I've remedied my harsh immersion into this culture of brevity by starting a MILLION blogs. Why I didn't just come back to LJ is a mystery to me but, I suspect, has something to do with the fact that no one reads my posts on here. Of course, no one reads my million other blogs either because I FAIL AT INTERNET POPULARITY. Also, somewhere along the way, I learned how to type in all caps for comic emphasis. I am forever changed by youth culture.
Anyway, on to the story. So, Sunday we went to the beach. Twice. The first trip was mostly uneventful and full of frustration because everyone else in New England decided that that day would be great for going to the beach in Maine. We went through three beaches and, on the verge of giving up and going home, just happened upon a small, mostly uninhabited (by comparison) beach where we frolicked in the waves all afternoon. When we moved up here, we entertained fantasies of spending every summer weekend at the beach, and possibly every evening as well. We live only 20 minutes from the water so it was totally within the realm of possibility to imagine ourselves as surfing beach bums. Mother Nature, however, or Global Warming (which ever deity you choose to believe in), had other plans and has made it rain for two months straight. TWO MONTHS. And it has been in the 50s and 60s the entire time. Until Sunday, that is.
Dogs, unfortunately, are not allowed on the beach during business hours in the summer months. This makes us sad because our lives would be complete if only our large-headed beagle could sleep next to us on the sand. We decided to go home and get him after 5 and then take him to the beach so he, too, could enjoy the sun and surf. So we did just that, hurried home to get him and then took him to the closest beach, confident in the belief that it would be far less crowded than it was five hours before.
By the time we got there, the tide was in and, at this particular beach, it comes right up to the rock retaining wall. When you walk down the stairs to the beach, you step right into the water and, were it not for the waves pulling back periodically, you would have no idea how deep that water is. We marched down the stairs, dog trotting beside us on the stairs, until he caught sight of the water. He did everything in his power to keep us from going any farther, locking his legs, doing somersaults, threatening to poop in our shoes when we weren't looking. Remy picked him up to carry him through the water to a small portion of beach that was exempt from the high tide and, as he did so, the dog air-paddled with his paws the entire way. You know, just in case the water touched him and he suddenly had to swim for his life, he'd have a running start. Once on solid ground, Argos (the dog) did his damnedest to stay as far from the water as possible. In an effort to help acclimate him to the water, I picked him up and carried him out until I was waist deep. Somehow, a silent call was made that only little children can hear because I was beset on all sides by kids wanting to pet him which, under the circumstances, just made him more anxious (And what were they doing that far out in the water?! Where were their parents?!). A wave dared to leap up and touch the tip of his tail and he FLIPPED THE FUCK OUT, scaring the kids and me, as well. Thus ended our water adventure.
Finally, dejected and depressed that our dreams of playing in the ocean with our dog were destroyed, we went to the observation deck and took a seat on the benches looking out on the water. The dog refused to come near the edge out of fear that one of the waves crashing against the deck would reach out a cold, clammy arm and grab him. We tucked him between us but he jumped as each wave broke and trembled between and so, eventually, we gave up completely and went home.
Remy is of the opinion that, if we force him into the water every chance we get, he'll eventually get used to it. I'm of the opinion that, if we do that, we'll be paying for doggie therapy for the rest of his life.