Yesterday I went to a friend’s before she was awake. I let myself in and quieted her dogs but not soon enough to stop them waking her.
“I knew it was you.”
The little dog had barked.
“She only barks for you.”
I took them out for a half hour while my friend got up, then we talked while she had a bath, the door left half open so we could hear each other, like people in a daring 1950s film.
We were going for breakfast, but we talked so much that we ended up going for lunch, then somehow it was half past four and time for my friend to do some work. I took the dogs out on the river path that leads to the sea. Deep in the woods on the promontory we found a plank laid over a ditch that we crossed over, into a place where no-one had walked since the floods.
We had big floods here last winter, the water even coming into the place my friend works, half a kilometre from the river. The ground was smooth in this place, with no footprints of deer or people. There were rabbits though, that the dogs hunted as a pair, one diving into the bushes while the other ran around the other side of the little copse to catch the rabbits as they ran out.
Technically I suppose it’s called hunting with dogs and illegal, but I didn’t make them do it and they didn’t stop when I called them. They didn’t catch any either. If there were really any rabbits there rather than just their smell I didn’t see any.
We walked for about an hour and a half until my friend texted me to see where we were. We were here. Ten minutes away. Five if we hurry. And no need. She was fine. Just seeing how we were. We were here.