The Boss-man had some business in the big city yesterday morning; he said he would take me with him.
It was a bumping rolling road but I slept, snoozed or dozed, most of the way, waking up stretching, yawning.
We arrived in the town, a strange smelling place (I resisted the urge to pull a face!). The rain was falling and no birds were calling. The traffic was close, whooshing and rushing, the noise was unnerving, through the traffic were motorbikes swerving. There were trees along the pavement edge, long lost cousins of the country hedge.
The rain was running down my nose, I shook my fur and droplets flew.
I could smell the river and hear big bells chime, as we passed a grey memorial stone, and the trailing, winding, tourist queue.
Big red buses huffed and sighed, and blue lights rushed past with sirens loud, we wove our way between the crowd.
I am told I was very good, coping with the noise and crush. I didn't flinch and I didn't rush, and sat at the crossings looking up.
But I think I'm truly a country pup, and all in all, I'd rather run in big green fields, retrieving my favourite tennis ball!
This is me, Tate, posing in front of Big Ben during my first trip to London; it was a rather soggy day!