Walking on the bike track this morning, Cleo and I both carried sticks ready for the river.At the first opportunity I threw Cleo's stick; it got stuck in a tree. I threw my stick; Cleo retrieved it but then decided she didn't like it as much as hers so left it in the middle of the river. Meaning we had to find another stick.
You'd think that finding sticks in a wood would be easy. It's not. It was ever thus. I remember Harvey getting impatient, standing round barking ('That's not going to help me find a stick, is it?!') as I kept him waiting to chase. He was oblivious to the fact that if he hadn't eaten the previous stick he wouldn't have had to wait.
Now I come to think of it, in 15 years of stick-eating, Harvey probably managed to munch his way through most of the woods. No wonder there are no sticks left.