Sweet Hector

The other night a friend and I walked to a pub called The Phoenix.  We went up to the till, surveyed the menu and ordered some rosé wine.  As we sat our glasses down on the table, I looked out at the silvery dusk sky.  My friend began schooling me in all the various London terms that I am still madly trying to learn -- jumper, barmaid, knackered -- the list goes on and on.  After a few sips of wine, I saw a quiet black dog sitting at the base of the bar.

Dogs in London are incredibly well-behaved.  They do not leave their owner's side, and they follow their owner's commands perfectly.  Consequently, I was surprised when this dog began ambling toward me.  He sat down right next to me and put his head on my lap.  I began petting its head and then his owner looked around, spotted his dog and said, "Ah, there he is."  I asked the owner what the dog's name was, and the owner replied jovially, "Hector!"  I laughed and kept stroking the dog's head. The owner looked at me and said, "Why don't you look after him a bit, love?"  And so I spent the next several minutes in sweet Hector's company.