Libby is on the doorstep, wondering where Buster is. ‘I thought he’d made a break for freedom.’ She smiles as he jumps up and down barking at her, but when she approaches to stroke him, he stands stock-still, hackles up and tail down, and growls. ‘Buster! No!’ I tell him in no uncertain terms. ‘That is not acceptable.’ ‘You sound like Supernanny,’ Libby says, backing off. ‘I don’t think he likes me much.’ ‘I don’t know why he did that,’ I say, concerned. Is he protecting me? Is this a sign of persistent aggressive behaviour? Did he think Libby was going to hurt him? Would he have gone further than a growl, if I hadn’t told him off? ‘I took pity on him last night, and to be honest, Libby, I don’t feel quite so sorry for him now.’ I’ve redressed his foot because he ripped the dressing off while I left him unattended for a few minutes, and I’ve wrapped the whole thing in a plastic bag to stop it getting wet. ‘Did Jack drop you off?’ ‘Yes, he’s gone to visit that pony, the black and white one that belongs to Frank Maddocks.’ ‘Oh, I see.
