Walking the mile…walking the mile Duncan turns out of the PD compound, down Southworthy Lane and into Westley Piddle High Street. He quickly marks the telephone exchange box on the corner.

“settheexample,Duncan” PC Andersen scritches reprovingly, tugging at his lead.

Right then, noshing opportunity number one!

 “helloMisterJohnson” PC Andersen greets some hindlegs wotz wasting perfectly good waterlick on a shop window.  The butchers! Orange-sniffy meat twitching Duncan’s snout holes. 

“Hellomate,how’sitgoing?”

“notsobad,how’sthebutcherybusiness?”

The hindlegs stops his nonsense with the waterlick, pops inside his shop, and emerges with something deliciously sniffy wrapped in paper.

“Sausages,freshlymincedthismorning”

“youknowIvcannotacceptthese”

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

Just gimme some sausage! moans Duncan. And, corss, he gets some.

Trotting on.

Walking the mile…

▪

Snifz yu, Duncan

Snifz yu, Treacle They bump snoutz.

Treacle the service guide dog to Sixlegs blocks Duncan’s way. But Duncan don’t mind – after all, Treacle is a blind dog and can’t be…