Gail, have you not noticed? We have come to a cattle grid. It is your job to pick me up and carry me across.
Oh for heaven's sake Bertie, you’re a big boy now. Why not give it a go by yourself, just this once?
I don’t think so Gail. Cattle grids are very dangerous. Remember that time when I was a pup and in my youthful enthusiasm I jumped on the grate over by Loch Clair, and fell between the rails and I was all scared and panicky and you had to rescue me. These traumatic events early in one’s life make a lasting impression you know.
Really Bertie, that was a long time ago, when you had barely worked out how to control your legs (which after all were growing a rate of about a centimeter a day). You’re much better coordinated these days, I’m sure you could manage.
I am totally not going to even try. Especially since you have your camera out. What would my sweetheart Addi think if I stumbled and she were to see a photo of me, legs flailing, sprawled all over the place like a drunken Torry quine on Union Street on a Saturday night?
Sigh. You are becoming as stubborn as Hamish. Who, incidentally, would have trotted confidently across this grid without a care in the world. Come on you big wuss.
Gail, you are forgetting that Hamish, a Westie, had the advantage of a low centre of gravity and bigger paws than me. And there is no need to be calling me names and making light of my deep-seated anxieties.
Bertie, I am so sorry. Don’t look at me like that.
Please carry me. Please. I am going to sit here until you come back and pick me up.
(After a lengthy stand off, Gail relents.)
All right then. You win. Again. Up and over we go.
