I shall not be reviewing the group walk. I shall not be attending the group walk. Mmh.
The Bald Man, last Saturday, decided that we should, all three of us, go on a “group walk.” This was the term he used. It was offered with a kind of optimism. I should like to say I admire optimism in others.
A group walk, in this household, consists of: Winnie, who has views about every leaf and is required to share them; Harvey, who would rather go quietly but has been put into the harness, which he is theatrical about; and me, who has been there before, and is not, on the whole, persuaded.
I expressed my reservations the way one does. I lay down on the floor by the door. I became, briefly, heavy. I found the precise, correct weight to convey: no thank you, not today, with respect, I am settled.
The Bald Man was very gracious. He picked me up and carried me back to my cushion. He said, “Next time, Sabrina.” He said this in the way he says things he does not mean as a threat. He went out with the other two.
I heard them, faintly, from the front room. Winnie was performing. Harvey was, presumably, looking at things. They returned forty minutes later in what I can only describe as a state. There was mud. There was, somehow, a small twig in Winnie's tail. Harvey came over and lay down beside me, smelling of outside, which was, as it always is, slightly nice.
I do not need to review the walk. The walk reviewed itself. Mmh.