!!!!!*****WORKING DRAFT*****!!!!!
Early Spring, another fat envelope from LA, another of what Mike called “Venice Stories”.
OUR DOG HAS MORE FRIENDS THAN WE DO
“Go get it, Buff. Come on boy, you’ve got it! OK, now bring it back!” April and I watched our 8 week-old Golden Retriever puppy, “Great White Buffalo”, pad into the water on giant paws, snatch a stick from the foam, and waddle hyperkinetically back up the sloping sand to our feet. He smiled crazily, having retrieved from water at his master’s command for the first time in his life.
“Geez, these guys must be bred for this – they do it naturally.”
“You’ve never done this before?”
“Well, just in the living room, you know, throwing that sock. But we’ve never trained him or anything, never given him a reward for fetching.” I marveled at the Darwinian strength of his instincts.
“Look at him,” April pointed. “He’s trying to swim!” This little guy had bug eyes as he tasted salt water. Madly dog paddling, he stayed one stroke ahead of a breaker with a stick the size of his leg clamped in his mouth.
……
Buff lives in our front yard, with his step mother Tasha, a Collie/Shepherd mix saved from the pound a year or two before we bought Buff purebred from a breeder in Diamond Bar. She’s smart and cautious where Buff is quick and reactive. They spend their days rooting amidst the weeds in the 10′ by 20′ patch of turf in front of our house, lazing on the porch when the sun got too hot. They live for our morning and evening walks down to the beach.
Our own little patch of sand stretches between two piles of rocks, one anchoring a storm drain outlet, the other a T-shaped jetty protecting the beach from northbound waves. Evenings, I open the gate to our little yard, and let the dogs trot down the sidewalk, tugging at leashes, to the open sand past the boardwalk. There, I free them from restraint, and Buff whips away towards the water like some alcohol-fueled funny car whose drag chute has failed to open. His tongue lurching out to one side, he rockets straight over the sand, front and rear paws working like horizontal pistons – first spread out front and far behind, then rammed all four together underneath. Tasha, the lady, has a more stately entrance to the water. While Buff bounds first on his front feet, and then his rear, she works each side in tandem. I almost expect her to prance along with her tail in the air like some Disney poodle or Aristocat.
Buff never has figured out that he can’t chase a stick until I get there. To kill time and cool his jets while waiting for me to catch up, he’ll hit the water and do a quick 180, catching his tail in the languid pools left over from the waves. He’ll throw his snout down into the wet sand, and jump up like a bare back bronc trying to buck a rodeo cowboy. Finally, Tasha and I amble up and I heft the stick I’d brought along.
Living in Venice, and spending the rest of my time in a hospital or on the freeway, I don’t have easy access to trees, alive or dead. So I had grabbed a two by two one day from a construction site, about two feet long, and saved it by the door as Buff’s fetching stick. I’d skim it over the water, trying to land it past the breakers’ peaks. As soon as my arm goes back for the fling, Buff runs until the water hits his chest. Then he jumps up a bit, and paddles out to sea, hoping to spy the flying stick over his head while keeping spray out of his eyes. (He’s so eager to fetch, I can easily fool him four or five times in a row with a fake toss, if I want some cheap amusement.) No matter where I threw, he’ll reach the stick within a second or two after it leaves my hand; turning as he grabs, he swims, then runs back to my side, simultaneously dropping the stick at my feet and soaking my legs with his shake. Then he’ll sit down, tongue lolling, and give me that Golden idiot grin while panting heavily, waiting for me to throw again.
He’s tireless. My arm will give out long before he ever does. Ten, twenty, thirty times in a row – he never quits out, always wants more. A regular canine boomerang.
Tasha is more genteel, of course. While Buff is swimming himself to exhaustion, she taps along the edge of the foam, taking care never to let the water get above her ankles. She’ll race in and out as the waves break and fall, running a zig-zag along the squishy waterlogged sand, barking encouragingly while Buff does all the work.
When I get tired, April and I walk from one rock wall to the other and back. We link arms behind each other’s back, lock hips side-by-side, and synchronize our steps to sway together. If we time it right, and the wind and smog cooperate, we hit my favorite time of night, that magic light a half hour before sunset.
When the sun angles low over the northwest, and the air is scooped clean by a passing winter storm, the beach becomes electric. Each facet of the cups in the choppy water shows a different side to the light, yet a rhythmic regularity comes out of the bobbing wavelets. Not yet the dullness of sunset, and no longer the harshness of the fading afternoon, the light is both softened and sharpened. In the distance, the horizon shimmers at its jagged junction with the sky. The sun is changing from white to yellow. Reflections coming off the serrated surface of the sea hit the eye like a thousand crystal prisms shining in my face. And the sand, now starting to dampen up from the invading evening fog, catches each and every aspect of the light show, transforming into a purely psychedelic backdrop for the whole affair.
The sand, while shimmering back at us, gives up its heat absorbed throughout the day. Lazy waves, their washing sounds surrounding us like a silk headdress, a swaying walk with April, dogs lapping at our sides, light coming at us like a fireworks show seen through closed eyelids, cocooning warmth of sand contrasting with the cool wet mush beneath our bare feet – evenings like that with my little family on the beach at Venice seems the center of the world, a place from which all life could emanate.
And a place you’d never want to leave. But the secret of Southern California nights, even in the summer, is the air gets cool as the sun goes down. Unlike the Midwest, a thousand miles from any cooling ocean, the beach at night can turn downright chilly. Forget your sweater, ignore your jacket, insist on shorts, and goose bumps crawl up your legs like an army of pinching spiders, pulling your skin tight before the shakes start up. So we’d tramp back home, pull up the latch on our front gate, pet the dogs one last time on the porch steps, and move inside for an evening of home life.
……
Sometimes we’ll go down to the boardwalk without the dogs, and they’ll moan a bit, jumping up to get their front paws on the five foot high edge of the solid wood fence surrounding our yard. We give them a pet or two, and turn away. Coming back, we might see from the end of the walk a stranger, talking softly and petting Buff, or saying “hi” to Tasha (she was more reserved, and wouldn’t come to the fence for just anyone). This gave us the idea to announce Buff’s birthday to his friends. We put up a little sign, saying “Wish Buff Happy Birthday (He’s 1 today!).”
“This dog is so cool! He’s just the friendliest pup. I always bring him something when I come by. He seems to love biscuits.” A lanky long-hair smiled up at me when I came out on the porch to gather the morning sunshine before going to work. He leaned over the fence and scratched Buff, who was standing on his hind legs, leaning against the top rail of the fence. He clearly knew this guy. “Yep, this feller’s my friend. He and I talk every day. Maybe I should get him a present or something. What’s he like?”
“Well, he probably likes being petted as much as anything.”
All day, April said, people stopped by and said “Hi” to Buff. Street people, suited people, sandeled people, hippies, surfers, guys, gals, old folks, kids, cops and robbers. Hardly anybody we knew, though. Buff had a secret life he carried on while we were away at work. We only got him for those morning and evening walks down to the beach, but his fans got him all the rest of the time. He had so much love, though, we never knew the difference. He’s very easy to share.
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