As soon as I opened the door this morning, I could hear the curlews calling. Sometimes they fly right over the cottage, their long curved beaks unmistakeable against the sky.
Little Dodd raced up the field, bleating hungrily after the night without milk. We stood in the sun while he drank. Then he clambered onto a tempting big stone in the dyke.
Midnight, the born-feral-but-rapidly-adjusted-to-soft-life cat, ducked elegantly under the gate and approached. As Dodd finished his bottle he stretched out his muzzle to hers. Little Dodd's eyes were bright with curiosity and inexperience.
Midnight sniffed him more warily. She's been chased by frisky lambs in the past.
Midnight sniffed him more warily. She's been chased by frisky lambs in the past.
