If you were sitting there thinking about global warming and antibiotic resistant infections, this little number will totally warm your heart cockles.

Out at the whale skeletons, it's never really bright and cheery. We go there all the time now, and what it tells you, is that there's no slapping a happy smirk into every single time and place. Nothing bad at the whale skeletons, it's just how it is out there. There's old, big bones out there, tied up on metal stakes. Maybe that makes a difference. How many places, you ever go, that seem like that?


The whale skeletons, it's a good place to go. Don't get me wrong. The sky is open, and you can hear the waves echo off the different sides of the cliffs. The scrub brush houses things the dogs flush out and they're happy running here. The light hangs on here longer than anywhere, because it's the closest spot to where the sun drops under the horizon. Otterpop isn't tied up so much, I am tempting her leg fate and letting her run. I just am. I will probably regret it, but something about the whale skeletons makes me stare into the darkness, and keep staring through it, until the staring comes out the other side.


Last thing I want to do, be sounding all Emo here. Lacing up black Doc Martens and trodding, eyes down. Slap my happy smirk back on. We are all blissfully, beautifully happy here. When I pack the dogs back onto their leashes at the road, I tell them, We are lucky, you guys. That was the best walk ever. But I whisper it. Because that's a good way to talk out at the whale skeletons. Hushy. Not freaked out hushy, like you are hiding out from bad guy aliens with razor tentacles in a basement, but just a little more quiet than other places.


Gustavo runs a hundred circles around us all, and then I pick it up and we all run together, as fast as we can, through the path through the scrub. Maybe I'm laughing. But the quiet kind. We wait until the last light squeezes out the end of the sky, and then it's time to go.