That’s the question we’re fielding on the dog beach. Memories are long there. They go way back. As far as last summer, anyway, when studio dog Indi got her reputation as “the foot dog”.

Fair enough. There was nothing nuanced about her behaviour. At every beach visit, she’d sidle silently up to the first barefoot stranger foolish enough to be standing still, and fix their feet at rudely close range with a kind of maniacal stare. No chit chat, no blinking. For a really long time.

A few people took umbrage at this creepy ritual and walked carefully backwards, not daring to take their eyes off her, defiantly reclaiming their personal space. But most just looked quizzically around for a human who might explain. Not me, obviously. I have no clue where that dog’s head is at.

So it’s started again. The sun has returned to South Beach, people have sloughed off their footwear, and Indi’s deeply mysterious fixation – more or less dormant over the winter months – has been reawakened. ‘Foot fetish’ is all I can offer people by way of apology. ‘Oh,’ they say. ‘Odd.’

Every day. For a really long time. This will be summer.

I do look forward to the next time she encounters someone in flippers. That seemed to throw her off her stride when it happened this week. She stared intently as usual for a few seconds, but then looked around anxiously as if to recalibrate. No toes. The spell was broken. She scurried away like she’d encountered something really, seriously weird on the beach. Something that didn’t bear further interrogation.

Quite.