Barking Mad, Confessions of a Dog Sitter, is the title of a very amusing novel by my wife, who writes under the name Jane Mosse.
It's an excellent, 'feelgood' read and, at less than a tenner, would make the perfect 'stocking-filler' at the end of this unnerving year. If you're a fan of James Herriot and All Creatures Great And Small, this book will appeal.
Barking mad also seems like a suitable strap-line for the following piece of whimsy. It's been a while since I posted a Micro-Fiction piece so here's one that I hope will make you smile.
FOR LIFE, NOT JUST FOR CHRISTMAS
Gordon was too macho to go to the doctor when the dog bit him on Christmas Eve. No doctor: no tetanus. Shit happens and the bite wasn’t serious. The dog itself didn’t seem particularly serious either: a big ungainly mutt with a daft expression, wearing the remnants of a suit and tie. The clothing puzzled Gordon. At home he bathed the wound with disinfectant. Neat puncture marks. Nothing to worry about.
Worry set in a week later when the moon was full. Hair sprouted on Gordon’s hands; his teeth became fangs; a reckless hunger overwhelmed him. Stumbling outdoors in pyjamas, he bounded across L'Ancresse Common, driven by an instinct beyond his control.
What’s happening to me? he howled. And howled and howled and howled. 
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