I was walking to church this morning, through the park. Sunday is a good morning for walkies, so I always meet a few dogs and their people on the way through. (In case you're wondering, the local dog owners are very, very good at carrying little plastic bags round with them, so everyone can enjoy a walk in the park.)
There was a smallish dog, mostly spaniel, tearing about on the hill. From the ears I think he was part spaniel, and he was having such a wonderful time that I wanted to join in. After a week of baking hot weather, we finally had rain last night and the air pressure dropped. When the air pressure falls the insects fly low, and so do the swifts who hunt them. The swifts were wheeling and swerving, almost touching the ground, and the dog - oh boy, the dog couldn't get enough of it. There were three or four of them, but I suspect he thought it was always the same one, and just as it soared out of reach - hey, look! - there it is again! and there! ooh, and look, mum, there!
He didn't have a hope of catching one, but that joy was in the chase. If his owner threw a stick he'd go after that instead, and with more success. But who needs sticks? Look! There it is again!
It's been a good week and I've seen a lot of happiness in it, but nothing compared to that dog.
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