Monday morning, as I prepared to leave home dark and early, the masked heeler made a feeble attempt to follow me out of bed.

But did not resist when I stopped her. And stayed there as I left. Stretched out enjoying my half the bed.

Her maskless sister, on the other hand, never stirred from her niche at the wife's feet.

So I let them stay home, and went out to classify alone.

It wasn't until I actually started the route, a half-hour from home, that I realized what a mistake that was.

It meant the heelers would miss this:

Our route takes us past this huge dune. Where we have, over the years, taken to enjoying short breaks from our work to run, play and snoop on the sand.

A break all the more precious since sand dunes are now one of the few places the masked heeler can still go out to run and enjoy herself without fear of running into something.

And she missed it.

It will be another full year before my duties take me down that narrow sandy two-track again.

Seven years, in dog years.

And they know these places. They remember where they got out to run last year. And, presumably, where they peed and pooped. According to research I've read on the sensitivity of canid noses, they can "read" messages from everyone who has stopped to mark that place in the intervening year.

It struck me, as I started down the gravel road, that like me, the heeler sisters don't have that many more opportunities to enjoy these places. I can probably count the number of times I will visit that dune again on two hands, now.

For the sisters, probably on one paw.

And I just cheated them of one.

Yeah. I almost turned around.