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From our foreign correspondent…

Harry jogs around the park, doggedly. Dogged, he thinks, is a word with more of a lift at the end than I can manage now. Pissing takes an age. He does not have ‘an age’, nor yet a year, they say but they are unsure. What if he is condemned to spend much of that holding his penis above a toilet? His tail between his legs. Running from enemy lines. Less than dogged then. Beaten by that Boxer lifting its hindquarters to mark a tree. Shamed by the Shih Tzu who moves past him. And let’s not dwell on his shit zoo. Once a foreign correspondent, his despatches are now the fodder of medics. He sees disdain in the face of a passing pug. ‘Don’t make that face at me,’ he counters, with a stare. ‘There’s going to be a dog fight. Not man versus pug but man versus second lap’. See blog for full prose story.