150 words #3
It was the first of the lovely summer evenings … the sun gone down, the water flat. The beach was packed. The dog, still a puppy, is almost the only one still on a lead. I don’t trust him to come back if he starts to run. And he isn’t my dog. We use a harness now, instead of the collar. It’s better.
People can’t stop taking photos of the sunset, and if I had brought my phone, I wouldn’t be able to either. The clouds are wispy and lit by the sun. Paddleboards and canoes are silhouettes. Children are splashing. Adults drinking wine.
The dog digs, buries his nose in the sand. He runs to the edge of the water but quickly runs back if the water rolls in. ‘What kind of dog is he?’ people ask. They are always disappointed when I shake my head at their guess, ‘Labradoodle?’