About eight weeks ago we adopted a one-year-old Jack Russell. We named him after the writer Henry Miller. Over Easter, one of our American guests spent her time with us shouting, “Henry is violating the cushion, O my Gawd, he is trying to violate the cat.” Henry also rolls his body over any substance he thinks will enhance his attractiveness as a mate. I found it hard to agree to have him neutered, however the vet said it is advised for male dogs.

One day in the local park I noticed him rubbing his head and neck on a grassy patch under a large chestnut tree. Checking to see what he was rolling over, I spotted a sliver of silver; it was a three-inch-long fish. Its tail flipped up and down. A fish in a park is very odd, but the park is across the road from the sea. I often stand to watch the gulls dive bomb into the waves to grab a fish. If successful, they must avoid the rest of the flock who will try to steal their catch, so they need a safe position to eat.

This fish had survived a seagull and a dog, and I felt responsible for its future. Unable to bear the sensation of it in my hands, I used one of Henry’s poop bags to lift it and run to the nearest water fountain. When I freed it from the bag, it sank like a stone to the base of the fountain. I had not stopped to think that this water was not sea water. Henry and I continued our walk.

Later I wondered if I should have asked the park warden to remove it from the fountain. I imagined the body swelling, then snippets of flesh floating away to expose the bony spine, its head with empty eye sockets. I imagined hungry sea gulls breaking their necks diving for it, pigeons drowning in their efforts to grasp it, toddlers screaming in terror when it floated past their dangling fingers. What a fish! The gull wanted to eat it, the dog wanted its scent, and I gave it a public grave.