Dogs in the North Sea

A calmer day today.

I managed to get the dogs to Chapel beach in the daytime for a change.

On the way I was repeatedly reminded that Hobo, the smaller dog, loves squeezing turds out through his arsehole. He unfurls huge stinkers that seem completely out of proportion to his tiny body.

Underneath that underbite and ratty fur, that torso must consist, at any time, of approximately 75% liquid excrement.

I was able to walk pretty far out into the sun-dazzled sands, following the impromptu channels of water that form through the soft sand at every low tide.

Occasionally these rivers would become too wide for me to cross in my walking shoes, and Ditto, bounding ahead, would occasionally bark at me for turning back and keeping my feet dry.

Ditto is a gorgeous and very affectionate old golden retriever, and I cherish each and every opportunity I get to lollop around with him.

And Hobo, of course. The little shitter.

Later on, at sunset, I was able to get out of the house with Kate and her baby. We walked along a country lane, looked at some cows, talked about veganism, and met a Black [Sabbath] Labrador called Ozzy. “He’s a rescue dog. His last owner knocked him about a bit,” the walker explained.

We then headed back down the lane, setting sun to our right and the rising moon making its entrance to the left, as though both were being operated by some kind of gigantic clockwork mobile for the baby’s amusement. But she was too busy chewing on her fingers and, as we turned back to the main road, dreaming of unknowable things.

Published by jamesofwalsh

My past blogs haunt the internet like ghost ships on a digital sea.

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