Notes From A Dogwalk XI

The sun gleams on the yellow grass here at the top of the hill. The haze in the air is thicker today and it veils the land in a white blur, throwing into sharp relief the bunch of dry, petrified flowerheads, clinging to the stony ground near my outflung foot. One of the dogs is shedding hair and I can pull clumps of him out of his body and throw it to the ground. He doesn't seem to mind, standing idly, ears cocked to the shouts of the shepherd on the neighbouring slope. The hair lies like fluffs of scattered feather; more usually a sign of a frenzied attack. Here lies the shameful record of a bird murder. This dog is more commonly the perpetrator than the recepient of such an act. Let his fur lie here as a record of that day.