Today, the focus of my walk—and of this entry—has shifted. The defining feature is not weather, nor landscape, nor wildlife, but something small and insignificant.

Crossing the meadow, Carys suddenly stops. Completely still. Silent. Her head locks into position, eyes fixed on a patch of long grass. I recognise the posture immediately: discovery. As I draw closer, the secret reveals itself—a bright yellow ball, half-hidden, waiting.

She knows instinctively that it isn’t hers. She does not rush forward or snatch it. Instead, she waits. A simple “give” is enough. She moves instantly, retrieves the ball, and places it carefully at my feet for inspection.

It’s a small rubber ball. Clean, but split. Useless, really—at least by my measure. Carys, however, is unconcerned with such details. She lowers herself into the grass, coiled with expectation, eyes bright, waiting for the throw.

So we play. For a few minutes, the world reduces to this simple exchange: throw, chase, return. Each time she brings it back, tail high, joy unfiltered. The ball may be broken, but the game is whole.

As we reach the edge of the meadow, she seems to sense what’s coming. The game, she knows, is over. And when I ask her to drop the ball, she refuses. My explanations—that it’s broken, that it isn’t hers—are politely ignored. She continues walking, jaws clamped firmly around her prize, casting the occasional hopeful glance my way, as if trusting that I might forget she has it at all.

We often find balls on our walks. We’ll play briefly, then leave them behind for another dog, another moment. At home, Carys has a large toy box, overflowing with balls of every size and colour, all well-loved. Usually, she is happy to abandon these found treasures.

But not today.

I let her carry it home, assuming time will do its work—that she’ll eventually lose interest, allowing me to quietly dispose of it. Instead, she keeps it close. She drops it at my feet once or twice, asking gently for another throw. Then she carries it to her bed, placing it beside her with deliberate care, as though tucking it in.

To me, it is only a broken ball. To Carys, it is something else entirely.

This small, pre-loved object—damaged, discarded, forgotten—has acquired meaning. What that meaning is, I can’t fully understand. But I can recognise it. And I can respect it.

I decide to let her keep it. At least for now. I don’t have the heart to take away something that so clearly brings her joy.

And later today, I’ll be searching online, trying to find this exact ball.

We measure worth in condition, utility, replacement value. Dogs do not. They measure it in feeling, in moment, in connection. What we see as broken, they sometimes see as chosen.

Today reminded me that meaning is not always logical—and doesn’t need to be. Sometimes joy arrives in small, imperfect forms, asking only to be noticed, not explained.

Perhaps that’s enough.