This crazy wind’s got to the dogs too. We’ve just returned from the park and my nerves feel jangly as a ball of wire coat hangers. A trip to my local park with the dogs is not unlike taking a kid on a sugar rush on an outing: it’s a drag for you the adult, but for the dogs it’s like Disneyland at age 5 - on acid. The park is bordered by overhead power lines, and Frankie and Stankie may be induction-charging from them. As they enter the park, the slow, single-marble runs of their brains wind up to a pachinko machine ballstorm, endorphins red-line, and they race off like furry bottle rockets.
They gleefully chase ducks for miles, sniff strangers’ arses with the frowning concentration of chess champions, and cavort around in the park’s abundant overstuffed rubbish bins chomping down things that’d make a maggot gag. All the while, I lumber after them, wheezing like an old couch. If dogs are this chaotic, God only knows what children will be like. I’d likely just leave them hung by their dungaree straps on coat hooks for hours. That, or heroic amounts of Ritalin.