Just as I had packed up for the day (the gloves were off, the weeds disposed of and I ready to load my tools and head home) a visitor arrived. The sweetest little Jack Russell you ever did see came a-calling. She had no collar, nothing to identify her, she was a foundling. So after a little rumbustious play with Max, perhaps a mite too exuberant for the gal on occasion, we went searching for her owners. Max’s Dad visited neighbours for clues, nothing; we went to the local park to look for leads, no luck; we scoured the streets searching for bereft owners and, in the absence of anyone obvious, we approached complete strangers and asked if she was theirs, nope; finally we went to the vets to see if she had a micro-chip, yes! We found out she is a serial escapee and her name is Pearl. I had her down as a Sheila. In a matter of minutes her owner was on the way to pick her up. Shame, I was hoping I would be forced to take her home. Then she could come to work with me every day and help me to garden. Once a week she could catch up with Max and help him chase the seagulls. Once a week she could come with me to The Farm and chase the bunnies. She could make friends with Lord and Lady Mantle and Young Wills, and Mr and Mrs Bun and Bobbie. Me and Sheila would have been a good partnership. What a shame.