A few weeks back, I can't remember precisely when, my four-legged little buddy Simon and me set out on one of his extended daily walks. Nothing out of the ordinary here, no big deal.

We headed for the shores of Moses Lake, as we often do since we moved here about a year ago. During our walks, the beagle seeks both periodic relief and smells he usually cannot find within the confines of our apartment. For me, it's just exercise.

On this particular day, however, we both got a lot more than we expected.

As we headed down the steep and dusty trail to the lake's edge, we could see and hear a great deal of water splashing and riparian brush crashing. Naturally, our simple minds began searching for an explanation. We both drew blanks in our feeble attempt to match the phenomenon with our various experiences. Either that or Simon was letting me work it out for myself.

Sure, we'd stumbled upon the unexpected before.

For example, an abandoned pair of underwear, or two, lying alongside a wooded trail. That has always seemed strange to me. How does one lose one's underwear in the forest?

Like a couple of cagey old police detectives we are often able to find clues, connect a few dots and to our own satisfaction, ascertain the truth.

With clues in short supply on this day, though, we neared the lake. The shoreline commotion became more pronounced. We noticed the day's fishermen going about their business, unaffected, their fishing poles propped against branches or rocks and their lines stretching over the turbulent shallows.

Perhaps the fishermen were too busy adjusting their lawn chairs, gulping beer or asking the smaller fisherman to stop throwing rocks, but they didn't seem to notice what appeared to be small crocodiles wrestling at their feet.

While maintaining a rather ordinary daily regimen of sleeping, eating and farting, Simon occasionally demonstrates his aptitude for peaceful diplomacy and public relations.

So, with my leashed ambassador leading the way, we approached the fishermen and asked them about the "pygmy crocs," as we were now referring to them.

"Those are carp," one resident sportsman answered, then offering Simon some spicy potato chips.

He explained they were spawning.

For Simon and me, moving to Moses Lake is our first exposure to carp. We had no idea they're such romantic creatures.

During this annual romantic interlude, some of the carp's fellow lake denizens became casualties, especially numerous catfish who were now floating "yellow" belly up.

A few carp had also lost their lives in the unpleasantness and were decomposing on the shore.

I came to the conclusion this is a very ugly fish. Simon offered no judgment.

I was assured some people eat carp. They know how to cook these bottom-feeding, goldfish-sucker-looking hybrids.

We decided we had enough of the unpleasantness and continued on our walk home.

Nevertheless, we returned the next day. It was all over. The water and shore weeds were calm again. The carp were seen cruising the shallow waters, but were no longer breaking brush, thrashing around and crowding each other against the shore.

We looked around for signs of reproductive activity, but found none.

Since that day, I have been broaching the topic of carp spawning in polite company. Simon and me, we're impressed. It made for a great walk.

If nothing else, it beats finding another abandoned pair of underwear.

David Cole is the Columbia Basin Herald's county reporter.