Tony was a magnificent white carthorse who, every morning of my early childhood, knocked his head on our kitchen window for a sugar buttie...
Our home was a sort of unofficial refuge for lost, unwanted or injured animals, and there was often a blanket-lined box containing a recovering bird or animal close to the warmth of the kitchen range...
Tony had had a narrow escape in 1941, when Hitler was doing his best to annihilate Liverpool's port. The peak of devastation came in May, when, for seven consecutive nights, bombers dropped many tonnes of high explosives... All returned except Tony. It was thought that maybe he had been crushed under collapsing masonry like so many others that night.
[
add
]
[
|
|
...
]