The dog has eaten my shooting gloves. Not chewed or gnawed, but eaten. Consumed. Except the buckles, which he brought to me with a wholly unjustified pride, rolling them about his teeth. “Look,” he seemed to say, “I’ve saved these for you.”
You might imagine that we went hotfoot to the vets for emetics or laxatives, perhaps even surgery. We didn’t. I did follow him about with favourite shooting gloves; I have had many pairs over the years and there have been a goodly number of iterations, and several of those have been favourites.
