I’m a regular walker these days, most days that is, and usually on country footpaths. I absolutely love it. Each week brings new sights, sounds and smells. At the moment we are in peak season for buttercups and cow parsley.
I do tend to shy away from paths where I meet aggressive
dogs. Over time that rather narrows my options.
Last week, returning to the village from an hour in driving
rain, I was charged at by a snarling beast, grey, with a distinctly wolfish
look. He banged into me, snarling and slavering, but without getting purchase on my
person. I was probably saved by the thick, shiny raincoat I was wearing.
“He’s only playing,” announced his owner as he ambled past.
That’s what they all say. If we were a gun-owning society, he might have an ex-dog by now. Playing, indeed.
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