for wætere ne murnon

At the reflecting pool, two dogs going around and around, the black spaniel mix up on the stone coping, the red-nosed pointer in the water itself up to her elbows and hocks. The water not very good for reflecting at that moment, having been warmed by the sun and made habitable for all manner of greenish slime, both that sort that likes to float on the surface and that other sort that likes to make long translucent streamers at the middle depths. These both types totally fascinating to the red pointer, pawing at the submarine gauze and scooping at the floating clots with her open snout, letting the green dribble over her jowls, finding now a stick (a stick!) made black and compellingly spongy by the action of the water, and giving it a thorough mouthing before letting it drop back with a splash. (The spaniel, a dog with shorter legs and longer hair, wisely opting to remain a spectator to these proceedings, but with palpable vicarious enjoyment.) The pointer's front end all focussed on these aquatic doings, the red prow of her chest steering around the perimeter of the pool just above the surface of the water, forelegs striking out and down like oars.

Her hind legs, however, working according to another plan, drawing up sharply with each step, the thick muscle of the haunch contracting as some automatic part of the dog brain (that subordinate part with charge of the aft portion of the dog) gave the orders to lift the legs clear of whatever nasty wet stuff they had stepped in.