A rolling Moss gathers no stones ...

With the biting wind cutting our faces, making our eyes stream rendering us temporarily blind, we briskly walked along the puddle riven track. Moss ran on ahead, constantly checking on our apparent slothlike pace. She flew along the steep heathery banks, a streak of black and white.

Youngest and I, heads bowed against the cold air, wrapped warmly but not warm enough, watched the obvious enjoyment of our silly dog. She was born for this terrain and thrives in this sharp weather. Youngest - fingers blue with cold (he'd left his gloves behind declaring he did not need them) threw sticks and a ball for Moss. Her paws, so sure footed, just carried her effortlessly.

We, still maintaining a barely temperature raising fast pace, could not keep up with her. Her face a picture of pure delight, tongue wildly flapping and ears alert, she would cross the moorland in a flash ready for the command that would send her out again.

Along the track were substantial pond sized puddles. They were no barrier as she crashed and splashed through them, grinning the biggest doggy-grin and waggy tail.  Then, at our furthest point, we took a detour and floundered our way through wet heather and cold muddy heathland. Not Moss, she rocketed along, bounding and bouncing for the sheer pleasure. Choosing to take a dip in a deeply rutted track while she waited for us to catch up ...

The bitter air, the blue fingers, the streaming eyes - all forgotten. Moss' happiness was so 'huge', we were absorbed by it too. The pale lavender grey sky, the mud, the puddles - they were all part of her joy and ours.

And now, as I paint (and blog), she sleeps and I am sure she dreams of flying, of mud, of puddles and of walks....