"And you have to wonder" she whispered "if I were to let myself go into the abyss, what then would happen to me? Would I rise? Or would I sink? Say, per chance, that I rose. Would I come out stronger than before; more competent? Or would I be weaker? And what if I sank? Ah, but surely then they would just devour my soul."
- Effy Ashton.
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
Friday, 2 December 2011
My Four Legged Friend
Today is a warm autumn day and so I'm off out on an adventure with very best friend with four legs and an alarmingly fluffy tail. We avoid his usual weekday stroll along the canal and go through the woods and onto the field that was once used by two schools as a football pitch.
The air has a slight chill and I give myself a mental pat on the back for having the foresight to put on a scarf. He loves it here, my dog. There are plenty of birds to chase, leaves to jump in, and lots of mud to bound through. He starts off through the woods, smelling all the different scents that have been left behind by the many creatures that pass through here. He runs through the fallen leaves, barking playfully as he does so, until he spots a seagull in the distance on the patchy grass. He slows down, eyes intent. His stance is now that of a hunter, stalking his prey silently and carefully.
Suddenly he dashes off, full pelt after the bird. It flies off before he reaches it, but he continues to chase it as it flies. He's never caught anything, but then as a herding dog he isn't really supposed to.
I laugh at him as he comes to a stop and looks around as though embarrassed. I start running in the opposite direction, inviting him to play, and he starts to chase me instead. Until I pull out his ball that is. He grinds to a halt, skidding a little in the mud, and watches the toy like a hawk. I toss it into the air and he takes off again in pursuit. He catches it in midair and chews on it to make sure it is well and truly dead. When he's certain he's killed it he comes trotting back with his tail held high.
We continue around the outskirts of the field this way. Until he becomes well and truly caked in mud, and then it's time for him to have a short play in the stream in the woods before we start our journey home.
The air has a slight chill and I give myself a mental pat on the back for having the foresight to put on a scarf. He loves it here, my dog. There are plenty of birds to chase, leaves to jump in, and lots of mud to bound through. He starts off through the woods, smelling all the different scents that have been left behind by the many creatures that pass through here. He runs through the fallen leaves, barking playfully as he does so, until he spots a seagull in the distance on the patchy grass. He slows down, eyes intent. His stance is now that of a hunter, stalking his prey silently and carefully.
Suddenly he dashes off, full pelt after the bird. It flies off before he reaches it, but he continues to chase it as it flies. He's never caught anything, but then as a herding dog he isn't really supposed to.
I laugh at him as he comes to a stop and looks around as though embarrassed. I start running in the opposite direction, inviting him to play, and he starts to chase me instead. Until I pull out his ball that is. He grinds to a halt, skidding a little in the mud, and watches the toy like a hawk. I toss it into the air and he takes off again in pursuit. He catches it in midair and chews on it to make sure it is well and truly dead. When he's certain he's killed it he comes trotting back with his tail held high.
We continue around the outskirts of the field this way. Until he becomes well and truly caked in mud, and then it's time for him to have a short play in the stream in the woods before we start our journey home.
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