Lordy I love Crufts. I’ve been lucky enough to go about 5 times now I think, and even though I’m not there this year I’m with them in spirit. For a limited few days each year my particular brand of dog crazy is made to feel something akin to normal. Yes I talk to them -normal. This morning I sang a Whitney Houston song to Cleo. “I believe the Weasels are our future, treat them well and let them meep away….” you had to be there…but still normal.  I don’t dance with them (oh wait, I do…, (weasel’s favourite is Dance Magic Dance by David Bowie) still normal. I love watching Flyball, the teams always look like they got lost on their way to the play Darts at a Warrington working men’s club. We tried Cleo with that once. Flyball, not darts. She was frightened of the release mechanism and completely un-motivated by the ball. Lots of manic collies racing up and down and Cleo perfectly still and legs splayed out like a wonky starfish. We’ll stick to dancing baby it’s ok. 

I am reminded every year that it’s one more year that I still don’t have an Irish Wolfhound. 😭😭😭 

No doubt a monstrous piece of dog topiary will win as ever and I’ll be incandescent with rage. Also I’ll fall aut with Claire Balding after spending hours hash tagging Crufts frantically trying to get a sleeping picture of the boy on the telly! 

He will be mine, oh yes, he will be mine.

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