...technically, at least.
Two years, one month and four days ago, a pudgy, little dog was born. One year, eleven months and eight days ago, I thought I might start a blog about said lump and his amazing, fantastical life. There have been a couple of feeble efforts in that time. I think I may have even reached a second post on one of them. But not one of those blogs took flight. Until now.
I'd best start with an introduction of the hound. He's two years old and a little short for his age. He may share a name with Mr Bond but he eats more like a hobbit. Breakfast, second breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon snacks and dinner are all expected in his average day. Sandwiches and orange juice are his particular favourites. He is anthropomorphised to within an inch of his life. Cognitively, at least. I draw the line at putting clothes on a dog with two perfectly good layers of fur. But announcements that Mr Bond will be having a "Naked Wednesday" or "Pyjama Saturday" are, sadly, not at all uncommon.
He epitomises the old saying that people start to look like their dogs, et vice versa. Not physically - I'm pretty sure I'm not yet at the point of looking like a black Labrador - but he has inherited a general laziness, a fondness for spending all day on the couch, mild hayfever and an appreciation for chocolate digestives.
Like his namesake, he has had a successful media career, culminating in an appearance on Totally Wild at seven weeks of age and a still photo on a website. We've tried very hard not to let the fame go to his head.
And thus concludes the inaugural blog post. At the risk of mixing up my film references, "I'll be back!".
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