How to Bore the Dog

November 2009, Cape Cod, MA

We have been staying in North Truro, MA, for three full days now and though we are hardly in full vacation mode with show-readying, art-making and blackberry buzzing, there has been some down time. One thing I always forget is to factor weather when planning work and play. The best laid plans...yesterday had unexpected rain and the wind has been fierce enough to wake us throughout the night,cottage rocking to its core. Today, when the sun broke through for a good while and the wind died down enough for the crashing waves not to drown out all outdoor conversation, I was unprepared. This was inconvenient! I had THINGS to do, self-important things! I had already had my BIG walk on the beach in the early morning, getting a good look at what the full moon tide and wind had washed ashore, sure I was quite clever, ahead of today's predicted rain and all. I can be so smug.

Now there is Rosie there are BIG walks and small walks, the former designed to somehow finally wear her out and the latter for the usual doggy business. Small walks are still a good distance and the desired activity happens in direct proportion to how hurried the human feels. I am very sure Rosie senses this and withholds poop just for the pleasure of the manipulation...ah, but I personify.

Beach walks after stormy weather are thrilling but very sad, too. I did not photograph the two dead sea birds I found in the morning, one clearly beached alive and recently (or not quite) deceased. I did not have to be a crime scene investigator to figure out abandoned fishing gear and other tangled lines are deadly to far more than the fish, and the trash that floats ashore is shameful. I wanted to apologize somehow to the curious seal who shadowed the dog and me in our early morning solitude. It was poking its head impossibly high out of the churning waves to see what we might be up to. For a while I picked up and pocketed wayward deflated or partially deflated balloons, deadly to sea turtles who mistake them for the jellyfish they consume for food, but my pockets could hold no more. Rosie was as excited as I was by a washed-up, dead, pure blue lobster, as well as a huge dozen-fingered finger sponge. To her they were not potential art or decoration materials, just playthings that interested her because they interested me. With a few playful doggy tosses they were art for the beach alone, no longer worthy of my carry home.

Later in the day Rosie continually updated me on the weather. Sunshine and a change in wind made the outdoors appealing, but I did my best to ignore her. (The Royal Pup is being indulged in her every whim this first visit of her's to the Cape, and I keep trying to put her back in the the dog's place, no help from Donna.) The dog relentlessly picked up and dropped toys, stood still at the door, beseeching me with just her eyes and her eyebrows wiggling, head cocked side to side...she all but leashed herself up and headed out. Finally the call outdoors could not be ignored. Donna, back from my list of errands for her, joined us, and we decided this rare November sun and quiet deserved another beach-combing trip. Donna herded Rosie and I filled a bag with small driftwood for various projects, then proceeded to haul another two pieces larger than me with my bag (and a bag of poop) up the 80 steps to the cottage. Two even larger pieces of wood still lay on the beach, squirreled away from the tide as best as I could manage. Within the first hours of our arrival I had already claimed a tree too large to transport without the tailgate open and day two had me digging out the gorgeous sea-dashed roots of another giant driftwood. I figure if we have to put TWO on top of the car to ride home, why not FOUR or SIX? That is what rope and tie-down rails are for! I may be as indulged as the dog is in this area...Donna shakes her head and laughs and lifts her end as I run/walk my treasures to the aptly named Ford Escape.

For those who shared or know of our journey through 2008 and my surgeries and such, these beach forays are a miracle for me. Eleven months after my back surgery I take as many trips up and down the dunes as I like, and walk for miles with less pain than I have had since 2004. It was hard to keep believing, in the thick of things, that healing was possible and real freedom awaited me. Twice in the past few weeks I have wanted to call my surgeons...once to ask if this relentless cold and rainy weather will always feel this way and once to ask permission to jog. Yep. Jog. Didn't call, just did it. The moment, and a pup, kind of demanded it. Although I am also quite sure, with no phone call needed, I will be able to continue to predict oncoming low pressure with some creaks and groans. Not much different than an average Joe or Jayne who is turning 48. This time last year I didn't go anywhere off road and traversed only the smoothest terrain with the help of a cane. The goddess is great, memsahib.

If I had not been standing, waiting for a good photo op, looking at the moon, I would not have run into our lovely cottage neighbor Mary. After several years of coming here same week we have just discovered that we are both birders, and she thrilled me with news of a sighting of greater yellow-legs she had in Wellfleet and I confirmed her assessment of the poor dead northern gannets. Now I know what she saw at the Nature Conservancy site we will have to go see too. Turned out we had all been chasing the moon since sundown. Full-fledged nature geeks.

The waves crash and the moon rises, again and again, despite human worry or folly, and we are grateful witnesses.