Spilled ink against white sand.

Out of the shimmering white strand, with the glass-blue glass-green Hebridean sea behind, a tiny black dot shimmers into an orb and then a lobed globe. The lobes pulse, rocking from side to side. A shimmering pink tongue resolves itself and flapping ears startling oystercatchers into flight, all blood red needled bills. The rocking, bounding, staring shape of the pup emerges from the glow of the sand. Not such a pup now: small but muscled, manic but intent, returning from some unauthorised mission far away on the empty beach. The sound of thundering paws comes, and strained breath. He hurtles into our space, snatching at the toy in my hand, missing, skidding to a halt in a panting spray of white sand. His eyes, tongue and tail are all in motion, only his standing ears are still, listening to the two of us who have no need to speak. I nudge. She nudges back. 

I throw his toy into the sea and he is in motion again, spilled ink against the white sand.