"They look wonderful running at full speed," I muttered, half to myself and half to the woman standing a few yards away. I suspected, thanks to the dog leads dangling from her hand that she was the owner.
"Thank you, yes, they are a delight to watch," she replied and took a pace or two to come and stand closer. "Do you like dogs?" she asked.
"Dogs like yours I said but not otherwise."
"But dogs are so athletic as well as loving and obedient." She responded.
"Hi, I'm Liz," she said holding out her hand.
She smiled and then took the final step to stand next to me. I took her hand. It was soft and welcoming. She had a firmness of grip that I appreciated. She was about my age, maybe slightly older and looked fit and healthy, probably from exercising the dogs. She wore jeans and a t-shirt and a pair of what looked to be old and very worn trainers. She obviously didn't bother dressing up to take the dogs for a walk. Not that I could brag as I had simply thrown on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts before coming out.
"Strictly speaking they're not called dogs. They're hounds," she announced.
"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't know."
"Don't worry, it doesn't bother me, but other owners are very fussy about these things. They're a breed known as Afghan Hounds."
What I was not expecting was the interrogation that followed, nor my self-revelations that it produced.
"I'm Ailsa," I announced, trying not to blush. She released my hand before turning her attention back to the two dogs, sorry hounds, careering around the field. They were long-legged and covered with flowing hair which rippled as they ran.
"So, I assume you are not here dog-walking?" she asked.
"Nonoo, just my usual daily stroll among the green fields. It takes my mind off work," I replied.
"And what is it you do?"
I blushed again, this time more obviously.
"It's a bit embarrassing" I managed to stutter out.
She immediately stopped watching the dogs and turned her attention to me. I tried to turn away and get away from her penetrating look.
"Intriguing," she said, "tell me more."
"It's really nothing," I said, stumbling over my words. Her silence told me that she was waiting for more.
"I've been quite ill with Covid," I explained, "and as part of my recovery I've been writing short stories."
"Wow! That's brilliant. Are they published?"
"Sort of but not really, only online."
"Might I have read them? I read a lot of online."
"Probably not," I managed to stutter, "it's a very specialised site." I realised that I was blushing madly, and she was looking at me intensely.
"What's the name of the site?" she asked.
I was feeling very flustered and caught off guard by her question. Without thinking I told her the site name.
"In that case I might have read them. I use that site all the time. It makes for good bedtime reading."
When she said that I blushed even more. The idea that I was chatting to a possible reader suddenly terrified me.
"I'm intrigued," she told me, "Do you fancy a cup of tea or coffee? Round at mine. Its only five minutes away and you can tell me more. The girls have had long enough running around. Hang on while I get them in."
Without waiting for a refusal, she reached in her pocket and took out a shiny whistle which she put to her lips and blew into. A pathetic squeak emerged but it was enough for the two dogs to stop their running around and come bounding over. It must have been one of those high-pitched dog whistles. It was only after they arrived and sat at her feet that I noticed that the leashes she had in her hand had the collars attached. The dogs were not wearing them. She squatted down and fastened one of the collars around a dog's neck and then handed me the free end of the leash before she turned her attention to the second dog. I simply stood there in a bit of a daze wondering what I was supposed to do with the dog I had hold of. I needn't have worried. It just sat there quietly, not making a fuss. Finally, she stood back up and linked her arm with mine.
"Come, let's go and I'll put the kettle on."
Linked as we were I had little choice but to follow her. It seems I was in charge of one of the dogs as she made no move to reclaim the leash I was holding. I had no choice but to go with her. As we walked, she asked me further about my stories. She seemed delighted and then admitted that she had read them and enjoyed them. I was shocked and embarrassed. Eventually she stopped outside a small, terraced cottage. She took out a key and opened the door and then led the way in.
"Mind your head," she warned me, "the door is very low. They were smaller back in 1750 when this place was built. But come in."
I followed her in and then waited while she kicked off her shoes onto a sheet of newspaper just inside the door. I looked around the single room and it was spotless, so I copied her and removed my trainers.
I waited just inside the door and the dog I was in charge of simply sat at my feet. Liz and her dog were in the centre of a low-ceilinged room that had little in the way of furniture. An old-fashion what I think is called a chaise-longue against one side wall and a heavy looking dark wood sideboard against the opposite wall. The only hint of modernity was the smallish flat-screen TV on top of the sideboard. Without another word she knelt on the thick pile carpet and started to remove her dog's collar. When she stood up the dog seemed to take this as permission to leave and it loped off through a door beyond her into what I took to be the kitchen.
"Can you release yours?" she asked, gently, "I like them to be natural so if you unbuckle the collar, please."
I squatted down and, after a bit of fiddling managed to release the pair of buckles to undo the collar. It was much wider than I expected and so very soft to the touch. When I stood up the dog copied its mate and scurried off into the kitchen leaving us alone.
"They're so well behaved," I commented, "how do you do it?"
"Years of training," she replied.
I held up the collar and leash. "Where do you want me to put this?"
"Well either you can put it on the hook on the back of the door, or ..."
I was starting to turn to the door when her last word stopped me for some unknown reason, it was maybe her tone of voice, but I felt compelled to wait for her next utterance.