weekend away

We’d had our eye on the weather reports all week and it seemed as if we’d just catch the last weekend of the summer. Really, officially, it was Autumn, but prediction said that the sunshine would show itself, rebelliously, for one weekend longer than it should.

We’d packed our swim suits with this in mind, but when we got to the coast, seas mists obscured the sun and although the sky was clear and bright, the wind rolling in from the shore took the edge from heat that we craved and that would warrant stripping off and running for the water.

But still; the bright plastic buckets and spades and windbreakers and candyfloss and colourful seaside tat uplifted us from our city malaise. We laid back into our weekend away, our lungs full of fresh air; our nostrils tantalised by the smell of vinegar and fish and chip paper.

We had sand in our shoes and we’d been hypnotised by the sound of the waves as we’d stared out to sea. We’d sailed the same waves and seen the sea birds coasting the water farther away from the shore than a swimmer safely could. We’d conquered the length of beach twice over, exploring its rocks and its driftwood, toying with its tiny beads of stone and glass and brick tumbled and smoothed in the salt and grit.

And then, almost as it was just about time to go home, the mists cleared and the sun pounded down on us. Emerging from towel cocoons, we transformed hurriedly into our swimwear. Armed with books, newspapers and lotions, shades, and sunhats we trotted to the beach apace with other keen family holiday makers and weekend awayers like ourselves. And as we angled ourselves in our stripy deckchairs with sighs of relief and relaxation, as our faces raised to the sky to catch those last precious rays of the summer……..the sun passed behind a cloud once again, and remained there for the rest of the day.

Nelson

‘Won’t be long now,’ the Kennel's Receptionist said, ‘it’s just taking a while for the dog handler to get the harness on’.

‘Harness!?’ I replied, panicking slightly.

I knew that rehabilitating dogs that needed to be socialised due to mistreatment by their previous owners was a function of the volunteer role I’d devoted my Sunday mornings to; but I hadn’t expected to move on quite so quickly from the fluffy, gentle, dog that I’d taken out the week before. That dog had preferred cuddles and affection to any heavy duty walking and posed happily for photographs on request.

I braced myself for being dragged around the designated walking area by a large, bouncing, out of control Lurcher or an over excited, impossible to train, German Shepherd cross breed. After all, my services were offered to be utilised by any of the dogs in need, even if they were terrifying, almost as large as, and probably considerably stronger than I was.

I heard him before I saw him. Straining against his harness, his claws scraping and skidding on the smoother than smooth dog proof flooring. All at once he was handed over to me and immediately I was pulled out of the front door, the handler calling after me ‘He’s called Nelson’.

Nelson was knee high and not too terrifying, though he wasn’t an overly affectionate dog. In fact, he barely acknowledged I was there until he was satisfied that he’d marked his territory and I’d poop scooped that mornings deposit. Once we had bonded over his bodily functions he cast me a sideward glance and allowed me an obligatory pat on the head. Then we began Nelson’s winning combination of plodding about, alternated with more territorial marking along with the occasional barking at other dogs.

We carried out this routine at all four corners of the quadrant, keeping a safe distance from the other walkers as instructed. Other volunteers clung on to the leads of their wards and all around were rescue dogs pivoting their anchors, taking full advantage of their forty five minutes of freedom.