In your face

In Mr Perkins' face, actually.

He was hiding under the bed, as usual, and I asked him to come and see what fresh hell we had in store for him. He obliged, somewhat surprisingly.

He was strapped into his shiny new harness — nowhere near as horrific as the life jacket — with much ado and carried outside into the part of the big wide world that is his new territory.

I put him on the ground and I was dragged straight back in the house. That happened again before we thought to shut the door.

I was led round the part of the garden nearest the house. There was plenty time to sniff things; I didn't sniff anything, but Mr Perkins did. Then it was definitely time to go in.

Once in and unfettered by harness, he went straight back under his bed and didn't come out for hours. This is him having settled down beside me on the bed-sofa just now.

He'll be getting up in a minute though: it's nearly seven o'clock.