Capturing the Uncapturable: Photographing a Hyperactive Dog (and My Chocolate-Fueled Efforts)

Ah, Sunday. A day of rest, reflection, and in my case, the rather ambitious notion of powering my weary frame with a frankly heroic quantity of chocolate. One might reasonably assume that such a sugary onslaught would leave me buzzing with the boundless enthusiasm of a small child at a party fuelled by E-numbers and fizzy pop. You'd think, wouldn't you? That I'd be ready to leap tall buildings, or at the very least, keep pace with… well, anything that moved with even a modicum of purpose.

But then there was Cooper.

Cooper, you see, had recently celebrated his second birthday, a milestone apparently marked by a solemn vow to personally investigate the aerodynamic properties of every available patch of ground in the vicinity. His greeting was a mere nanosecond of polite nasal investigation before he was off again, a small, furry comet on a trajectory of pure, unadulterated zoom. The idea of him pausing for a dignified portrait? About as likely as finding a polite badger at a tea party.

Thankfully, the unflappable Chloe and Dan were old hands at this particular brand of high-octane fluffball. They executed a truly impressive feat of canine choreography, somehow "encouraging" Cooper to hurtle towards the lens while they themselves perched precariously on either side of a riverbank that looked suspiciously like it had been liberally buttered.

My trusty camera, a veteran of countless windswept vistas and stoic sheep, was called into action. It was a small comfort to discover that my fingers still remembered how to dial in a shutter speed usually reserved for capturing bullets in mid-flight. And so there I was, prone in the damp earth, sounding rather like a demented woodpecker as I unleashed a rapid-fire barrage of clicks, desperately trying to freeze this furry blur in time.

The truth, as it often is, was rather humbling. No matter how many chocolate eggs I might ingest in the name of energy, I could no more keep up with Cooper than I could suddenly understand the offside rule. He was a force of nature, a four-legged testament to the sheer, unadulterated joy of simply being and moving. And I, well, I was mostly just muddy. And slightly sticky. But you know, in a rather satisfying sort of way.

Grey Skies, Barking Trolls, and Postbridge: A Photographic Mishap

Well, the weather. Honestly. You'd think the Sky People, or whatever they call themselves up there, had nothing better to do than mess with the likes of us, the lens-toting, sunset-chasing, landscape-obsessed mortals. A glorious, postcard-perfect day, all sapphire skies and fluffy little clouds, just begging to be captured. And then, poof, grey. Just… grey. Like someone had dropped a damp blanket over everything. So, plan B. Naturally.

Plan B, in my case, involved the rather less glamorous, but arguably more entertaining, pursuit of pet photography. You know, those close-ups of furry faces that people inexplicably adore. And, as a delightful side effect, a bit of location scouting. Postbridge. Ah, Postbridge. That charming little clapper bridge. A place I'd promised myself I’d capture, oh, years ago, and which had, frankly, started to resemble a permanent fixture in shot list itself, rather than a subject to be photographed. It had, as they say, taken root.

So, with a photographic itch that was positively demanding to be scratched, Sarah, Winnie (the dog), and myself set off for a spot of what I like to call "shutter therapy." Now, Winnie, being a seasoned professional in the art of dog-posing, one would think she’d have this whole thing down pat. But no. On this particular evening, the allure of the river, and the prospect of dragging Sarah into it, proved far too compelling.

And thus, the scene. Picture, if you will, a middle-aged chap, me, crouching by the bridge, looking for all the world like a particularly disheveled troll. Camera in one hand, flash in the other, meowing and barking in a desperate attempt to command the attention of a dog that was clearly having none of it. Sarah, meanwhile, was engaged in a Herculean struggle to prevent Winnie from launching herself into the river, while simultaneously trying to avoid being in the frame. It was, shall we say, a spectacle.

I can only offer my deepest apologies to the unsuspecting tourists who, no doubt, had envisioned a serene, picturesque moment by the clapper bridge, perhaps even a selfie or two. Instead, they were treated to a bizarre tableau of animal noises, frantic arm waving, and a dog that seemed intent on aquatic mayhem. They, quite understandably, made a hasty retreat. I can only imagine what the tourist board will say.