#60 PUPPY -- A DAY AT THE BEACH

Picture it. Scooter, snug in his thick winter coat, runs wide-legged and swift through soft sand, careening up to his elbows into the edge of ocean water that pretends containment, promises (wink, wink) never to consume the nearby house; house and dog seemingly safe. We love the gentle lapping sound ocean sings for us.

But really now, how can anything consider itself safe at the edge of something sneaking up with 187,000,000,000,000,000,000 gallons of water behind it, that has the capability of roaring, of swallowing things that crawl on its skin, and is able to build a whopping wall of itself when its depths have been disturbed?

“Lap” That’s cute, isn’t it? Our saying that about an ocean’s edge, “it laps.” That is like a rat saying the cheese in a trap is “resting.” Silly rat, silly us. But that is what I thought this body of water was doing there along the shore of Henderson Bay. That’s why Scooter could run into it, chase a goose toward it, and discover in his romp forward that the water will claim more of his body than elbows if he ventures one step further. He didn’t. He turned back to the sandy beach where walk the humans, and two new canine friends frolic.

“Tell them, Mom,” says Scooter this morning. “You’ve already wasted a day. Now you are wasting paragraphs talking about ocean water.”

“I’m on it, Scooter.”

“Doesn’t seem so,” he says, stretching his head across my keyboard. “Start at the car.”

“Okay. Get your head off my keyboard. And now your paw, please.”

“Start at the car.”

The story Scooter wants told won’t take long.

“It could, if you tell it right,” he said.

“Get your foot off my keyboard!”

The story: This past Saturday in March.

“Leash, halter off, Scooter,” I said. Scooter leapt from his car-seat to the back seat, to freedom.

Scooter Sublime is an urban boy. He lives in a six-storied apartment building. He is accustomed to elevators, stairs, carpet, and concrete. For three and a half years of life, even when he walks in the nearby wetlands, with few exceptions he is required to be leashed. And when he is leashed, if he sees a dog or dogs he does not know?

“Growl, Bark! Bark!” Strain at the leash, “Snarl Bark Bark!”

It is as if I hear him saying, “I’m serious mom, If I could be off this leash, I’d be there to tear that dog to shreds. Growl, bark, bark!” If you know Scooter, you know he owns a baritone voice that lies in wait deep in his furry body. It is formidable. (And you know he is fearful.)

“Get to the part . . .”

“I’m getting,” I said, pushing his body further from the computer.

So, Scooter leapt from the car, dashed to the path alongside our friend’s house, paralleling a lawn leading to the beach. I used the path. Scooter swept Z patterns across the lawn, each sweep closer to the beach anchored by downed driftwood, Adirondack chairs, and women waving to us from them.

“And then?”

“Get your foot off my keyboard.”

“I did have a great time on the beach,” Scooter said. “You even found a small agate. We took a very long walk. I chased geese and even got my chest wet. I found a ball! But all of that could be expected, right?”

“Right,” I said, pushing his paw off the computer’s keyboard.

“Get to the dénouement,” he said.

“You know that word?”

“Of course, I do.”

“You aren’t using it correctly,” I said.  “A dénouement is a plot’s resolution, after the climax. I think . . .”

“I think,” said Scooter, resolutely, “anyone who knows me will consider what you are about to write is our plot’s resolution even though hours at the beach followed.”

As I said, I walked the pebbled path, Scooter ran Zs down the lawn. Happy we were. Concerned, suddenly I was. Just let this happen, I thought. Just see what Scooter does. I continued walking but I watched.

A barrel of rust and a shot of dark chocolate charged toward Scooter from the beach. Happy these approaching dogs were. It’s time for a cliché: “Before I could bat an eye,” the barrel of rust and the shot of chocolate were at my boy, leaping, welcoming, offering inclusion. Another cliché for you: “Scooter stopped dead in his tracks.” He assessed the situation. He bowed in play. He sprung up, he leapt, he said thank you, he joined the pack, and bounded toward the beach.

Scooter’s paw parked on my keyboard. “You’re taking a class about wisdom,” said he.

“Right.”

“Wisdom is pretty much knowledge put into practice in beneficial ways, right?”

“Pretty much. Fair enough.”

“Well?” The paw withdrew. “You can write it. Off the leash, mom. Off the leash there is freedom for me to think for myself, to gather knowledge, to act in a beneficial way.”

“But . . .”

“I know,” he said. “Cars and motorcycles, coyotes, and city ordinances. I get it. There are rules and reasons for leashes. I get it. But you know me better now, don’t you? I came when you called me. I chose that. I set my own limits with the water. I didn’t jump up on people. Much. I made friends with a barrel of rust and a shot of chocolate. I was, you might admit, pretty awesome.”

“But you tried to roll is some smelly stuff, Scooter.” 

“I’m a dog, mom. Think about it.”