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Snowood Elwood.

Judging from all the barking on this morning's walk, I've concluded that my dog's previous owner was an evil snowman.

 His unease at the sight of the icy figure standing motionless (as they do) on the playing field close to where I live was patent from the offset, when he crossed to the other side of me, obviously confident I'd fight it off. Then, when it became clear I wasn't going to, he decided to grasp the nettle; switching from anxiety to fury as he tried to warn the rotund, inappropriately-dressed albino off.

 Bless him for his persistence, which was all the more marked when you consider I could count the times I've heard him bark on the fingers of one finger, or thereabouts. And yet he kept going for the duration of our walk around the field's perimeter, only worsening when he spotted a second snowman just a few feet away; he must have thought they were working together, like a pair of naked pale thugs. It was so bad I ended up taking a different route home just to avoid passing them again.

 The rest of our walk was stress-free once we'd got away from Raymond Briggs' two cohorts, when Elwood made the most of playing in the snow. It made me wonder how much he'd done this in the past. Whatever the case, he was very inquisitive, and by the time we got to the top of Windmill Hill he made the most of the view as I did too. It's funny to think neither of us would have seen it a few months ago; I'm sure we're both better for it.

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