PERFECT DAY

The old farmhouse at Whatlode basked in the glow of the afternoon sunshine. Despite it being late January, the rooms on the south side of the house benefited from the sunlight and were particularly warm and inviting.
John Fullerton could think of nowhere that he would rather be that afternoon. After a bracing walk across the moor, he had returned to the farmhouse at noon to find Mrs Crossett serving up one of her home-made stews. John had devoured a plateful, followed by second helpings and then a generous portion of treacle sponge and custard. Young Lucy had paid him a visit shortly afterwards, as she often did on weekdays. They had shared a pot of tea and, after seeing her off, John had reclined contentedly on the sofa, which was perfectly placed to catch the warm sunlight.
John dozed for an hour or so. He finally awoke when Mrs Crossett crept into the room carrying a tray laden with coffee and a plate of biscuits which had come straight from the oven. John stretched. He sighed with pleasure, then treated his housekeeper to the most sincere and heartfelt of smiles.
"Why, thank you very much, Mrs Crossett," he said, as he lay there. With a twinkle in her eye, Mrs Crossett nodded, and left the room forthwith.
John remained inert on the sofa. He was having such a wonderfully relaxing, indulgent sort of day that he was determined to enjoy it for as long as it lasted.
But what John Fullerton did not realise was that Mrs Crossett had not shut the door properly when she left the room. Barty the Irish Setter, who had been lounging around in the hallway, spotted an opportunity and wasted no time slipping through the open door.
The dog sat down on the carpet and carefully looked around the room. There lay his master, stationary on the sofa, horizontal and completely unguarded. Over to the right were his master's slippers. To the left, biscuits. Elsewhere, there was a leather satchel, a vase with flowers in it, a rickety old lamp on an equally rickety side table, and various other articles of interest spread around the room, all ready for the taking.
Barty did a quick calculation in his head. He worked out that, should he be so inclined, he could jump up on to his master's stomach and proceed to lick his face without mercy: from there he could leap across to the old suede armchair, knock over the coffee pot and biscuits en route, jump down, snaffle the biscuits, then sink his teeth into his master's favourite leather satchel before dragging it around the room and emptying its contents: at the same time he could reverse without prejudice into the table with the lamp on it, take out a couple of vases and damage so many other precariously placed knick-knacks that the only thing left to do would be to hump one of his master's slippers.
Fortunately for John Fullerton, Barty was not that sort of dog.
Barty just sat there and panted a bit. 
Then he licked his paws.
And then, after about five minutes, Barty grinned in that way that Irish Setters do.
Here it comes, thought the dog, with bated breath.
Then Barty let out a silent but so compellingly noxious fart that, in years to come, commentators would claim that it was even worse than that infamous incident from 1957, the great ill wind of the Old White Poodle of Rotterdam.
A perfect day indeed, thought Barty, as his master arose from the sofa, clutching at his throat and gasping for air with a look of abject horror on his face.
Barty was impressed. He had expected to get a reaction, but not one that good.
He barked. Again, Barty grinned in that way way that only Irish Setters do. Then, for an encore, Barty decided he would hump one of the slippers after all.