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Posts tagged ‘sherrif’


Dinner at Sherrif and The Bunqueens’:

Me: Mmm, this wine is delicious. What is it?

Sherrif: Well, you should know; you brought it.

Me: I . . . we . . . did?

Me: Well, it’s lovely.

Me: I can highly recommend it.


We were recently down at Sherrif and The Bunqueen’s farm, basking in the bucolic glow of early spring. Jed was in the garden attempting to eat a grapefruit tree, when we realised there were some highly pregnant/borderline explosive sheep on the farm track, just beyond the garden’s stone wall.

Since I was . . . sitting, Andrew . . . volunteered to go and shut Jed in the car. Sherrif and The Bunqueen politely demurred, but our dog is still extremely enthusiastic in how he greets sheep. 

“No, no,” I said, idly watching Andrew call Jed over to the gate. “It would be terrible if Jed savaged one of your sheep. Then we’d be ignoring each other on the road or setting fire to each others’ sheds. Messy. And unnecessary.”

Suddently, a herd of sheep stampeded down the drive.

In hot pursuit – although we could only see the tops of his ears and occasional white of eye over the wall – was Jed at full tilt, a study of canine muscle and grace.

Three seconds later, in tepid pursuit, Andrew galloped into frame. Relatively speaking, he didn’t seem to be moving that fast, even though he was leaning slightly back, legs pumping.

In fairness, he might have been more a study of muscle and grace if he hadn’t been waving his arms around bawling incoherently at the dog, while wearing oil-stained overalls and unlaced boots.

But I suppose if he’d been running after the dog in a pair of socks and boxer shorts, our neighbours would definitely have set fire to our shed by now.

As it is, we’re all still on speaking terms.

Jed practices his eskimo rolls

Last Friday it was so balmy out on the deck that we were inspired to borrow Sheriff and The Bunqueen’s kayaks. I strained my back and have been flattened ever since – but that’s another story.

Jed is conflicted about this form of activity. He protests vociferously if we leave him on shore. However, he’s rightly suspicious of plastic flotsam as a mode of transport. He will embark with sufficient encouragement, then tramples around the square foot of kayak trying to find a comfortable square inch.

He prefers sitting between my knees rather than Husband’s – perhaps because Andrew previously capsized him. (To date, Jed refuses to acknowledge his hand – or paw, if you prefer – in the incident.) He sits for ten minutes on average, shivering and twitching, before commencing a kind of yodelling cover-version of The Swan Song while prancing around waving his arse in my face.

Luckily Andrew took some shots. Unfortunately, his phone’s camera isn’t half as impressive as his level application.

"Where to, Sir?"

The view straight ahead: a great load of brown, curly ballast.

Jed awaits his opportunity to jump ship.

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