I'm in the park again, making the most of these earlier nights before the sun goes down. I seem to have coincided my visit tonight, with all the local dogs and their soppy owners.
"You're on his bench, that's what it is," said a lady carrying a tennis-ball-launcher over her shoulder. I took that as an apology, though the more I sit here thinking about it, the less I think it is one.
It feels like I'm in the middle of Pets Win Prizes. A German Shepherd (Kaiser! Kaiser!) is currently chasing a couple of Yorkshire Terriers round the bench in a classic game of Sniff That Other Dog's Bum. Meanwhile, a Jack Russell is burying himself in the long grass and can only be located by his vigorously wagging tail. A bulldog wearing a union flag neckerchief (of all things) is snorting like a smoker at a collie and the collie is snarling back while their families try to split them up.
The other owners are discussing vet bills, and something they are describing as 'misbehaviour', which most people would see as home-wrecking devastation on the scale of natural disasters.
Another lady is clutching a plastic bag and wandering around sniffing the air as though she's lost something.
Man's best friend eh? Well I'll tell you what, I won't be getting one.
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