Dog days on Cape Cod — Falstaff takes a trip
Falstaff dons his straw hat and his sunscreen.
My person has just made this mechanical thing she calls a car pull in next to a tiny little house. It is eerily quiet, unlike my hoppin’ home in Boston, and I can’t imagine what this is all about. We’ve been in the car for an eternity, me staring out the rolled-down window in the back, occasionally letting my position known with an annoying whine, and she staring straight ahead as if she were getting ready to pounce on something. At this juncture, she is very excited and is saying, “Falstaff, blah, blah, our, blah, blah, inside, blah, blah, treats.” I get that last word and mosey on in.
I look around and hope she doesn’t notice that three-quarters of this house are gone. There’s a bed — jump up on that — not too bad; there’s that room with the big water bowl — have a sip (“No, Falstaff, not That water”) — whatever; oh, and what’s that — the place where food is kept and I smell cheese. Well, that’s what really matters. She throws me a treat and opens a door into another room, only this room is outside. “Blah, blah, your deck,” she says and smiles. The wooden floor is warm. Not too shabby.
Well, I’m ready for a nap after that long car ride but my person is pulling things out of her bag thing, clipping something to her pants, grabbing treats (!), and my leash. It appears this is only a short stop and she pushes me back toward the car. The air is different here, moist and salty and fishy. I like it. As we drive, it gets moister and saltier and fishier. This time, when I step out of the car, I step on something that tickles my feet and sinks in between my toes. I try to shake it off. It’s a persistent little sucker. I have misgivings — I seem to be sinking in it as I walk. I pull back but here is where the problem with a prong collar comes in — my person can control me wherever I go. I don’t hold a grudge but it means I have to trust her a heck of a lot.
After a few feet, I realize I’m not going to be swallowed up and walk happily ahead. Maybe I can claim this unmarked territory for my own — but wait, what’s that? Another dog has been at this log, a male Schnauzer, 5 years old, who just ate a hamburger. Darn. Well, here, I’ll just cover that up… She walks on, toward the big bluish object making lots of noise. She seems very excited to show me this — “Come, Falstaff, blah, blah, blah, cold water, blah, blah, sea.” See?
Yes, I see as she pushes my bum into the water which can’t decided whether to stick on the sinking stuff or go back to the huge bluish thing. It’s Cold! What’s the point? I look up at her.
She’s staring out, looking very thoughtful like humans do when they want you to think they are deep, patting my head. I realize now this is some sort of big moment for us; that we’re connecting somehow. I look out again and see a vastness. I imagine she is wondering where it goes. I am wondering when I’m getting my next treat and, like a telepathic miracle, she hands me a cookie. We both turn and walk away, happy by the sea.
