Wolfed

Occasionally two large wolfhounds are walked up the drive to the tea rooms by a couple who live in the village.
Last week one of them, Bran, was brought on his own. His back is about level with the tables. His head is bigger than mine. He was a little muddy from the track and Jean, his owner, insisted they stay in the cold conservatory while she had her tea and cake.
I brought her drink and slice of Victoria sponge and we chatted about her five dogs. YES,  FIVE. All Irish wolfhounds. All massive. As we talked Bran sidled up to the table, put his head on one side and took a great big bite out of the cake.
She chastised him, made him lie down and said he was always embarrassing her. She also insisted I didn't replace the cake, that she would cut off where he'd chomped down and would eat the rest.
Her other dogs are much better behaved but he's the youngest and gets away with all sorts of mischief, she says and went on to explain where they live and how long they've bred and trained dogs.
Bran stood up suddenly, made a swift move to the table and swiped the rest of the cake. In one mouthful.
He did not look at all guilty.
I brought a second piece of cake, put it on the other side of the table and left them to it.