It all started a week ago. Wonder husband
(WH) and I decided the time had come to get fit and loose a smidgen of cake-belly
apiece. What better, we concluded, than a gentle cycle around the (flat) local
area to take a look at some of the beautiful sixteenth century churches, all
within a manageable three or four miles of our cottage.
As our knees and thighs buckled last
Saturday under the (unaccustomed) exertion, our hearts and minds were lifted by
the bounty of spiritual history on offer. Our very favourite, we concluded, was
the small church at Aughton which boasts a packed programme of services, teas
and events. A week ago therefore, this afternoon’s event, the blessing of the
pets, was inked into today’s diary.
 |
| Many are called but few are chosen |
We decided last Saturday that to endeavour
to take more than two four legged friends into church this afternoon would be
to court disaster. We have seven pets
chez nous so some rigorous narrowing of the field was needed. The week was
spent conducting interviews and assessments against a carefully selected list
of criteria; ability to stay quiet for an hour, confidence in the presence of
chanting black-cloaked persons (of the clergy), control of toilet functions, to
name but three.
The two strongest performers (averaged
across all assessment categories) were chosen. At lunchtime today, we set off in
the company of my sibling (who has not graced the inside of a church for many a
year), together with her own two four legged friends.
As we exited our cars, the heavens opened,
together with the bowels of fifty percent of our selected contingent of
animals. Plastic poop-bags filled and hidden in the hedge, we hastened to our
pews to be aghast at the number of fellow attendees. There were dogs of a
medley of provenances, a rabbit, one cat (ours) and humans of all ages,
shapes and sizes. The excellent lady celebrant blessed every four legged friend
individually (a good job we included confidence in the face of black-cloakery
among our criteria).
To my delight, the final hymn was ‘All
things Bright and Beautiful’ which WH and I sang so lustily that we received a
dig in the ribs from my sibling. After the service there were biscuits aplenty (for
the animals) and gallons of tea for the humans. On the way back to the car, overburdened
with biscuits, the remaining fifty percent of our four legged contingent had
call for the poop-bags just as the heavens opened again.
Back home, drenched and awash with tea,
sibling, WH and I concluded that only in England would the populace be so
bonkers as we. We wouldn’t have it any other way!
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