I wandered along the Cornish lane with Denis, my own bundle of black-and-tan fun.
“’Ere, called Harry, “your dog’s brought new meaning to the words ‘sheep worrying’.
“He’s not been near your sheep, Harry!”
“Didn’t say he had. That dog just looks at my sheep and he’s worried.”
I laughed. “You’re right. They’re failed fighting dogs, bred to herd cattle. Sheep? Nasty, fierce fluffy things!”
Denis hid behind me as a sheep went ‘baaaa’.