“THAT'S WHAT I came for”, came the happy response from one youngster. I was dressed in my wellie boots, a long red robe and red cape fringed with white, and nylon whiskers. I'd been ambushed into being Santa Clause for the children's Christmas party up Glen Esk. It wasn't me the young man was looking forward to but the present I'd promised was in the sack over my shoulder.
WALKS WITH Macbeth occasionally take on a flavour of high drama. A Border terrier of our acquaintance is called Weasel'. With a name like that you could be forgiven for thinking that Weasel is a man dog. But, no – he is a she, and despite some characteristics which seem to attract a lot of shouting, when she and Macbeth meet it is on the most cordial terms.
“ARE YOU coming?” – that's what Macbeth waits to hear, for it means I'm ready to take him his walk. From lunchtime onwards he dogs my steps (in a manner of speaking) getting under my feet and making sure I don't forget him. It gets dark so early that I like to get the walk over between three and four o'clock, but if I'm busy and late with the walk he sits in his bed with a grumpy look on his face until he sees me put my jacket and wellies on.