Neither are in their first flush of youth.
The dog rustles around the leaves, sniffing and huffing, convinced there must be a grey squirrel in those leaves somewhere.
The man scuffs his boots through the carpet of fallen copper toned beech leaves, that cover the bare earthen floor of the wood.
Part of both their minds thinks back to the time when a pile of leaves was the excuse for excitement, adventure, giggles, wagging tails, barks and a half hearted cry to stop from the grown up in charge.
The memories of leaf fragments found in the dogs fur, small twigs lodging in ear folds and general leaf debris irritation for days forgotten.
Not however forgotten by the man, he being the one who brushed and cleaned the dog of his crumbled litter strewn coat.
Not long after that memory had popped into his head along came his own scratchy memories. Those fallen leaves, such an excellent, soft material to roll around in and throw.
It’s a pity the leaf litter seemed to linger for so long in your socks and pants. Itchy and scratchy like a cheap toilet roll.