My dog, Doug, is into his third day of convalescence.
We hear his conical collar as comical advance guard, bumping into doors, dogs, walls. A plastic skiffing noise as he loudly scents along the ground.
He gave Bronte a shock as her small head was suddenly enclosed by his coned nose hunting down a bit of biscuit
He looks more like a fifties space dog than a van dyck nobleman.
Collar consciousness follows me around, even down to the op shop, where over the counter I look up to see that famous print of a ruffled nobleman staring back at me. He was $25. I leave him to it.
Maybe I'm turning into this woman.