It never ends ... or so it seems. The story — "story" being a very big word for a series of non-events — goes on, for just one more day (I promise), because just as I turned from the cold crabless tide pools of Crab Town to run back to the only-slightly-warmer comfort of my car, I came face-to-face with a creature. A collie. With an exceedingly long pointy snout and a hooded man/master in the distance. Life!
We had a pleasant conversation — the three of us.
Yes, I talk to dogs — doesn't everyone?
This one's name was Duney. Or Dooney. Or Dunnie ... that's how the master spelled it after explaining that the dog was so-named because he/she tended to blend in with the dune grass, which says to me it should be Duney, so Duney it is for my purposes. That settled — in my mind, anyway — the master (whose name I don't know, because I rarely ask a master's name, only a dog's name) went on to share with considerable excitement what he'd discovered on the path over by the gray, weathered, boat racks: a deer. He surmised it was a "young one" who'd had the misfortune of meeting a coyote, growing in numbers all over the island. The master was intent on bending down, pointing things out, examining the remains. Duney took a few disinterested sniffs — there being so little to sniff at — and walked away ...
