R, as we left Boston Tea Party this afternoon: “That’s a fine-looking Wire.”
J (skidding to a halt, spinning, peering and pouncing): “HUMPHREY!!”
Humphrey’s Mum (ostensibly to Humphrey, but probably really for the benefit of the Innocent Civilian with whom she was taking afternoon tea): “Look Humphrey, it’s the lady who takes your photo!”
Humphrey: *sigh*
J (fishing camera from bag): “May I?”
Humphrey’s Mum: “Help yourself. I don’t know if he’ll sit still.”
J (madly spinning wheels and dials to achieve settings appropriate to the Stygian gloom): “He can do absolutely whatever he wants.”
Humphrey: *sigh*
J (as after exactly four photos Humphrey rebelled, refused to pose any longer and wriggled down to the floor): “I may have to wrench the lead from your hand and steal him.”
Humphrey’s Mum: “You’d soon bring him back.”
J: “I would not. I used to have a Basset Griffon.”
Humphrey’s Mum: “Oh, right – you’re trained then.”
It does seem a waste of all that training, not being a hound owner any longer….
