blog 2 from Gryffed of Hartslove: an occasional blog from an occasional sort of hound (for blog 1 see 24th April)

4th June, 1185
I stole a rabbit from the larder for breakfast. I was going to share it with Courant but somehow I forgot.

Later, there was a fine old hullabaloo. Gavin threw Will into the horsetrough! Doubtless that K. M. Grant will tell you all about that but let me assure you that the real battles and adventures round here are nothing to do with brotherly rivalry and Saracens: the real battles, the important ones, are between the Hartslove hounds and the Hartslove foxes, in particular between Courant and me and that slyboots, Reinhard, and his mob. Our war is about something much more important than religion or territory. Our war’s about chickens. Reinhard believes the Hartslove flock is his dinner menu. Courant and I disagree violently. It’s not that we like chickens, well, not to talk to anyway. We did once try to make friends but whenever we went near them, all they did was squawk and flap and I got so irritated I couldn’t help snapping. It really wasn’t my fault that one got in the way of my teeth. Luckily, Sir Thomas’s goshawk, Syro, who was off her leash, seized the corpse and it looked as though she was the culprit. Nobody dares to scold her or she sulks and won’t hunt for at least a week.

Ellie pulled ticks out of my ears this evening. She seemed sad. How could she be sad when I was looking at her so soulfully? Girls! Thought of giving her an acorn but forgot.