Over the back fence there is a very beautifully turned-out light brown bulldog that potters about in the garden. I'm not sure whether it's a temporary visitor or a permanent resident but it doesn't bark, which is odd given the barkophonic orchestra in our neighbourhood.
However, in the middle of the sweltering night, an eloquent succession of squeals from a squeaky toy roused me from my slumbers. Every facet of expression emitted from the squeaker: appeals, cheers, pleas, whoops and whines.
How very sweet for such a butch-looking dog to use the sound of a plastic toy as a mouthpiece for its complex emotions and what a pity the toy didn't include a bark in its repertoire!