Beach Dogs

Dogs live the sweet life, don’t they? Always concerned with their pursuit of pleasure, they exemplify the “appreciate the small stuff” mentality that I crave. But which dogs have the best life of all? Beach dogs.

Sitting on a beach clears my head more than anything else I can think of. I love to go out early before the crowds appear, when it is still quiet and there are more seagulls than people. Something about the raw energy of the waves wipes everything away – the petty stresses of everyday life, the monotony of our daily routines – and makes me prioritize and refocus.

A dog on the beach is almost redundant, the ultimate pleasure-seeker in the ultimate cathartic location. And you can’t help but feel happy watching a dog on the beach. They jump in the waves, roll in the sand, lie in the shade of beach umbrellas. They don’t have stressful lives to forget.

This week a couple down the beach from us brought their boxer and a football. The man and woman threw the ball back and forth, the dog running after it each time, until one of them finally missed and the dog grabbed it in her mouth. She ran probably 50 yards before the man caught her and they both ran back into the water. Later they brought out a white ball just for her, and she swam far out into the waves to retrieve it every time. I wasn’t as relaxed watching this – I never am – I’m always afraid they’ll throw the ball too far and the dog won’t be able to swim back. The dog always looks so helpless, a tiny head holding strong above the rough water, appearing between breaking waves until it can finally stand again, shake off, and chase the ball out again.

In Hawaii a few years ago, I watched a dog play catch with the ocean, unaided by any human. The dog sat on a section of beach that rose higher than the water, creating a slope to the waves. The dog sat atop its little hill, released his ball from his mouth, and it rolled down the sand until the waves brought it back to him again. He did this over and over while I watched from my little area on the sand. Smart dog.

George didn’t get to go to the beach with us this week – instead he stayed at our vet where we were promised by a lady in scrubs that he would get to go outside 6-8 times per day. But a few years ago, we did take George to the beach for a day. We left early in the morning and drove to Laguna, had about six hours and lunch on the beach, had dinner at an outdoor place, then drove home. It was fun seeing George experience the beach. He loved being out and sniffing all the smells, but he could have cared less about the ocean itself. He got his feet wet but didn’t care to get in the waves like other dogs. Maybe we should have demonstrated? George’s favorite part of the day was lying on a beach chair under our umbrella. Of course he didn’t lie on the sand – he wanted the chair. Smart dog.

This week we resume our normal lives, but I hope to keep a bit of the beach vibe with me as long as possible. I’ll print out some vacation photos, wear a seashell necklace, and give George an extra pat on the head as he looks up at me expectantly. After all, he is a beach bum at heart. All dogs are, don’t you think?

George, a.k.a. Lassie

George knows that if he barks, it gets things done. Most commonly he barks when he can’t reach the rawhide bone he has hidden in the couch cushions or the toy that fell behind the end table.

But George has learned that his bark can do much more. Okay, don’t get your hopes up. It’s not like he alerts us to danger or barks to let us know someone is in trouble. Instead, he knows he can use his barking to his advantage.

George barks when he needs to go outside. Over time, though, we learned that he just stands by the door (and stares at us) when he needs to go out, so we tend to jump right up and open the door when we see him. Therefore, over time he learned that he can manipulate us that way. If we are sitting at the table eating, he will wait by the back door until we get up and fiddle with the lock, and then he runs to our now-empty chair and tries to get our food. Sometimes he doesn’t even care about the food – he just sits there in the chair as if to say, “Hello – where is MY spot at the table?”

Many times at night when we’re upstairs watching TV, we’ll hear George barking downstairs, and when it looks like he won’t stop, we go downstairs to see what he wants. It used to be that he wanted his bone that he couldn’t reach, but lately the bone IS in his reach; he just wants us to get it for him. Kind of like a baby who throws his toy on the floor just to create a game of watching the parent pick it up over and over.

