Walking the Dog

He's there, the crazy man with the dog, just when she wanted the place to herself. Only his head is visible as she hesitates below the crown of the sand dune, but she's seen him often enough to know that he'll be wearing shorts that sag to his knees, and there'll be an old dog beside him, a mongrel that has eyes only for his master.

Her own dog strains at the leash, nose to the sea breeze, eager to explore scents imperceptible to the woman. Dammit, she'll keep behind the dunes for a bit, and go onto the beach further down. She looks back as she crests the mound of sand, and sees the crazy man standing shin-deep in the sea, holding a piece of driftwood. He tosses it beyond a breaking wave, and it bobs and sinks in the maelstrom of receding water colliding with the next surge of the tide. The new wave snatches it up and returns the flotsam to the man's feet. He grabs it and throws again.

The woman unleashes her dog which, to her relief, lopes off in the opposite direction from the stick-wielding man. Then she realises that the crazy man's alone. His grey-muzzled mongrel with the fading chestnut coat as rough as a haystack isn't with him, and yet he's tossing a stick as if it were. How odd - but of course he's not all there.

Shrugging, she settles into the heaviness that has become as familiar to her as an old cardigan. She looks unseeingly at her feet as she trudges along the biscuit sand, aware of the early sun on her shoulders but uncomforted by it. Incoming waves play chicken with her sneakers, and overhead a tern shrieks its thin call but passes unacknowledged. The dog pants up, and begs her with his eyes to throw a stick. She ignores him. He sprints away again, muscles bunching under the glossy black coat, working off an energy that she is denied.

She glances back, and her solitary footprints mock her, shouting to the world of the betrayal she's suffered. She might have wept, but grief has been replaced by an impenetrable shell of bitterness. As recently as a month ago there'd been two sets of prints on the sand, and if their parallel tracks had been a good two metres apart they'd at least attested to a union of sorts. Now she's alone, apart from the dog, and she's only got him because the thieving hussy had refused to have 'that animal' in her smart flat, a place with no garden, not even a yard, for a dog to crap in. Her mouth twists briefly at the thought of the creature rocketing along the beach squatting genteelly in a dirt box.

Abruptly she turns and retraces her steps. She sees that the crazy man is in water nearly to his thighs, and stripped now of his shirt, but foolishly still wearing sodden shorts. His right arm describes an arc and the wretched piece of driftwood cartwheels into the water for what must be the hundredth time. Perhaps that appalling mongrel of his has died, and this is his way of dealing with it. Well, lucky him if that's all he's lost. Hell, it was only a dog.

As she gets closer to the pathetic little ritual being enacted on the lonely beach the woman begins to angle towards the sand dunes. The dog makes one last attempt to inveigle her into a game of 'fetch', and fails to move her. Suddenly, he catches sight of the semi-naked figure in the breakers, driftwood in hand, and he's off, ears flapping, tongue lolling, deaf to the woman's shrill command. Damn the dog! Damn, damn, damn! He bounces up to the man, barking wildly, thrashing the water with his tail. The man turns to him and she sees his shoulders slump. He touches the dog's head, looks at the hand that has just caressed the smooth hair, holds it briefly against his cheek, then halfheartedly tosses the stick. The dog plunges, swims eagerly, and snatches the bobbing stick. The woman arrives as the dog leaves the water, shakes a dripping coat, and drops the stick at the crazy man's feet. She mutters a curt good morning, notes the tearstained sloping eyes and downturned mouth of a sad clown and, repulsed, snaps the leash on to her dog's collar. She jerks him to heel and makes for the sandhill, feeling tragic eyes burning through her back as she goes.

Aiieeeeeeeeee .... A thin wail of anguish pierces the early morning air, becomes a keening cry, and ends in a gut wrenching sob. The woman walks on. Only the dog falters in his step. Only the dog glances back. Only a dog...

---

Return to CONTENTS