Anderson ran on ahead, his tail wagging, obviously delighted at getting yet another walk. Dean watched the retriever, envious of the dog’s world: it all looked so easy, so uncomplicated. Dogs, like most animals, lived for the moment: if their bellies were full, then what did they really have to worry about? He tried to call the dog back, aware that Anderson might scare off any wildlife before he got a chance to see it was there, but his calls were only half-hearted. The retriever was evidently enjoying himself, what right did he have to curb that enjoyment? Examining a stretch of wet sand, Dean delighted in finding a set of fresh otter tracks – the first clear prints he had ever seen. Here and there he could even make out where the animal’s tail had brushed against the sand. He followed the trail to a rock where the animal had defecated: the runny faeces, marking out its territory, a splattered mosaic of small pieces of crab shell and fish scales. Through his binoculars, Dean scanned the shoreline hoping for a sighting of the animal. A pair of oystercatchers took off noisily from the beach, their distinctive black and white plumage, orange bill and unmistakable ‘peeping’ call making them one of the easiest of all birds to identify. Flying some hundred yards down the beach, they settled again - to the annoyance of a large heron that immediately hefted its way across the estuary to land on the opposite bank. How Dean longed to live in a place like this. Although the sun had arced below the line of hills at his back, its final rays were falling on the hills of the mainland, only a mile or so away, across the Sound of Mull. He watched the line of twilight advance slowly up the hillside - visible proof that time marches on - until only the very highest peak remained illuminated. Experienced a moment of wonderment: it felt as if he were being shown something by the natural spotlight and had an urge to investigate the hilltop, as if something of great importance would be revealed to him. The feeling left as soon as the hill was finally plunged into shadow. Looking around, Dean saw that Anderson was still immersed in the new smells his novel surroundings had to offer. The strange, salty air carried innumerable new odours that required further investigation by the dog. Not only smells but sounds too. The big water rubbed up and down the beach, unhurriedly grinding the small pebbles into the fine grains that caught between his pads and stuck to his wet nose. The birds proved endlessly fascinating, if only they would stay still long enough for him to get close to. Oh yes, there were a lot of things to interest a dog like Anderson. The dog suddenly pulled up, as it sensed something. Anderson’s tail, which normally never stopped wagging, first drooped and then curled between his back legs in a submissive gesture Dean had never seen before. The retriever’s ears lowered as the dog stared into a thick gorse bush growing to one side of the track. “What is it boy? What have you seen?” Anderson did not respond, at least not to Dean’s words. The dog slunk to the ground, its eyes fixed on the bush. Even in this prone position, the dog was trying to back away from whatever it had sensed. Dean walked up to him, slipped the lead over Anderson’s head and, feeling the tremors that wracked the dog’s body, tried to see just what it was that had frightened Anderson.

MARCUS LYNDALE