But recently we noticed that George has a new demand. The other night we heard him whimpering and whining, and it continued until I got up to see where he was. I went to the top of the stairs and looked down in the darkness; then I flipped on the light switch. Immediately his whining stopped and he ran upstairs, past me, and joined Lance on the couch. He had been waiting for the stairwell light to be turned on. He’s done that several times since then, and we can’t figure out why he suddenly decided he doesn’t like dark stairs. But I don’t really blame him – I don’t go up stairs in the dark, either.

Encounters

Going to the dog park, and sitting at Starbucks as often as we do, presents George and me with many opportunities to happen upon interesting people. And this week we had three interesting encounters.

At the table next to us at Starbucks early in the week, a girl and her grandfather sat waiting for a meeting. The girl, in her early twenties, was dressed in business attire, her hair smartly styled, and the grandpa wore a t-shirt and baseball cap. I typed at my computer and tried to act like I wasn’t paying any attention, but I noticed that there was an important vibe to their Starbucks visit that day. And sure enough, soon a young man came in the door, dressed in a tan military uniform, and they introduced themselves and sat together at the table. I listened while she told the recruiter all about her background, including a story about wanting to be a dentist since she was five years old. Every now and then the grandpa interjected with an anecdote from his military days, sometimes which related to the conversation but most often did not. The interview ended, they all shook hands, and after they left I sat and wondered what would become of this girl whose important moment I had witnessed, but who I would never see again. Her enthusiasm for her future put me in a good mood.

Later in the week I happened to speak to a man at the dog park whose dog was named Cowboy. Cowboy may look like a normal Yorkie, but in fact he is a seasoned traveler with his own passport. He and his owner will be going to Italy for a few months, and I couldn’t help but be envious of Cowboy, who has been to the Caribbean twice already. Now that I think about it, he did strut around the dog park with an air of self-importance.

The third encounter happened at home instead of at the park or Starbucks. One morning George followed me to the front door when I planned to walk outside and get the mail. I opened the door, and about two feet in front of me, hovering motionless in the air at chest-height, was a hummingbird, staring straight at us. He stayed in that spot for about 20 seconds, just looking at us, as if he had been waiting there for us to come out and play. I love encounters with nature.

I think a week that includes a caring Grandpa, a motivated young woman, a Globe-trotting Yorkie, and a feisty hummingbird is pretty good, don’t you?

The Other Side of the Fence

One morning this week I sat alone with George in the shade of the small-dog section of the dog park and was entertained by ten people and dogs on the large-dog side. Often when I go to the park – usually in the morning or daytime – we are the only pair on the small-dog side, while there are always many dogs on the large side of the fence, no matter what the time of day.

Why is this? Are most small-dog owners too lazy to take their dogs to the park? Or too busy? The only time the small-dog side is full is around 7pm, so does this mean small- dog owners work and large-dog owners are unemployed? Do large-dog owners care more for their dogs and devote more time to them? I just don’t understand why I’m usually alone on my side while there’s a party going on just yards away.

In my years at the park, I’ve noticed a few traits of large-dog people versus small-dog owners. I have never seen anyone dressed up on the large-dog side. They’re used to roughhousing with their pooches and come ready to play. In contrast, on the small-dog side I saw a woman in heels and beige slacks who caused a scene when a dog jumped on her. Do small-dog owners tend to be prissy, Paris Hilton-types who buy dogs as accessories?

Large-dog owners are never prissy. They’re ready for possible fights to break out and know to monitor their dogs’ behavior. They bring long ball-throwing devices so they can throw the balls clear across the park for their pooches. They drive SUV’s with huge tires, sit together in the sun, and know each others’ names.

Small-dog owners can be loners and often sit away from the group with a book or cup of coffee. They dress their dogs in clothes (George has a t-shirt that says “Dog Park Security”) and hate it when their dogs smell like dogs.

Large-dog owners are loud. One woman this week was standing at least fifty feet away from me, and I could hear every single word she said. So now I know that the woman in the flannel shirt with the German Shepherd is unemployed, hates illegal immigrants, and prefers Del Taco over Taco Bell.

