Yesterdays of their lives
'Here boy,' sung out young Geraint, his voice bubbling with joy at having his very own corgi puppy at last. And over trotted little Gwilym…or Pugh… or Idwal… muddle-headed little Geraint just couldn't find an appropriate name for the little chap, but not to worry, he surely would one day.
'Here boy' rang out his choirboy's alto again. 'I've got your favourite - dripping toast.' The young dog broke into his stubby-legged scamper, as if he knew exactly what his young master was saying, for that little pooch did indeed love dripping toast. Times were hard in the mining village of Pant-y-Cacky, and young as Geraint was, it wouldn't be long before he would sent to work down the deep, dark pit with his brother Gerald and his father Ieuan. Until then, though, his days were his to enjoy in the bright sunlight , and as the perky corgi puppy gambolled round his feet, Geraint snapped a rubber glove onto his hand and leant forward with the toast, enticing Pugh, or Idwal closer…
Fast-forward to the present day. The corgi is on a therapist's couch, the only couch he is allowed on, while the therapist furrows his brow, worrying about whether the information he has elicited about his client's early life is a case of False Memory syndrome or a disturbing incidence of Pretend Vet Abuse. 'It shouldn't happen to a corgi' muttered the therapist.
