FOULING: Beach is just the place

I'm a black Labrador in my prime. Every day my owner takes me to Blyth beach.

Friday, 9th March 2018, 5:30 am

The times I like best are when I meet up with our gang, the Cairn terrier, beagle, cockapoo, and the giant one, who is of indeterminate parentage and must be going on four or five stone in weight.

Usually our owners let us bound away from the cars and we fly onto the grass or charge up the hill heading for the beach.

Our first instinct is to mark our territory so after a few circles to pick our best spots, we squat and each of us deposits a steaming heap, before we hurtle for the sand.

Most mornings our responsible owners track our wanderings, creeping alongside with their little, black, plastic bags, (are these biodegradable I ask myself?), which they toss into the many bins the council provides.

However, sometimes, particularly during bad weather or when we’ve run off into the dunes, or the bags have run out, they just walk on by – after all the rain and wind will take care of it so why should I care? I pay my council tax after all.

After our beach walk we stroll along the prom and bark as our owners, and a few hardy cyclists, slalom this way and that as they navigate the canine deposits left by those dog owners who feel that cleaning up is somehow beneath them.

Incredulously, my owner opines that these must be left by unaccompanied, non-pedigree pooches of lower breeding, who suddenly decided to have an away-day to Blyth beach without their owners.

More likely, I believe, they are brought here, but by irresponsible, ignorant owners, who don’t seem to give a damn about cleaning up and think they have more chance of a Lottery win than being caught by a dog warden.

As we pass the formerly beautiful, but sadly vandalised beach huts, we select our favourite spots for a ‘Number 1’. These don’t count as bad behaviour so our owners just ignore us. Who cares that we leave our pungent doggy signature in a few chalet doorways? Our other friends have to know we’ve been here.

The giant one seems to take great pleasure, after checking first that his owner isn’t looking, in curling another one out in a doorway. Why don’t they put him on dried grub instead of that tinned stuff?

Yeah, Blyth beach and promenade really are the place for doggy fun.

All names are anonymous to protect the innocent.

Name and address supplied