Hellhound birthday!!!!
[Note: four exclamation marks because they're four years old.]
The humans are having champagne.*
I had been foolishly and light-headedly planning to post a photo of hellhounds eating, as a dramatic contrast to their birthday last year. They do now mostly eat, most of the time, and we seem to be in a goodish** patch right now. I was aware that I was being imprudent, not to say positively rash, to assume that this scheme could be brought off successfully.
And then it looked like I had just got lucky. Hellhounds have developed the charming, normal-canine-like habit of coming out and cruising for dropped scraps while I’m chopping up the roast chicken that gets mixed into the dog food *** to encourage them to EAT IT. I’m so totally thrilled at the idea of their contracting an 
interest in food (much better late than never) that I push bits of chicken off the counter deliberately. Usually they mill for a bit and then slouch back to their bed so I have to call them out when I actually put the food down.† Tonight Darkness came out of his own accord and stood there looking alert and hungry. So if Darkness was being all forward and everything, Chaos decided he could do it too.
So I had two hellhounds standing up and eating in the middle of the kitchen floor—PERFECT for a photo. . . .
In the time it took me to get my camera out, Darkness had suddenly realised that he was eating in the middle of the kitchen floor!!!!, had recoiled with suitable emphasis, and had gone and wedged himself back in his corner by the refrigerator, where he usually goes, weary in every limb and generally deeply depressed of demeanour, when I call them out for a meal. 
Chaos, who, while generally the nutsier of the two, does have normal moments, looked around, noticed that Darkness had left him all alone in the middle of the kitchen floor, paused (I held my breath)—wavered—and decided that was Darkness’ business, went back to his supper, and finished the lot.
Darkness was still lying in his corner, staring at me. I was supposed to bring him his dish, you see. I have mostly learnt only to put it down by the refrigerator so he can’t do this to me, but tonight I got all excited and lost my head.
Chaos looked around for his treats. They get two little bits of neat chicken for afters. So with Darkness’ eyes boring into me, Chaos got his treats and went (smugly) back to the dog bed.
Fortunately at this point Darkness broke—the truth is that if we were in a bad eating patch I would have brought him his dish—rushed over to his dinner and hoovered it up with remarkable speed. And then smacked his butt down on the floor and looked around for me again—because he wanted his treats.
I am a sap, of course. Chaos got seconds. He came shooting out of the dog bed when he saw Darkness getting his, and hellhound memories are short. Fine. Whatever. They ate their dinner. I get to sleep tonight. Maybe.
But we can still have a few other photos celebrating the beauty, grace and elegance of hellhounds.††
* * *
* I need the champagne. I’m just back from another long evening of handbells. I got suckered into it this time because last week’s quarter of bob minor sounded so pretty and went so well I’ve got all pensive and yearning about learning bob major^, which requires a fourth person with a fourth pair of hands. We were two fours tonight—positively a heaving mob. And I did get to ring major, with Niall and James, but our fourth was Titus. Didn’t I say a fourth pair of hands? Ringing with Titus^^ is exciting enough when you know the method.
It took us two tries, but we did get through a plain course. At the end of which James turned to me, beaming, and said, you’ll be ringing a quarter of bob major soon.
As I say, I need the champagne.
^ Bob major specifically because you’re two-thirds or so already there by knowing bob minor. Any other method you’re starting all over from scratch. Starting from scratch in handbells is like growing your own wheat and milling your own flour and catching your own wild yeast when you want a slice of toast.
^^ Who has to ring both his bells in one hand. He holds them crossed, at ninety degrees, and shakes them up and down to make one ring and sideways to make the other ring. This does work, after a fashion, but there are kind of a lot of rows with too many or too few pings in them, which is disconcerting since you ring handbells largely by counting, and since he usually rings the trebles—because they weigh the least—you haven’t a prayer of seeing when the treble is leading, which is kind of crucial.
** So long as I don’t alarm them by toxic superfluities like leftover lamb mince, etc.
*** Yes, I know about BARF^. We had a couple of traumatic skirmishes with raw chicken wings and once with sheep bones—I think it was sheep: something large, anyway—and I retired from the field in confusion and dismay.
^ Bones and Raw Food
† No, of course they don’t just come out on their own. These are hellhounds.^
^ Hmm. I wonder if they’d do any better on raw goblin.
†† And last but not least, on the subject of eating and not eating, I love this: 
English speakers are dumber. You have to tell them louder.
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