...Later that day we took Harry to the park, but he refused to run around, and just sat there like a pudding.
So I swept him up, carried him to the end of the park, and released him with a great shove. He shed his puddingness and departed like a shot, his wooly mops of ears flying up and down, and he shrank to a tiny black spot in the distance. When his little red tongue appeared at his mouth, I stopped the game.
As we were leaving, a venerable Chelsea pensioner, getting ready to take a turn of the grounds in an electric wheelchair, gave a sort of salute.
His serene expression, the placid set of his head, his languid pace, all foretold his coming pleasure.
To my horror, Harry bounded after him, barking and tearing at his scarlet coat, which fluttered temptingly in the wind.
Crap! He would not come back! My face burned, my bowels shot through with dread and I felt impotent in the face of disaster.
The old man roared and beat the dog with his cap. His hairless head, formerly white as an egg, flushed to an angry red; his face--which shook with each mighty stroke--turned the colour of a ripe strawberry. His screams roused the dog to bloodlust, so that he redoubled his attack, and tore off a great chunk of the man's scarlet coat.
The man took a drunken course, lurching violently, like a storm-tossed ship. The chair, which often rose up on a single wheel, then back on two, then up again, to avoid the dog, nearly toppled over. What if he fell? I almost died!
The man fumbled with his chair, which righted itself, and sped away at great speed. We gathered what remained of our dignity and ran out of the park. The dog, dragging his trophy, led our hasty retreat.