The Dog at Craigmore Gate

There was a dog behind the gate at Craigmore again this morning, doing that low sort of muttering dogs do when they think you have not noticed them plotting. I had noticed. I notice everything on my round, it is largely the job.

I did not run. I want that written down somewhere official. I walked, at my usual pace, satchel swinging, chin level, the way a bird walks when he has letters to deliver and no time for theatre. The dog flung itself at the gate twice. I did not flinch. I may have adjusted my cap slightly, but that was for the wind, not the dog.

Past experience has taught me that dogs respect a gull who keeps walking. Stop, and you have shown weakness. Run, and you have shown fear. Walk on with your beak up and your satchel steady, and the dog is left barking at a professional it cannot rattle.

I will say the gate itself is getting cocky. It rattled harder than usual, as if it too fancied its chances. I gave it a look. It settled.

By the time I reached the postbox at the corner I had quite recovered my composure, though I did allow myself a small private strut, out of sight, purely for morale.