Charlie loves to run in the water along the verges of Rigsby and recently there’s been plenty for her to charge through kicking up a spray and snapping at the droplets,
even breaking ice on particularly chilly mornings when she catches up with me as I venture out well bundled.
Some of the culverts have been carrying water from lakes and ponds and draining them into gulleys swelling their shallow banks.
The other day I saw Charlie disappear through the flaxen grasses into a pond that is usually a small puddle on a hot summer’s day.
I followed her and watched as she twirled around, lapping furiously, the water slapping against her under-belly, a real water dog.
When she saw me she clambered out with gusto,
and shook herself vigorously, spraying me generously with the freezing water.
“Charlie!” I cried wiping my face.
Then off she ran, energized for the second half of our walk all drips and mud and bedraggled-ness.
I shivered and sped up.
Did I write earlier in the month about the wisdom of dogs?
Charlie’s display that day proved they are also bound to follow their instincts.
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