must have been cold again. There was nothing for it but the red polo neck sweater, so last night I pulled this over his head and folded the long arms up to give him room to move. This morning he was still wearing it, and had even pulled it down over his bottom. He was curled up like a little red viper, and there was no evidence he'd moved all night. He got up to greet me, wagging his tail as always, and this time he didn't look hangdog and embarrassed as he did the first time I put him in the sweater. He was pleased and proud, and happy to be cosy. Job done.

Floppy dog, soft as butter

This morning I took advantage of the lovely day to fill the wheelbarrow with logs which are now stored indoors in the various baskets. I moved the metal table and chairs into the shed, and the recliners to their designated hooks in the garage. Lastly I rolled my two large Greek urns into the summerhouse lest a ferocious frost should challenge their strength. Hugo still had his coat on, and as I played with him in the garden he kept dashing up to me, pressing himself against my side, and then performing a series of spins which threatened to topple me. Over and over again he whirled like a crazy dervish, another game I've discovered by accident and don't understand. He always ends up with his nose by my calf, so I know he must have been trained to perform. But what does it mean? He made me laugh so much I had to sit down, but there were no chairs left. Typical.