The peanut butter balls, two packets of two, sitting on my desk, looking at me every time I sit down to the laptop.
What better opportunity could there be, on a cold wet day, with a stir crazy spaniel, than to play “fetch”.
Bryson does not play a normal game of fetch, he runs as fast as he can and is at the destination before the ball, running back to me, dropping it at my feet, and then barking at me to hurl it again. I don’t do this by hand, as my overarm is not that great, and obviously, the resulting distance is not either. So, we rely on a launch-a-ball. The distance, the ball is thrown, is limited, only by the ability of the operator.
Backwards and forwards we go, the ball rolls off the side of the drive and down the bank, and without a second thought, he is away after it. I can see the bushes moving as he ferrets around for the ball, before he pops out, ball in mouth, ready for another round.
I can see that he is tiring, he takes a diversion along the fence line and then drops the ball at my feet. I tell him that this is the last throw. Yeah Right. His face is animated with delight as he returns again and again.
The water stop is usually the last sign that defeat is not far off. He hurriedly gulps from the puddle by the old water tank, thinking that if he finishes quickly, I will still be there with the launcher.
Sadly, I have taken the hint, and we head indoors, where the peanut butter ball is still being strenuously defended from the jaws of his brother spaniel and his sister weimaraner.