25 years ago after work I ate a handful of mushrooms a friend gave me in Scotland.

I'm walking home in this park, November, misty, lane lined with 200 year old oak trees, looking at Edinburgh castle up on the hill in the distance; all very much of a muchness.

I'm sort of half walking backwards looking at the castle, and the mist kind of parts and up lopes this, thing.

I had never seen a wolfhound before, and this thing is massive. Grey, wet, muzzle dripping from the mist and slobbering and running.

" So this is how it ends." I casually remark to myself in the second or two I'm watching this unfold. It goes running by and then his owner jogged up behind him a couple of seconds later.

It was gorgeous, and in the next couple of years I see them all the time in the neighborhood and I began this sort of lifelong desire to own one until I realize how short lived they actually are.