I have taken George in the large side before, usually when we’re on the way to the groomer, since I know he’ll get slobbered on over there. I’ve always been immediately greeted by the big-dog people and feel we are somehow elevated in their opinions by coming to their side. (Being there means George is butch enough to handle the big dogs!)

But we don’t stay long. I wouldn’t know what to do if a fight broke out, and I don’t want to get slobbered on, myself. I guess I am a prissy small-dog owner after all.

And that’s okay with me. But I have to admit that the large-dog people sure look like they’re having fun! I’ll have to break the boundaries more often – go to the other side of the fence, and get to know the other side.

Purple Velvet?

This week, Vegas days have been warm, sunny, open-all-the-windows weather – perfect for a trip to the park (except for a few days of wind and dust that kept us indoors). As George and I walked back to the car one day, my attention was drawn to an elderly man in a tan newsboy hat who had a shaggy brown dog at his side. He walked from the parking lot and motioned for his dog to jump onto one of the concrete pilings that line the sidewalk every four feet or so. After obediently jumping onto the first one, the dog turned to the man who stood silently by him. Then with a wave of his master’s hand, the dog jumped onto the next concrete block, and then onto the next one. Down the length of the walkway they went, the man silently motioning the dog to jump ahead, then back a few, and forward again in a sort of choreographed jumping dance.

By this time, everyone on the path had stopped to watch the show. Jumping from one concrete block to the next wasn’t easy; the blocks were only about eighteen inches wide, and he’d wobbily balance himself after each jump while keeping his eye on the man in the tan hat.

At the end of the path the dog was commanded to jump onto a huge landscaping boulder, which he did, and then he teetered on top while the man gave a “stay” command. Then the man turned his back and just walked away. And walked. Twenty feet. Forty feet. The dog just sat and watched the retreating plaid shirt. The crowd near me began to marvel at this dog’s poise. After walking over sixty yards away without even one glance back, the man finally turned and gave a hand command, causing the dog to fly off the rock and run to his side. They walked away around the bend of the path and out of sight.

I thought about the man as I drove home afterward. It was obvious that he did this for attention, and he reminded me of Ralph, an 80-year-old man with flowing white hair who often showed up for my shows at the Venetian when I worked there as an opera singer a few years ago. Ralph came to at least two shows a week in complete Renaissance attire – from his embroidered jacket down to his colored tights. My coworkers thought he was crazy, but I talked to him and he seemed to be harmless as he sat in the audience in his costume, swaying and clapping to the music.

On the days I worked at the Paris Hotel, there was another man who came into the casino at least once a week with his dog, Happy. Happy was a smaller version of George, and he sat quietly in a stroller that was emblazoned with his name, allowing his elderly owner to push him through the casino and stop occasionally for the women who would ask to pet the cute dog.

I ran into Ralph in his costume at the Venetian the day after I first met Happy, and I happened to tell him about my conversation with the man who pushed his dog everywhere in a stroller. “Why do you think I do it?” Ralph asked me, gesturing to the green Renaissance costume he wore that day. Before I could reply, we were interrupted by a tourist family who asked him for a photo. I stood and watched Ralph smile and talk with the people before they headed off again.

Ralph’s blatant acknowledgement of why he wears his costumes was a relief to me. He wasn’t crazy - he was just an eccentric old man who liked attention and knew an easy way to get it. Just like the man with the dog in the stroller. And the man at the dog park whose dog performed tricks for passersby.

If I am lucky enough to get to “elderly” status, I wonder what I’ll do for camaraderie. Will I be lucky enough to have children who live nearby and drop by for visits? Will my husband still be with me to keep me company? Will I still have a social life to keep me busy?

Or if life doesn’t go according to plan, will I stay at home alone, or will I get out and demand attention? Honestly, I’d rather be eccentric than lonely. I can see myself in yards and yards of purple velvet…