As part of this blog I asked some writer friends of mine to share their work on my blog.
Today’s Guest Writer is Bernice Wicks
Bernice is currently writing a historical novel, Gwenni.
A Walk in the Park by Bernice Wicks
I was plodding, in a pitiful sort of way, back across the field. It was another damp, cold Monday morning and I was tugging the old dog behind me on her lead like a reluctant kid to school. A few brave birds tried to start a sing song in the bushes but there’s so few of them nowadays it faded away and they sat hunched up, sad amongst the branches. I was due at work in 20 minutes and if the drizzle got more business-like there would be another 5 minutes dog drying time, another 5 to feed them, or maybe they could wait, the journey took at least 15 minutes. No matter how I played it, I was late. All this and more buzzing through my head, and still half a field and a cemetery to plod through. A voice drifted over from behind and I turned ready with a ‘Good Morning.’
‘Your dog,’ she pointed to the more sprightly younger dog trotting towards me.
‘Your dog,’ she continued airily and waving a hand, ‘Did a poo, back there.’
I narrowed my eyes and gave her the thousand yard stare, as she was only about 200 yards away she should’ve shrivelled on the spot but the effect was spoilt by my ridiculously darkened reactolights. So I did my best truculent teenager impression and said, ‘Well I’m not going to find it now, am I?
What I should’ve said was, ‘Cripes, how remiss, come let us go and find the poo, show it to me that I might gladly scoop it up as I always do!’
She was only momentarily dazzled by my repartee before replying with,
‘You do have to keep an eye on them.’
Now if I hadn’t been late, damp, downright grumpy-as-hell I might have been amused. Keep an eye on him; he was much more likely to keep an eye on me! He was a very nervous sort of a dog and liked to keep his nose as close as possible to the back of my legs, in a constant panic that another dog is going to appear. We live in a city, dogs do appear and then he whimpers and puts his hackles up in a vain attempt to appear heroic. He’s a big dog, looks a bit like a half starved wolf, the look of a dog that swaggers through the park picking off Staffies and Jack Russsells alike, that cocks his leg against the swings and rolls in the sandpit, a dog that has a lot of deals going down with the local Rottweilers. In fact he acts like a rabbit, a rabbit that’s had some hard knocks but is pathetically willing to come back for more. I welcomed him back with a reassuring pat and drew myself back up to full height and flung back in a shout that had the nearby crows rise from their perches in a cacophony of sound.
‘I think I’ve picked up enough shit over the years!’
Yeah, I’ve picked up enough shit.
Copyright: Bernice Wicks