bear

Tomorrow morning I will be visiting and possibly (outside chance) taking ownership of a rescue dog named 'Bear'. He is a Briard, or more poshly a Berger de Brie. A french breed, like my favourite car. He is two years old. his picture suggests he is medium sized pup. He is, apprently, the ize of a small horse and strong as an ox. Sally loves him. She saw him on Wednesday, in the wake of missing out on a labradoodle puppy and was impressed and awed in equal measure. He's supposed to be a loving lump of fur, affectionate and lovely to look at. Interesting and rare too. And as a breed they love their family and love exercise. But, as I will discover tomorrow morning, he is large. Very large. Not Great Dane large but stil needs-to-duck-to-get-under-a-dining-table large. And that's large. Whereas neither Sal nor I are what you'd call large. I guess the name 'Bear' was a giveaway.

Sally, of course, has gotten all excited at the prospect and largely forgotten that he can probably rip her arm from it's socket if it decides to sprint away while on the lead. O if he simply decides to rip her, or anyone elses arm from the socket. So we own two bowls, each looking far smaller than required for the amount of food a bear needs, a dog bed that is likely too small for a bear and a couple of bags of dog treats.