#23 PUPPY --Scooter's First Real Cruise Aboard PineAweigh
SCOOTER’S FIRST REAL CRUISE — DAY THREE, Saturday, July 11, 2020
SEE DAVE RUN!
SEE BARB RUN!
HEAR DAVID SCREAMING his dog’s name!
HEAR BARB SCREAMING the same!
SEE SCOOTER, leash flying free behind him, running wild in Blake Island’s massive meadow, the island with a strict “dogs on leash and leash attached to human hand” rule.
SCOOOOOT-ER! STOP! Yell Dave and Barb to no avail.
But first, a “Cruise—Day One” story before I finish the Scooter and a Swoop of Swallows story.
It began with luck. Late on a Thursday afternoon, we squeezed PineAweigh’s 44-feet into the last 45-feet available among four chock-full Blake Island docks. We are not the only boaters who love this wooded island with deep trails wrapping through old growth trees, a massive meadow with meandering deer, a variety of things that fly, masked critters that creep through shore rocks at low tide and creep to boats to steal food at anytime, and extended beaches worthy of advertising, yet where often I am the only person seen on the shore. We line-tied to the inconvenient wooden bull rail, plugged into convenient electrical power, remove Scooter’s PFD, and praised his amazing show of boatsmanship. We had barely settled before the pup assumed a position of power on the dock side of our cockpit (see below), a back porch perch from which to preside over all that occurs on the dock a few feet below.
“Wait! Who’s that?” Scooter scolded, jumping up, and lunging at the railing that marked his boat boundary. “Who’s that” was a woman walking her Golden retriever puppy by our boat, a woman well-startled by snarling Scooter. I charged out from the boat’s interior.
“Bad!” I blurted, bringing the bossy boy in with a bold scolding. Let me say here, by day three, the Day of Swallows, Scooter agreed that barking at passersby was prohibited. By day three, dogs and people moved freely under his quiet gaze. With regal wiggling, he welcomed the stream of visitors that stopped to visit him. He’s proving to be a very good boat dog.
However ~ on Day One, after a well-scolded Scooter was tucked into his crate for a short time-out, I walked across the dock to the large Seattle boat where the mistress of the Golden retriever stood chatting with a friend visiting from a boat on different dock.
“I’d like to apologize for Scooter’s startling you,” I said when a break in their conversation allowed. I said little more before the woman assured me that it wasn’t a problem. She was raising a pup. She understood. We were relaxing, she and I, sharing dog stories when her silver-haired, slender friend faced me, scowled from his lofty height and with a tone soaked in moral authority and chastisement, deigned to advise:
“Better do something about that.”
I was taken aback. Actually, I was ticked. What a dork. I wished by Day Three the man had still been around. I would be willing to rub his nose in Scooter’s sublime silence. Well, maybe not Day Three.
Let me summarize. For those of you who know Scooter, you won’t be surprised: he LOVES the boat. He LOVES those who people the docks. He absolutely LOVES the beach. He LOVES seeing raccoons. OH! OH! LOOK AT THAT!” he says, standing up on his hind feet, lunging on the leash. LET ME AT IT, WHATEVER IT IS!
But back to Day Three
“Swallows swim the sky,” I wrote in the PineAweigh log.
Scooter LOVED the Swallows, and the Swallows loved teasing this swift pup. He moved fast but they moved faster. He wanted to catch one and ran like crazy in the effort. The swallows played puppy tag, swooping past his nose, sky-diving, teasing both head and tail of the four-legged creature snapping sudden turns in an effort to own one.
We found this exercise fun. We didn’t discourage the limited pursuit — until Day Three when in one of his G-force forays, I lost my grip on the leash. He was off!
Scooter was a streak across the massive meadow. He was playing in a field loaded with opportunity, he was running with the fastest fliers known to bird-dom.
“SCOOTER !!! STOP!”
We, his people, ran wild circles, covering the entire meadow, trying to intercept Scooter’s swift swallow pursuit, we lunged, grabbed for his leash as he leaned in, shoulder close to the ground like a motorcyclist doing 110mph on mountain curves. He needed a helmet. We yelled every major command Scooter has mastered. Scooter existed in a deafened dimension. Scooter cared not at all that a Very Strict Leash Law governs the island. We could be expelled for such unleashed exuberance.
Ten minutes? Not a minute less. Three hours? It felt like that before intrepid David took a flying leap and to his own surprise (Scooter’s for sure), caught the culprit’s leash and halted the forward motion.
“What?!” was the expression worn by the pup. “Why stop? Don’t you see those things? Give me ten more minutes— I’ll have one for us to examine.”
“Better do something about that.”
Scooter’s Cockpit Position of Power
