Harry is full of frisk

Spring has sprung, as the saying goes. It feels as though a hard edge of sunlight has scraped winter from the land, like so much frost from a frozen windshield.

Harry is full of frisk. His eyes are bright, his tail's in the air, and he's ready to run.

I'm not quite so full of frisk myself, but it's a glorious day, so I'm taking Harry to the park. I owe him that.

We put on the leash, so Harry wouldn't lose me, and we headed out the gate, through which Harry hadn't set paw in several weeks. We got halfway down the walkway and Harry hit the turbos. Jump to lightspeed, Corg Factor 9!

The short legs are deceptive. Harry's impressively fast when he wants to be. I pity any cow or sheep being herded by a Corgi. You might as well just go along with it. And go along I did, at full run, trying to keep the leash from reeling out to its full length.

The start of the local park system is just a couple of blocks away, down a quiet street. Harry and I cut through the back lawn of an apartment building we used to live in.

Harry slalomed through a row of small evergreens, with me following breathlessly behind, my sides aching, dangerously close to being impaled on the shrubbery. Short of breath and pained of chest, I was starting to rethink the whole dog walking idea.

Harry's initial rush of excitement was mercifully starting to wear off, though, which quite possibly saved me from having a coronary. We headed out into the greater expanse of the park and Harry slowed his pace. The park is interesting, there are many things to see and smell. We didn't want to miss any of it.

Harry was smiling a big doggy smile.