The Puppy Farm

After lunch, I drive Mel and Robert to the farm to see a litter of puppies.
 
The dogs are based in Yorkshire, a collection of chocolate and black Labradors, nine of them under heat lamps, small woolly things with drooping mouths and serious eyes and tiny tails that swish from side to side. The smell inside the annexe to the farmhouse is strong, like a mixture of manure and peroxide.
 
In the pen outside, the adult dogs bark in excitement when they see us, one tall black Labrador jumping up to nip my fingers.
 
'That's Isaac,' the farmer's wife says. 'He can be quite a handful at times.'
 
'Aye,' the farmer says. 'He's a right devil when he wants to be. Always up to summat or other.'
 
'Can we buy a puppy?' Robert says.
 
'Well, no, not really,' I say. 'I know you'd love a dog, but the flat's not suitable for a pet. Maybe when you're older.' One of the other adult dogs jumps in front of Isaac and pushes it moist nose against my hand.
 
'He's sweet,' Mel says. 'I'd love to borrow him for a week or two.'
 
'Definitely not,' I say.
 
The farmer and his wife are in their fifties, dressed in thick green winter coats and walking boots, the farmer's biblical-like dark beard sprinkled liberally with grey.
 
In the annexe, Robert chooses a puppy to play with, a six-week-old chocolate boy with large eyes. The farmer gives him a blanket in case the dog decides to make a mess, and we go back in, through a narrow hallway with a low beamed ceiling – I nearly bang my head on the ceiling – to a kitchen with a huge stove and cutlery hanging from a rack on the wall, Robert hugging the puppy to his neck.
 
We have afternoon tea at the farmhouse: scones with jam and slabs of rich fruit cake, washed down with Yorkshire tea.
 
Afterwards, we take a slow walk down to the riverbank. It is a beautiful afternoon, sunny but chilly, with amber leaves and broken twigs strewn along the trail. Late summer.
 
Maybe I should arrange a weekend camping trip out in the country before the wintry weather arrives. Hikes in rambling boots, photoshoots for the server, beer and sausages for supper – the type of trip I used to organise during my rugby playing days when I believed there were no limitations to what I could do.
 
Run, climb mountains, survive in the harshest weather conditions, emerge with a triumphant smile in soaking wet clothes, then go off to the nearest pub to celebrate. I need to prove to myself that I can still do the things I enjoyed doing before Vince Macarthur brought his bar down over my head. Mel says I should not push myself too much, but those things matter a lot.
 
I shiver suddenly and turn round, thinking that someone further up is watching us, but I don't see anyone, just shadows in the grass.