Les thinks he’s old, but he’s only sixty. Les’s dog Carl, who is a Staffy-Kelpie cross, has no concept of time and therefore none of age either. Carl feels good. He likes the mornings, particularly these misty foggy ones that are cold, but not too cold. Les takes Carl for a walk on the edge of the national park. His boots are getting wet, and because they are old boots and not ever so well cared for, his socks are getting damp. That’s just the catalyst though. He’s worried about the leak in the laundry, his tax debt and whether he’ll ever again bump into the nice guy he met in the queue at the post office. Les starts up a small whinge, just in his head. It’s subtle and wordless, but Carl can tell. And even though Les is trying his best to conceal his irritation from Carl, because it’s not Carl’s fault that Les is a grumpy bugger, Les knows that Carl knows. He wonders whether Carl is so intuitive because he’s named after a psychologist. What if he had named his dog after a chef or an astronaut or a mining magnate – what then? But instantly Les knows this is a crazy question. It’s not about the name, it’s about the nature of the beast.