It was he who broke his way through and under the fence, he who raced joyously under my bedroom to scratch, he who galloped, butt wobbling, tail curling, to the trays of feed and the petunia bed.
" She's turning ninety, you know." He grasped his special order—a potted pink petunia, the number 90 painted on the pot Daphne still saw Jacob as the 'stud' who had sauntered into the aged care home twenty years ago.