Rona is the fussiest dog we have ever had.
Most of our other dogs have marched along the veranda, down the steps and onto the lawn and squatted for a quick pee; into the car, out the other end, and squatted for a quick poo.
This one? Heavens no! We can walk for 20, 30 minutes before the first pee of the day. And as for a poo!
For a while we seemed to have it sussed. On the home stretch from having walked round the fields, we let her off the lead in the clover. She'd dive off to the brow of the hill and discretely squat - as the clover grew, vanishing completely - and then come bounding and rushing back down to let us know and into the house for breakfast.
That was until the neighbouring farmer sprayed pig shit over his field plus the day she saw a deer. Suddenly, the most important thing in the world became hunting for the deer and eating the pig shit, only returning after an hour or so, panting violently, smelling rank and believing that she should clean her chops all over the furniture.
So, she is now kept on the lead all the way round, with no more squatting in the clover and (unfortunately) the risk of an "accident" on the lounge carpet later in the day when her digestion finally catches up with her.
And so, she gets a second walk. Far from ideal with daytime temperatures in the 30s. And certainly not round our open fields. Hence the park - old enough to have grand cypresses and well-established oaks offering us ample shade and (finally), in her hunt for doggy smells, she remembers why she's there.
These recent days the park entrances have been blocked by large agricultural containers - too heavy to be moved with anything less than a tractor - in an attempt to keep out a convoy of travellers' caravans that arrives overnight most summers and stays for weeks.
The containers also keep out the lunchtime workers, seeking shade for their cars while they munch through their sandwiches and baguettes and stare at their phones; not to mention the elderly locals who do no more than open the boot, let the dog out and then doze in the driver's seat.
To our surprise, most days now, we seem to have the place to ourselves.
This Thursday, though, all will change and the containers will go. In one green corner is a small chapel, dedicated to vintage vehicles and on August 15th each year the whole park is filled to the brim with elderly cars and lorries and tractors and their enthusiasts, there to be blessed by the local priest and then off for a parade around town.
Like Toad in Wind in the Willows, it will all be more "poop poop" than poo poo.
