At odds from the first stride.

I was all rush. Push back on the path, broken in places where the eucalypt has lifted it like pie.
Heavy on the lead. Calling him on to fly the field. To chase down his mainspring with a bounding caterpillar gallop. Around the edge now as quick as you can. Tongue and ears all flopping on the fall.
Hurrying to tire him out so I can go home and sit undisturbed before the TV.

He was all slow. Sliding his black opal nose down the length of every green blade. Sucked into the undergrowth by aromatic ammonias and thistle-dew and rot.
Relishing every tussock tattered moment that presses his  pads or knots in his tail.
Whiplashed back by the point of his nose to a siesta of buttered dandelions. Circle once before driving the side of his raptured snout into a squirt of duck shit.

Trying to teach me what the TV cannot.