Is it a bear? Is it a pony?

No, it's a dog.

The local news programme has just run one of those stories that puts a big smile on your face.

In the very beautiful Dalby Forest in North Yorkshire, Christmas trees are for sale. They are cut down, stacked, and delivered to the car park by the nicest team of lads and lasses you could hope to meet. They are Newfoundland dogs, each weighing anywhere from eight to thirteen stone, and looking, as I said, like a cross between a bear and a pony. They are powerful, pleasant chaps who make good working dogs and are quite happy to draw a cart. In this case, it is a little wicker cart with a Christmas tree in it. Honestly, they look like something out of a fairytale.

'I want one!' I shouted, before the lady on TV said that as well as having lovely natures, they dribble all the time, moult everywhere, and smell terrible when wet. And if you have a Newfoundland on the end of a lead, believe me, you're not the one who decides whether to go left, right, or into the river. As they love water, guess which it's likely to be. But you'd never be lonely with a Newfoundland. (You'd never be dry with a Newfoundland.) Ooh. Where have they been all my life?

The ducks are back, and hungry. The bird feeders go up tomorrow. Tony thinks I'm running a canteen.