We took Emma to “secret beach” when she was eight weeks old. To get there, you have to consult the tide charts, to make sure the beach will still exist when you arrive. You must also time your trip between winter storms since heavy rains destroy the path down. If you do manage to make it down the steep, muddy path, you find yourself at the edge of a cliff looking at a frayed rope ladder tied to a rusty metal stake hammered into a rock. Some days I decide that I am quite content to stay at the top of the ladder and admire the view. Other days, I grit my teeth and go all the way down. The entire contraption creaks under your weight, twisting and swinging side to side as you gingerly descend the rest of the way to the sand.
Adding a squirming puppy to this mix makes a bad idea even worse. My husband grimly strapped Emma, in her doggy duffel bag, to his back and secured the bag with his belt. One careful rung at time, they made it safely to the bottom. When we unzipped the bag, Emma popped out and raced around, out of her mind with joy. She chased bits of seaweed blown by the wind. She got wet and rolled in the sand, completely coating herself, a shake ‘n bake dog.
When she was tired of nibbling abalone shells, she dug a giant hole and rested the front half of her body inside. From the back, all you could see was a pair of hind legs splayed out like a spatchcocked chicken. “It’s a good thing you are a beach dog,” I told her. “You wouldn’t be very happy in this family otherwise.” She peered over the rim of the hole and locked eyes with me as if to say, “I ate some rotting shellfish. That may be a problem later.”
