... yelling his head off, running alongside the tractor with its harrow kicking up clouds of dust, daring the driver to bring his machine any closer.
I sympathise with Bertie's opinion.
The field, which used to be Serge's is now owned by the pig farm the other side of the valley. Earlier in the year, I watched nervously as the new owner's tractor cut deep furrows on land alongside our boundary that Serge had left fallow and I had assumed was ours. I indignantly looked again at the plans of the land we'd purchased and had to acknowledge he was right. His land comes to the point of the ditch at our gatepost. And he's going to take every inch of it.
The wire to our oh-so-necessary electronic fence lies in his field, not ours.
The tractor driver swings the harrow round over our boundary as it comes to the corner by the ditch. He is young, with heavy rimmed glasses - more like a medical student than a tractor driver. Not anyone I recognise. The pig farm owner's son maybe? We raise a hand to each other in greeting as he turns away up the hill.
Once he's finished I discretely move the wire back onto our land.
No doubt in a day or two he will come by again with the dogs' extra-special delight - pig muck - to spread over the field. From then on a fully functioning electronic fence will be essential, if we are to keep Vita and Bertie out of what they view as a gastronomic paradise.