Turtblu
not ready to go yet
If there is a paradise for dogs, it surely lies at the water’s edge. There is such a diversity of diversions to be had there. Waves to chase and nip at, birds to flush, scents to follow, foul-smelling things cast up by the water to roll in, and sticks. Oh, the sticks alone make the water’s edge a canine heaven. Such a medley of sizes and shapes, such a range of textures and tastes, such a rich assortment of choices. Knobby chunks of driftwood, smooth as the nap of a coonhound’s ear. Ribs of old boats, stove in and washed ashore. Storm-shattered limbs and branches, bark-rough, torn from the stunted scrub trees.
Every dog becomes a pup at the water’s edge. No dog easily gives that up. They must be led reluctantly to the car. When they arrive home, satisfied and exhausted, they fall into the deepest and most profound levels of sleep. And they dream of the water’s edge. The cry of the birds, the sound of water lapping, the endless store of sticks and sticks and sticks.
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