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Dogged Down.


I’m pleased to report all’s still going well with getting our dog used to his new life with us.

We’re very fortunate he’s so good-natured as if he weren’t it might have given our ineptitude away. It’s like those films where the downtrodden masses suddenly realise they outnumber their aggressor and take over the planet, only in dog form; we pray Elwood doesn’t cotton onto the fact he’s massive and we’re puny or someone will wind up kicking down our front door in years to come to find our skeletons reclaimed as dog treats.

(Sleep well, children.)

Today, I took him out for a good hour-long walk, which he seemed to appreciate, though it proved stressful at times because I hadn’t planned a route, so I found myself having to negotiate tight spots and steer him away from some chavvy looking gardens. This is the downside to him being so massive: he’s like the canine equivalent to a lorry with a long vehicle sign at the tail-end of it; you sometimes have to orchestrate a fifteen-point turn.

 
Elwood looks good in blue (though he's not a Tory).

While the whole walk wasn’t plain-sailing (though I’m nitpicking really), it’s fair to say we’re bonding; something that has gained in force over the past few days. He’s very sweet and easygoing and doesn’t make much telling to do something, save for when it’s time for bed and I want him to vacate the sofa so I can set up camp there (something the shelter suggested we try to help him settle in his new home); even then he moves eventually and is just trying it on. Last night he decided to settle down on the floor beneath the sofa I was sleeping on, so I had the honour of being  guarded and protected by my new best friend (though he barely acknowledges someone knocking at the door, let alone savaging me).


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