Happy Birthday
. . . hellhounds! 
They’re three years old today which in the usual dog/human age equation means they are twenty-one. They are officially adults. Snork. That explains why every morning they plunge down the cottage steps like mad things, Darkness in Must Bark mode and Chaos in Must Bite Something mode. After these little issues have been dealt with* they prance beside me, taking turns to drop briefly behind and goose me sharply. Growling may accompany this behaviour, as Chaos generally growls when he gnaws on my arm and Darkness growls when he trots along with his head under my raincoat.** It doesn’t really surprise me that little old ladies cross the street when they see us coming.***
New, clean dog toys! Yaay! †
And yes, that red thing is a so-called dog training dummy. As far as I’m concerned it’s a relatively indestructable and relatively washable dog toy.
Peter seems to think I should have a close up of the chicken in case anyone is missing the point. ††
And no, I–er–chickened out of lighting the candles. Who was going to blow them out? This is important. And what would small flakes of unremarked wax do to hellhound digestion (since they would inevitably get the bits of chicken that had wax inadvertently still adhering)?
And, speaking of close ups, yes, I bought some hibiscus flowers as directed by someone on the forum with my best interests at heart. †††
And here we have hellhounds falling joyously on their lovely birthday dinner.
Sigh.
* Every morning. Eeeeeeeeeevery morning.
** I’ve already blogged about this. I’m sure it is etched on the memory of long-time readers.
*** And given the temperament of the average little old lady’s terrier I’m delighted to have both of them on the far side of the street.
† Now I get to decide which of their old, incredibly disgusting toys I can throw out without traumatising either of them. It’s the old disgusting ones that are their favourites, of course, although if I were never prodded with a gooey, falling-apart tennis ball with attached thingummy again I would not repine.
†† (Robin hums a tune)
††† My flower didn’t open.
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