I was about to walk Hatters the dog today, with an extra purpose - to post a couple of letters. Even tho the main aim was to take a walk I couldn't bring myself to go that extra 5 mins. and walk up to the pillar box on the main road.
Also would Hatty appreciate that extra excursion thru the village was not poo territory, she's a smart dog, but basic needs tend to gain impetus in us all, when the need arises.
I have not taken the trip down the Drift and thru the horsey field to the river for some time. The two horses who grazed there were quite friendly Except when their sense of humour led them to thunder up together behind the unwary walker and then just as instant death seemed nigh beneath their flashing hooves, swerve off into an adjoining field, flicking tails in derision.
However we seemed to have reached a mutual non proliferation treaty that allowed all to progress with dignity, when their owners suddenly started appearing with wax jackets and peaked caps, and opinions on doggy poo.
Not horsey poo.
Signs began to proliferate and snappy arguments ensued, I can doggy-bag when required, but every day seemed to take the shine off, so I took an alternative route.
However, the other post box is at the bottom of the hill, by the river.
Lately I seemed to have met said horses, not the owners, carrying persons of differing proportions from the new stables up the hill [one horse, like one car, looks much the same to me,] so I wasn't sure - but we decided to risk it and set out for the nearer post box.
Excellent, the apology for a fence round the ever present potential bonfire had fallen down, not to be resuscitated. Previously the horsey owners didn't approve of horsey snacking on delicacies such as broken fence posts and brushwood, but it seemed they reigned no more.
And so Hatters and I made it to the river and post box unaccosted , the nettles got dumped on without comment and all was peace.
But as we wandered on it did strike me that there have been quite a few checks introduced on our wilful ways.
Doggy poo was the top topic when I was on the tenants council in N London twenty [whoops nearly 25] years ago, when actually the abandoned syringes and fledgling gangsters may have required more attention.
But the only open space then was the car park smeared around the base of the flats, with occasional holes to allow spindly trees to poke up among the brickwork. Kids got mucky enough without the dog, cat and rat poo.
But now dog poo is a middle class campaign and like seat belts, drink driving, smoking bans, attacks on happy hour, it seems to have become part of a new tradition, for better or worse.
Also would Hatty appreciate that extra excursion thru the village was not poo territory, she's a smart dog, but basic needs tend to gain impetus in us all, when the need arises.
I have not taken the trip down the Drift and thru the horsey field to the river for some time. The two horses who grazed there were quite friendly Except when their sense of humour led them to thunder up together behind the unwary walker and then just as instant death seemed nigh beneath their flashing hooves, swerve off into an adjoining field, flicking tails in derision.
However we seemed to have reached a mutual non proliferation treaty that allowed all to progress with dignity, when their owners suddenly started appearing with wax jackets and peaked caps, and opinions on doggy poo.
Not horsey poo.
Signs began to proliferate and snappy arguments ensued, I can doggy-bag when required, but every day seemed to take the shine off, so I took an alternative route.
However, the other post box is at the bottom of the hill, by the river.
Lately I seemed to have met said horses, not the owners, carrying persons of differing proportions from the new stables up the hill [one horse, like one car, looks much the same to me,] so I wasn't sure - but we decided to risk it and set out for the nearer post box.
Excellent, the apology for a fence round the ever present potential bonfire had fallen down, not to be resuscitated. Previously the horsey owners didn't approve of horsey snacking on delicacies such as broken fence posts and brushwood, but it seemed they reigned no more.
And so Hatters and I made it to the river and post box unaccosted , the nettles got dumped on without comment and all was peace.
But as we wandered on it did strike me that there have been quite a few checks introduced on our wilful ways.
Doggy poo was the top topic when I was on the tenants council in N London twenty [whoops nearly 25] years ago, when actually the abandoned syringes and fledgling gangsters may have required more attention.
But the only open space then was the car park smeared around the base of the flats, with occasional holes to allow spindly trees to poke up among the brickwork. Kids got mucky enough without the dog, cat and rat poo.
But now dog poo is a middle class campaign and like seat belts, drink driving, smoking bans, attacks on happy hour, it seems to have become part of a new tradition, for better or worse.
