It’s The Quiet Ones You Have To Look Out For

We are out for a walk. Asbo is behaving like a gang of teenage thugs. Except of course I understand that now I shouldn’t refer to him as such.
He has thoroughly doused the sign outside the bed and breakfast. You wouldn’t think that a dog had so much in him.
A kind American lady, mid fifties, slacks, grey hair, spectacles, carrying a little extra, was thrilled with him. She beamed from ear to ear. Until, that is, he shoved his nose up her ample bottom Then she looked me in the eye with shocked disbelief.
He has partaken of shellfish in their shells, regardless of the lack of an R in the month. He loves the ones that the seagulls leave behind to rot on Marine Walk. These are particularly vile, but you wouldn’t want to try and retrieve them from him. I expect he will be sick as a dog later. Nothing wrong with that of course. He is a dog after all. I just wish that it wasn’t me that had to deal with the semi digested rancid seafood that he leaves behind.
He has played 'high speed chase the plastic bottle' through the council flower beds. Right under the CCTV. His grand finale being to shred the bottle to pieces, and dump a two bagger right next to the best looking flowers in the patch.

I finally decide that perhaps he should be on a lead, when he sidles up to the dog belonging to the lady from the wine shop. I can see he is exercising his best Terry Thomas impression.
To paraphrase ( if that is the right word?) Yaxlich; he is about to get his winky out.
Enough!
(Keen observers will note an experimental semi colon. (Children, you shouldn’t try this at home.))
I decide that my fellow citizens would be far better off, from so many points of view, if I sit him still long enough to put his lead on.

By coincidence this is also just long enough for Blind Pugh to sidle up to me, mistake my leg for the nearest lamppost, and leave his card.
I squelch back to the Town House.