The pavement was less than a quarter mile away. Normally I would drive almost to the road, then let the heelers out for their last run. The end of the last route, of the last antelope area to classify. But there were cows standing just across the fence by the road, so we stopped here.

I opened my door and before I could even finish saying "okay", they had read the nod of my head and the opening of my mouth as permission to launch.

And launch they did, across my lap, using my left knee as the final touch of firmament as they threw themselves out the door and back along the two track at the same time.

It's a good place to run. All sand, the same white sand of the dunes around us. Must feel wonderful on the paws, 'cause heelers love to run on white sand. Especially yesterday, when it was firm and cool from two days of rain, and only 46 degrees outside. The masked heeler in the lane on the right, her smaller sister forced into the left.

It was a long race.

The little maskless sister ended up in front, as is normal, which caused her cheating sister to bark several times, announcing the first leg of the race was over, and then turn back to race to me. Giving her a big head start over the faster, smaller one.

The masked one won, of course, as she almost always does. Coming up panting hard, her eyes with that feral wildness which makes you pity whatever the dingos of Australia choose to run down and eat. Her sister, the wiser of the two, did her usual cooling walkdown right past us, and circled around the truck.

Load up.

Load up! I repeat myself to prompt them to actually do it.

Summer's over.