My usual Monday morning, except Bank Holiday, is to drive up to the foster home near Folkestone, and feed and exercise a group of greyhounds. The foster home actually acts as a halfway house for retired greyhounds that are looking for a permanent "forever" home and two permanent residents that belong to Julie, the foster home owner. This week though, my job was to take two greyhounds to the vets' surgery at Vets for Pets at the Pets at Home store in Whitfield near Dover. One, Noodle, had cut his foot in a fog park on Saturday, and the other, Charlie, has damaged his tail. I got them into the car. Both were muzzled as it the norm when taking them anywhere. It's for everyone's safety. They tend to be very calm, but may get triggered by other dogs. As I was driving a face appeared next to me. Brindle, Charlie. No muzzle. He had one in the barn! I didn't notice as I bundled and secured him into the back seat of the car. Could I find it? No. He must have got it...