Blackberry season will soon be over, to Rhys's displeasure. He has become quite the fruit hunter, easily able to recognize his berry of choice, even from a distance. It is a nearly perpetual effort to keep him from launching straight into the bushes, which are covered with thorns. There is a bramble which runs half the length of the back yard. He runs along the full length of it in unrestrained delight.
He has consumed each of the ripe ones, sometimes one at a time. He has even begun to recently tolerate the bitter unripened red ones, usually one at a time. Such is his passion for the little edibles, and barely edibles. He makes a sour face with each one, eyes squinted and mouth puckered, but always coming back for more. We have to lure him away from the scrambling vines with promise of something greater.