Wednesday, 26 December 2012

Three Dogs Running





In spite of the laden table; the clove studded ham, the barrage of cheeses, pâtés, breads, soups, cheesescakes, crumbles, crisps, olives, grapes; everything even has its own knife or spoon or ladle and the plates match the bowls; in spite of this carnal level of celebration, I do not believe we would revel like this if the company was wrong. The main thing is, we are here together. That is the real rich stuff.

Dog sleeps under the table. She is all run out from a stroll at Sandy Bay. Fat Beagle galloped like a puppy in the wave spray. Bouncy Beagle ran through the landslide mud, made a terracotta hound of himself. Wow, we said, will you look at the grand scale of the slid earth there, and those tonnes of thrown down stone? It has a look of a communal exodus; suddenly, all those tonnes, landing. The beach must shake. Remarkable, we agree: but if the time were tallied, more of it is spent admiring the happiness of dogs.





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