Every Thursday you'll find the farmer with his cronies at the Cartford domino table. One night last winter I called in at his farmhouse and settled down by the fire with him and his lovely missis. As the wind thudded about the stout walls and moaned in the chimney, he poured me a good agricultural measure of whisky. I inhaled and sipped, savouring the malty vapours. Then I popped the half-filled tumbler on the floor by my chair whilst we talked. Minutes later I heard a noise like water gurgling down a drain. I glanced down to see the farmers dog slurping the last of my whisky. 'Hey,' I protested. 'Thy dog's just supped my whisky.'
He nodded, unsurprised. 'Aye it does. It'll go to sleep in a minute.'
And it did.
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