Sunny, sharp afternoon in SW Scotland, the wee dug and I set off along the Dee Estuary heading for Tongland Bridge, take in the peace, fresh air, sun glittering on the water, pintails settling in for the winter, widgeon doing their thing, wondering why the redstarts and redwings have not been along to clean off the hawthorns along the dyke.
The wee dug sees a pheasant and like most old men (he is 12 next year) still thinks he is a puppy and scarpers off after her. The pheasant takes flight with a squawk when he is still 10 metres away. He looks round at me in satisfaction, a job well done - as far as he is concerned. Ten years ago it would have been 1 metre but fair's fair I can no longer do 100 metres in under 12 seconds, anymore, either.
I chat to others walking along the dyke, some we know with their dugs, others are strangers but with a friendly wee dug everybody wants to stop a while and give him a bit o' a clap. I wish he could teach me his way with the ladies, at 11 he is still a babe magnet.
Then we get a stretch where there is no one, just the silence of nature, a dropping tide and a wee old dug happily sniffing shrew, vole and field mice tracks in the hopes one will be stupid enough to give itself away whilst checking which of his dug pals have pee'd where, how they are keeping then leavin a wee message aa his ane.
So. I have a wee ponder about my own wee world.
Whit I cannae understand, inside o ma heid, is jist why fowk prefer believing oot richt fibs thir telt by Unionist politicians?
Lets stert wi' the ane aboot Scotland's deficit.
Ah ken, its wan if fowks thocht a wee bitty aboot it they'd ken its oot richt skelly. We send aa oor Scots tax pennies tae thon UK Treasury. They gie us a wee bitty back which oor fowks in Holyrood spreddit aroon tae dae the best fir us they can. Thon being what is, hoo can wee hae a multi-million pund defeecit?
Its utter pish, bit fowk swally it whole cos thir telt it by the BBC.
I cud rant oan a bitty aboot aa sorts lies, fibs an itter skitters the Unionist gang oan aboot bit aa fund it scours ma guts an pits ma heid intae a coal hole aa nicht. Whit I cannae thole is fowk swally them wi nae thocht tae whit thir hearin.
Mayhaps its jist if they thocht aboot it, they'd hae tae deal wi the stramash o wakin tae ha'en been leed tae aa thir lives an thons naw guid tae thole. So pittin the fingers in thir lugs an going "LA,LA,LA" is better thin dealing with aa thon Unionist keech they've swallaed aa thir livin days.
The wee dug looks up at me as I chunter tae masel' and gies me a look only a wee dug can, the ane thit says "Are ye gangin' skelly pal? Are we fir hame?"
So we saunter back niether o us much the wiser.
The wee dug sees a pheasant and like most old men (he is 12 next year) still thinks he is a puppy and scarpers off after her. The pheasant takes flight with a squawk when he is still 10 metres away. He looks round at me in satisfaction, a job well done - as far as he is concerned. Ten years ago it would have been 1 metre but fair's fair I can no longer do 100 metres in under 12 seconds, anymore, either.
I chat to others walking along the dyke, some we know with their dugs, others are strangers but with a friendly wee dug everybody wants to stop a while and give him a bit o' a clap. I wish he could teach me his way with the ladies, at 11 he is still a babe magnet.
Then we get a stretch where there is no one, just the silence of nature, a dropping tide and a wee old dug happily sniffing shrew, vole and field mice tracks in the hopes one will be stupid enough to give itself away whilst checking which of his dug pals have pee'd where, how they are keeping then leavin a wee message aa his ane.
So. I have a wee ponder about my own wee world.
Whit I cannae understand, inside o ma heid, is jist why fowk prefer believing oot richt fibs thir telt by Unionist politicians?
Lets stert wi' the ane aboot Scotland's deficit.
Ah ken, its wan if fowks thocht a wee bitty aboot it they'd ken its oot richt skelly. We send aa oor Scots tax pennies tae thon UK Treasury. They gie us a wee bitty back which oor fowks in Holyrood spreddit aroon tae dae the best fir us they can. Thon being what is, hoo can wee hae a multi-million pund defeecit?
Its utter pish, bit fowk swally it whole cos thir telt it by the BBC.
I cud rant oan a bitty aboot aa sorts lies, fibs an itter skitters the Unionist gang oan aboot bit aa fund it scours ma guts an pits ma heid intae a coal hole aa nicht. Whit I cannae thole is fowk swally them wi nae thocht tae whit thir hearin.
Mayhaps its jist if they thocht aboot it, they'd hae tae deal wi the stramash o wakin tae ha'en been leed tae aa thir lives an thons naw guid tae thole. So pittin the fingers in thir lugs an going "LA,LA,LA" is better thin dealing with aa thon Unionist keech they've swallaed aa thir livin days.
The wee dug looks up at me as I chunter tae masel' and gies me a look only a wee dug can, the ane thit says "Are ye gangin' skelly pal? Are we fir hame?"
So we saunter back niether o us much the wiser.
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