We spent Thanksgiving on the beach with Debra’s family. For me, there’s nothing more wonderful than that – family, sand, good food, and seashells. Tons and tons of seashells. I could probably trade in the good food for enough seashells, washed up horseshoe crabs, and long walks to pick up driftwood with my dog.
We’re treasure hunters, he and I. At seven, the puppy energy is ebbing and he can roam off leash, coming back at a whistle. He rambles into the softer sand above the high tide line searching for fish heads and other delectable things while I stick nearer to the water, at least at first. We don’t set off to walk miles but we do. First, there’s an interesting shell a few yards away. Then, what’s that on that dune? Down to that sea turtle or shredded tire (we’ve seen both) and just a little further to that thing sticking out of the sand past the last house in the row. By then the sun is setting or the wind is picking up and we wind our way home, seeing our tracks sunken and half washed away.
My dad lost his dog on Friday. Not lost, of course, though that has happened with dogs past. Sam had bone cancer, suddenly discovered, and while he was in many ways hard to live with, he wandered with my dad that way Moses wanders with me. Dogs don’t often complain so we don’t always get to prepare to lose them. I’m sad for him.
There are plenty of other things to be said about our trip. Certain topics for discussion include santa desensitization, small houses and big people, and the skill of saying grace. For now though, think of dogs and oceans and the fact that I had pie for breakfast every morning all week.