As previously described, Eros and I take three walks each day – morning, afternoon and evening – around the district where he lives.
In the midst of all this I have to find time to take him to the beach.
This is generally a two-hour adventure, involving a harrowing 10-minute car ride at either end.
Well it is harrowing for me, because I have to drive.
He is the ultimate in back-seat drivers, whining and moaning about everything, even throwing in the occasional woof if he feels progress is too slow.
At the beach his need for a servant becomes more obvious.
At a future date I will supply the reader with details and photos of the beautiful places we visit.
For now I will merely run through the process.
I am required to throw sticks into the water so that he can swim and retrieve them.
But first I have to find a beauty stick.
The problem is that when he has plunged happily into the Med, and re-emerged with his trophy, he does not return it to me.
Instead he does a look-at-me little trot along the sand tossing his prize like a drum major, stops for a shake, and then dumps the wretched stick when I am not looking.
At which point he returns – stick-less – to my side and demands a repeat process.
I have tried reasoning with him, pointing out that there are a finite number of things on any stretch of sand suitable for hurling into the waves.
He usually sits at this point, indicating utter boredom.
When I ask him to be reasonable he offers a Gallic shrug, and stands, indicating that the discussion is over.
He must think that bons batons grow on trees.