Watch Your Toes

Back in April last year we stayed in McLaren Vale with a little white dog who had a penchant for playing Fetch with lemons. Now we're back in McLaren Vale and the dog is all of a sudden far too mature to chase lemons or indeed fruit of any kind even if the blood orange tree is loaded with fruit. He's become a senior dog, and he's been joined by a junior dog 'for company' although I suspect Senior would frequently be more than happy with a peaceful solitary life.

Junior's erstwhile puppy lurks just under his skin: he regularly runs bonkers circles around the living room furniture and has an obsession with toes. Should I be silly enough to walk around barefoot Junior risks trampling in his efforts to lick my toes. I wash my feet regularly* but Junior doesn't care: socks and shoes are the only defense against his persistence.  Not that wearing socks and shoes is a hardship, given the miserable weather outside.

Rain and wind has beaten Australia's southern coastline, washing away sand and replacing it with mountains of sea grass. The waves chewed chunks out of all the decrepit wooden jetties which live in every coastal community and sent long fingers of sea foam up over the esplanade at Port Noarlunga.

The bad weather wasn't all bad, mind you. The turbulent wind and cold water temperature worked to break up the algael bloom that for the past month or two had stripped the water in the Gulf St Vincent of oxygen and littered the shore with dead and dying marine life.  Patches of country struggling in the grip of drought got a welcome drink and the sparse Brown hills of the Fleurieu donned a new green coat.

 I took the dogs out for a walk and brought them straight back home again, soggy and well on the way toward a colour change from white to filthy grey. Junior, ready for his dinner, nearly burst out of his skin in his efforts to keep all four feet on the ground. He and I are having conversations about my dislike of dogs who jump up on me, and he fairly explodes in his valiant efforts to do the right thing. Then, when he's eaten, all that pent-up exuberance bursts out and unleashes itself on Senior, who hasn't yet figured out that I'm really the one to blame for him getting over-Juniored after dinner every night.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go. Junior has a desperate need for nightly lap time, and there's worse ways to spend a cold winter evening than with a warm little dog on your lap.

*At least once a year, even if they don't need it.