Who needs pets when you have sticks?

Who needs pets when you have (ALL the) sticks?

If the people of North Wales are wondering where the sticks have gone, they're by my front door.

Yes, all of them.

All the sticks.

Propped against the wall outside of my house.

The joys.

They're taken on walks, they go to the shops, they're used as toys, and occasionally they take the form of a weapon (I'm not so fond of that use).

I'm not going to lie, it might occasionally be cute, but my eyes do roll when I have to carry yet another armful home.

More secret, dead of night trips to the forest to dispose of them required.

'Sorry boys, I think next door's imaginary dog took them while you were sleeping.'

I am aware that if my life were to be a film, in twenty years time there'll be an incredibly poignant moment when the boys leave home. I'll be standing misty-eyed at the front door, some hauntingly sad tune will inevitably be playing, and I'll be wracked with guilt and remorse for not appreciating the sticks while I had the chance.

Hence the reason for this post.

It's a memory of an afternoon's walk.

With the sticks.

All the sticks.

Because one day, like my boys, they won't live here anymore. And, secretly, I think I might miss them.

Who needs pets when you have (ALL the) sticks?
Who needs pets when you have (ALL the) sticks?
Who needs pets when you have (ALL the) sticks?
Stick pet 6.jpg