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Breakfast. Breakfast. Did someone say breakfast!!

Forget about the power of love. It’s the lure of a bit of food that carries the weight with this old girl and gets those wobbly old legs churning with anticipation.

This is that dog, remember, that walks so slowly around the block I have to take reading material to keep me occupied. Who spends 23 hours a day happily snoozing in her corner. And who has taken to backing up down the hallway, yep backwards, inch by inch, hugging at the walls, sometimes gripping with her feet (which when you’re a dog just means ripping the timber floor to shreds), and occasionally falling over.

Normally it takes a full five minutes of concerted effort, cajoling, clapping, encouraging, and/or rousing, and sometimes support, to get this old dame down the hallway, but on the way back in the morning when the thought of food has entered her head and she remembers her aluminium bowl and the promise of someone putting food in it, she can actually break into a bit of a run, straight down the front path and down the hall. Well, it’s a mild trot, but it’s still a remarkable difference from just minutes before.

Surprise, surprise, she’s a golden retriever.

Where’s my food?

 

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