Astro-Turd

I’m not sure what brought this on. Perhaps it was the chin on my lap, the imploring eyes. When that didn’t work, she sat before me. Her poise was perfect – back straight, legs aligned, ears perked. Quizzical eyebrows and twitchy nose as she panted almost silently. Almost silent, but for the quiet whinge that descended into my audible range until there it sat – a brief reminder that Sage could twist me around her dew claw. Untrimmed, naturally.

So taking heed of the crisis in the making, I put a collar on Lupina, the dutiful sister and attached the leash. Sage had other ideas. Seeing the collar, she retreated into her crate. No amount of pleading with her worked, so Lupina and I headed towards the door to the garage. Fortunately I had Sage’s collar and leash with me…. She sprung forth from the crate and rushed out the door with her sister.

Collars on, leashes on, the beasts leapt into the back seat of the Macan and dutifully stuck their snouts out the window. Nose art on the window, treasured. With both back windows partially down and the sunroof open to cut down on the airflow disruption, we trundled down the road, destination unknown.

But hark. Or bark. Our destination revealed, a nearby dog park which is relatively new but rather soulless. Astroturf. Water features (shooting fountains and sprinklers for pups). Shade for the humans. Fake hydrants. The odd tree. And poo. Lots and lots of poo. Hence “astroturd”. It’s bad enough that dog park users don’t always pick up after their pups but on astroturf with no chance for biological breakdown. Shameless.

Lupina insisted we leave early. As in three minutes after arriving. For some reasons, the other park occupants thought it reasonable to bring their small humans (barefoot and in swimming attire) to the park to play in the fountains designated for furry entertainment only. There’s two things Lupina doesn’t like. Little humans and little humans.

So grateful was she that we were leaving, she rushed to the gate and then sprinted back. Quite the feat for her aged days. Paying no attention to my gnarly injured knee, she leapt forth, her graceful 75lbs aimed where it should not be. After some words that I’ll precis as “oh, bugger”, we successfully navigated the man trap and escaped.

I returned home to fondant potatoes. Cooked in duck fat, because, why not?

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