I live with
a friendly woman near the ocean. Sometimes, she comes home from work and I can
tell that she had a stressful day. She collapses on the couch and mumbles
things I can’t make out. I wait for my treat and she barely notices me. That’s
when I know that I have to take her for a walk on the beach. I stand by the
door and make little whimpering sounds until she changes into her exercise
clothes and calls me to join her, as if it was her idea to go out.
When we get
to the beach, she likes to throw a ball in the air for me to catch. I don’t
know where she got the idea that I like to do this. I couldn’t care less about
her ball, but she seems happy when I find it, drop it at her feet, and pretend
that I want her to throw it again. Even when I am completely out of breath and
totally not into chasing it anymore.
I do it only
to make her happy, but the truth is that I can’t stand this stupid game. I’d
rather bark at squirrels or roll in coyote poop than run in the sand and get
wet. I'm a hunter, not a ball catcher. When we walk in the park, I sometimes find stuff to chew on, which freaks
her out, and sometimes I lift my leg and pee on a tree or a rock. But on the
beach, there are no trees to pee on, no squirrels to terrorize, and no poop.
Only little birds that fly away the second I bark at them, and a saliva-smothered
tennis ball that smells of perspiration.
Luckily she
uses a yellow ball, which I can see if it falls close enough, because my
eyesight is not as good as my sense of smell. And yellow is the color that I can see. But still, when she throws that ball too far, I am lost. It lands
somewhere on the sand and I can’t see it because from a distance, everything
looks the same. But she persists, “Go get it, go on,” and I resent that. I have
to look for the ball all over the place, and by the time I find it hiding under
a pile of seaweed, I am exhausted and demoralized.
And she
goes, “Yeepeetee-yeepeetee-something-something, good dog good dog.” I don’t
understand everything she says but the tone of her voice tells me that she is
happy that I’ve found her ball. Maybe she’ll give me a treat because I’m such a
wonderful dog who can find yellow balls in the sand, who knows.
But the game
of throwing things is not just about tennis balls.
The worst is
when she brings her non-yellow Frisbee. Whatever color humans call it, I can’t
see it, because I only see blue and green, some yellow and shades of gray. All the other colors
are wasted on me. But she thinks it’s cute to have me chase a plastic plate
that disappears as soon as it lands on the sand and doesn’t smell like anything.
I try to tell her, “Get a toy that is the same color as that tennis ball.
Something I can see against the sky, so I don’t have to embarrass myself
running in circles and finding nothing.” But my lady doesn’t speak dog very
well, and again I have to deal with her annoying toy, instead of chasing that cute Maltese that has just showed up on the beach.
She throws
the plastic disc and I have to pretend that I am soooo excited. I bolt out
and head toward a large log that was swept onto the beach during the last
storm. Maybe I can catch my breath behind it before she notices that I am gone. Maybe that Maltese will join me there and make this outing worthwhile.
But wait!
What’s that? The ocean has left me a gift. Behind the log, near some chewed up balls
that were lost on other dogs, lies the magnificent aged carcass of a sea lion.
It emits a nuanced aroma I have sniffed only in my wildest fantasies, complex
and multilayered and full of promise. A unique offering for the true
connoisseur that I am.
I bark at
the turkey vultures who stand nearby and think they can scare me, I sniff the decaying
mound of flesh, and rub my neck against the bloated creature. Ahhhh, the pleasure
of frolicking in the juices of a rotting sea lion cadaver is unbeatable. I sink
my shoulders and my back into a dark cavity…
And then I
hear her scream. “Shlumperrrrrr!”
Hallelujah!
No more chasing balls.
