It is the very middle of May, an unseasonably cold and blustery day. From time to time snowflakes and apple blossoms ride tandem on the wind.
But a dog must have its walk. So coonhound-named-after-a-central-European-president and I take a short drive to where the woods start, and then march along between forests and fields, trying to enjoy each other's company, even as I wish myself back indoors, and he searches for the most perfect spot to have a leisurely poo.
As we get near where the road makes a sharp bend and a footpath emerges from the forest, a man is coming out of the woods and heading for his car, which sits parked at the side of the road. I judge him to be in his late thirties or early forties, and whatever it is about him, whether his average build or his unremarkable attire, he seems exactly the kind of man who would be out in the woods on a day like this walking his dog, So I am not surprised to find that he is in fact preceded by what I take to be a very small dog dressed in a blue jacket.
Coming closer, I discover that it is not a small dog at all, but a radio-controlled little pickup truck. We say Hello to each other, the man and I, and exchange comments about which one of us has the more obedient walking companion. Apparently, neither of our sidekicks ranks high in that department.
He packs up his remote control, cleans the miniature tires, and gently puts the little vehicle into his car. Chilled, I, frozen and grumpy, hiss at Vanĕk to get into the truck already.
But a dog must have its walk. So coonhound-named-after-a-central-European-president and I take a short drive to where the woods start, and then march along between forests and fields, trying to enjoy each other's company, even as I wish myself back indoors, and he searches for the most perfect spot to have a leisurely poo.
As we get near where the road makes a sharp bend and a footpath emerges from the forest, a man is coming out of the woods and heading for his car, which sits parked at the side of the road. I judge him to be in his late thirties or early forties, and whatever it is about him, whether his average build or his unremarkable attire, he seems exactly the kind of man who would be out in the woods on a day like this walking his dog, So I am not surprised to find that he is in fact preceded by what I take to be a very small dog dressed in a blue jacket.
Coming closer, I discover that it is not a small dog at all, but a radio-controlled little pickup truck. We say Hello to each other, the man and I, and exchange comments about which one of us has the more obedient walking companion. Apparently, neither of our sidekicks ranks high in that department.
He packs up his remote control, cleans the miniature tires, and gently puts the little vehicle into his car. Chilled, I, frozen and grumpy, hiss at Vanĕk to get into the truck already.
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