The dog was taking me for a walk, not an unusual occurrence at 10am in the morning. Given that Geoffrey the Bull Mastiff was one hundred and twenty pounds of pure, dopey muscle, it was the best time of the day to go walking. Mainly because there was no-one else alive in the immediate vicinity; no people, no mailmen, no delivery vans, no cats, no dogs and no birds.
With any luck, anyway.
Except for this morning, of course.
Coming out of the house, I set off in the usual loping, leaping, half-run and half-walk required to keep up with Geoffrey. A most unusual gait, which, I suspected, conveyed precisely who was in charge of our walk.
It wasn’t me.
And this became exceedingly obvious when Geoffrey caught sight of a man on the other side of the street and in his wisdom, decided we should cross the street to give the man a closer inspection.
Imagine the scene, if you will. The man – perhaps in his mid-thirties, tall, with one of those builds which suggest he carries lean muscle – wearing pristine grey trousers and a black, button-down shirt, glances up to see a lumbering, drooling mass of russet fur, towing a medium height, slightly overweight woman wearing black three-quarter length leggings and an oversized man’s t-shirt.
It was a recipe for disaster…