Rain drops like tiny pats of encouragement. Hard work walking when the ground gives way. Sodden earth sucks at boots, slurps at paws. It all is as it is to Dog, happily, unless a thorn wedges in a pad, but only as long as the thorn wedges. Released, straight back to the brambles she goes, bearing no grudge.
A fine line perhaps, between stupid and optimist? The determination to be dour can't be any smarter. Quality of life is the deciding factor.
In a roundabout way this is why we have ice cream for supper. Homemade chocolate sauce is upstaged by the hotplate heated banana: thrown on the Rayburn hob it twitches till we laugh tears.
(Next time there'll be a camera on standby: this time we were struck incapable.)