I’m sitting outside the café at Jennycliff. A poodle paces slowly into view. It’s one of those big black ones, coat not shaved but cropped close all over except its head which sports an outrageous quiff. The muzzle underneath this coiffure seems to be razor thin, beak-like. Dogs of course do not have arms, let alone hands, but the way it carries its ball in its jaws implies holding something at arm’s length, gracefully, but with a hint of distain, perhaps in the manner of a dowager aunt handling the sugar tongs.

After a few yards the poodle drops the ball and walks off. Shortly after, its master appears, picks up the ball and throws it a few feet away from where the dog is now standing. The dog walks over to the ball, looks at it, picks it up and drops it again on the same spot. This ritual is repeated a few more times and then the man, having picked up the ball once more, heads slowly uphill to the car park. After a while the dog follows, occasionally pausing to look at its master from beneath it’s towering bouffant.

–

There’s a woman talking to the bus driver. The conversation is involved and I assume she’s a relative. This exchange goes on for some time and every so often she makes a sort of lunge for something on the shelf below the windscreen. ‘Sort of’ because she seems to be reaching out but at the same time not able to touch it. At first I assume its because its out of reach and the bus is moving, but when the bus stops, this act of reaching/withdrawing continues. As the engine cuts out, I hear the conversation better:
“I’m telling you the truth!”
“I don’t care madam, there are rules”
“But it’s mine I tell you!”
“Then tell me what’s inside”
“That’s not the point”
“Madam you have to tell me what’s inside the bag so I know its yours”
“I don’t know what’s inside!”
“Then how do I know it’s your bag?”
“I’m not interested in the contents, they aren’t mine, but it’s my bag I tell you!”

–

It’s a beautiful day, sunlight bouncing off every surface under a hazy blue sky and I’m sitting on the balcony of my sister’s place. The view is across a small green by the banks of the Plym estuary towards Cattedown where a huge ship is being loaded. I hear someone shouting: “come here you bugger!” so I look down to the grass below and see a man, one hand encased in a plastic bag, chasing a bull terrier who is just keeping out of reach, always facing the man. Every time the man tries to get round behind the animal it turns to once again face him. The dog appears to have two stumpy tails, both of which seem to be wagging, one below the other. The man shouts: “oh that’s really disgusting!” I can’t help but agree, but I’m enjoying the spectacle as he makes another unsuccessful grab for the second tail with his polythene-gloved hand.