“Craaw-chuck.” A pheasant. The dog’s behaviour switches. He freezes, ears up, one paw raised.
“Craaw-chuck.” He’s off, speeding towards the source of the call, pelting towards the ornamental long pond. The water is covered with lime-green algae. So thick that Barney continues to run mistaking it for solid ground.
He’s a swimmer, so in no danger. I laugh aloud. There’s no-one to share my amusement, just a wet, panting dog.