Gone to the dogs

I’m trying to be helpful by taking the dogs out. Actually, altruism isn’t really to the fore: sharing a lead with a greyhound is the only means of having a cigarette in these parts. The dog has sprained its ankle and is not keen on walking far. Fortuitously though, it pees every five seconds so there’s time to light up. That is until it forgets it is a large skinny beast with long legs and surprises itself by falling off the bank whilst engaging in yet another crouch. Up goes the pitiful paw and a whine is emitted that in dog-speak translates as put that thing out and take me home.

The next evening I plump for the grumpy black dog thinking there’s more chance of a decent walk and more nicotine. In the former, I am not wrong. We walk up hill and down dale and Patch, who is too cross to go on a lead, has a joyous time fiercely chasing a passing jogger. The athlete appears to know Patch and shouts personalised abuse. I pretend I have nothing to do with this dog and wonder when I might regain enough breath for the fag that was the initial reason for this jaunt. After some weeks, we reach the end of the track and hit a road. What road? I haven’t yet succeeded in getting out of my lodgings or back in again without going wrong. Keep bearing right they say. Patch and I walk miles. And miles. We see tractors and trailers and a steam roller and once a standing stone. After an hour, we meet Lynn and Mary from New Milton walking along the lane with a lot more confidence than we possess. They take us home. I still haven’t had a smoke.

Trailing round Falmouth I wonder how it might be possible to distinguish between the multitude of pasty emporia. I haven’t yet had a Cornish pasty and feel that I should make the effort. I don’t want to eat it walking along the road or sitting on a bench as that would be rather common. I don’t really want to eat one at all. I decide to go to the pub on the quay where we all spent the only rain-free evening last year and where they sell allegedly homemade pasties. I pick a sunny table over-looking the water and order a coke and a tortoise pie. The gods are watching me: the pub has sold out of pasties. The landlady says she is not averse to me purchasing one from a shop and eating it at the pub table. I am very grateful for her kindness but decline the offer and upgrade to a fresh crab salad.