Labour of love

Whilst on one of the long man and I's regular jaunts around the thriving metropolis that is Leyland yesterday I met a yellow Labrador by the name of Gordon. An unusual name for a dog I thought. I had a very interesting conversation with him. He was telling me he has a job, like the long man and the clippy cloppy woman have. His job title is "guide dog for the blind" which sounded very grand to me. Having been feeling somewhat unfulfilled of late I enquired about possible career opportunities in his industry. His job basically entails wandering around with a person tied to his back and making sure said person doesn't get run over by one of those shiny metal box thingies. Sounded a doddle and seems to have plenty of scope for a little mischievous fun, such as leading the person into a tree or a lamp post, or even a river, and so I asked about the pay. Get this - apparently he gets two meals a day, a few handfuls of biscuits, a nice comfortable bed to sleep in and the occasional stroke. Balls to that! I get all of that, and more, now, without having to lift a claw. And here was I believing slavery had been abolished. Gordon says it's a calling. Gordon says it's a labour of love. Gordon is a moron. His bottom did smell rather nice though.

And now for the big news. The long man took me to Worden park earlier today, and guess what? He took my lead off and let me run free, free I tell you, free as a flappy, feathery thing that whistles. Now I know what Nelson Mandela was banging on about all them years. Oh what a feeling. The wind whistling through my hair as I bounded through the bushes and bracken, whatever bracken is. The long man had brought a ball with him and threw it, then just stood there like a big gormless imbecile. I went and got it for him, brought it back and gave it him and then as soon as I turned my back he threw it away again. The muppet. I had to keep going and getting it, over and over again. I must say, that game got old pretty damn fast.