I wonder if the spikes in the grass ever hurt his feet

I wonder if the spikes in the grass ever hurt his feet 

When I was young, I often stayed in a bach on the edge of Lake Taupō. It had a clear view of the water from the windowsill. The grass that lay between the house and the black sand beach was coarse and full of prickles, making it a painful journey if you had forgotten your shoes. Sometimes after a swim, with our feet coated in glittering sand, we would hop over the sharp grass as fast as we could, racing to get back to the safety of the outdoor shower and the fire being lit inside by our parents.  

Recently I found a photo of our old dog on this same grass. He is lying, front legs outstretched, back legs tucked in by his sides. He is wearing my sister's hat, pink and orange with tassels that hung over his ears. The photo is old and grainy, but when I close my eyes, I see it vividly. I’m there, wearing my own tasselled hat. I’m clapping my hands and calling out to him, trying to get his attention. He seems oblivious, mouth open in what could only be a smile, tongue lolling to one side. “Jebbie! Jebbie!” My sister and I would call out. He would turn his head towards us, watching as we danced and jumped and waved. He seemed content there, and I like to think he was as happy as I was.  

When he died, I had to pick my way slowly through the memories, trying not to step on the ones that hurt the most; burying my head in his fur the day he had to be put down, and burying his ashes under the whekī in the garden.  

I still see him, wearing that silly hat, watching over me from his spot in the grass.