The other day I met a dog called Chris, in the park. Chris was one of those rarities, a dog with taste, not for him the blind charging through the flocks of crows and pigeons, no, Chris would fixate on one individual, charge and then run under the flying bird, head held up to hold it in sight, would track him to the tree that he came to rest in, and then firmly stay, harassing the tree until the bird moved off. At this point he might get bored, run to his owner for a little chat, until a bird of such gorgeousness, ripe for a bit of chasing, would catch his eye, and he'd be off again. I spoke to his owner,
"At least he's got ambition."
"Saves throwing a bleedin' ball, Mate!"