We have kept Davey the foster Greyhound for a further week and spent this past weekend at the beach.
Saturday was bitterly cold yet again. The dogs were up for a big walk and we set off at around one 0'clock after an early lunch. We made our way through the streets of Rye and found ourselves at the beach after probably 30 minutes or so.
All the while Goldie the Brittany was pulling hard on the leash while trying to sniff every tree, bush, shrub, fence post, you name it, stopping suddenly one minute, then tearing off at a hundred miles an hour the next, just about pulling our arms out of their sockets. (She is truly a terror to walk. It's not her fault, Brittanies were bred to flush, retrieve, point etc. They love nothing better than to tear about the fields searching out smells. Walking down the street on a leash is not in the Brittany list of favourite instincts.) However, Davey was happy to lope along happily beside us.
So we arrived at the beach and of course I immediately released Goldie to tear off in sheer doggie joy, a ginger and white flash against the white sand and grey winter sky.
(The beach here is still dog-friendly. When the last beach is banned from having dogs run free, I'm moving to Mars.)
We walked several kilometres along the beach and the sun came out. It actually got quite warm. Goldie ran in and out of the water and even Davey splashed along in the shallows. I guess we'd been going for about an hour, so we stopped for a rest on the sand. Several other dogs and their owners happened by and all the dogs had a good sniff.
Soon we walked up the beach to the Blairgowrie shops. There were a few late lunchers at the cafe, but no sign of Frank the Fat Dog. Probably home in front of the fire.
We walked back home through the hilly streets of Blairgowrie. Davey was tiring but Goldie was still pulling like mad.
They each got a nice bone to chew in the weak winter late afternoon sunshine.
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