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
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