It’s a warm afternoon in late August, maybe early September, and the smell from the river is high and thick with rot.
Salmon.
They come here every year to spawn, work their way upriver, do what they came to do, then die. A few days later they’re floating back out again, spent and splitting in the shallows.
This is the way of it.
It’s also a challenge for every dog owner in the village.
While we march along the towpath, half wretching at the smell, the dogs are in heaven. Their heads drop, noses working overtime, and they pull hard towards the river like something’s taken hold of them.
Within seconds of unclipping the leads, I hear Thug’s splash.
And, as always, where Thug goes, Mutley follows.
A minute later he’s clambering back through twelve inches of thick brown mud, half a rotten salmon hanging from his mouth. Mutley is right behind him, wired and ready, his chase instinct already switched on.
Then they’re off.
Thug belts down the towpath along the Tamar, the fish swinging from his jaws. Behind him, by only inches, Mutley gives chase—locked in, all instinct, no hesitation.
And by my side, Macy.
Their mum.
Unphased by any of it. She’s seen it all before. Calm, steady, just walking on.
She knows I’ve got beef waiting at home.
Beef skirt always trumps rotten salmon.
I walk slowly. No rush. This is the routine.
By the time we get back, a forty-five minute walk turns into another half hour of washing river stink and silver scales out of their coats.
Ketchup works. More or less.
I dry the boys off and stick the kettle on.
I used to get angry about it—the smell, the mess, the way they’d drag half a river through the house—but dogs will be dogs.
They didn’t choose to live by a river full of dying salmon.
I did.
Now it’s just part of the walk.