Walking the Dog (1)

There I was yesterday, walking the dog in the fields beyond our village. It was a familiar walk, but I saw coming towards me a man I didn't recognise, walking with a black Labrador. He didn't look like he belonged on that muddy path through the calf-high undergrowth, but more like someone hanging out at a dingy bar, slouching along, cigarette dangling, open coat and t-shirt underneath. He spoke first. “Whatcha wearing gloves for this time of the year?” he asked. (It was February, remember?) “Ya don’t see fishes wearing hats, do ya?” “Um, well, you’re right. I don’t. Good point.”