A short story by Barbara Pollock
I sit contentedly in my favourite armchair by the French doors into the garden, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my cheeks and the gentle buzz of bees foraging for nectar. I can hear my two grandchildren playing in the garden. The dogs, Holly and Robin, sit stretched out at my feet. People always smile at their names and ask if they were bought as Christmas presents; so we call them our “dogs aren’t just for Christmas dogs.”