Dashiell, one of my two 12-year-old English Cocker Spaniels, races toward the surf that’s higher that usual because of the prior day’s storm. He returns briefly to check in, then he’s gone. He chases birds. He dashes in and out of the water. He follows the receding waves along the long, flat sand shelf, oblivious that the waves will rush back and inevitably sweep him off his feet. I scream at him to return. Even if he hears me above the noise of the surf, I’m no match for the excitement. I can do nothing.
When his head disappears under a breaker, I start to run. In a matter of seconds that seem like forever, I see him paddling for shore. Undaunted, he hits the sand and races on, disregarding me completely.
He used to run with his brother but I’m taking no chances with Hoover, who could surprise me and revert to his old ways despite being blind. Sure enough, my usually mellow sniffy boy starts pulling me toward the water. I can’t remember the last time Hoover pulled on his leash.
Dashiell may miss his brother on this beach run but probably not, since sister Sophie, my black Aussie-Golden Retriever, now joins him. She’s just as daring, but larger and stronger, so I worry about her a little less. That’s not saying much.
As concerned as I am, their spirit, their total lack of fear and their pure joy inspire me. I realize how closely this beach jaunt parallels the writing process. Fear can hold us back to the point where we never dash into the fray. Conversely, we can choose to dive in without inhibition, go for broke and engage in fearless writing, confident in the knowledge that we will bob back up to the surface and keep paddling if and when we get bowled over.
Masterful — your prose had me–literally- on the edge of my seat over these dogs. Great insight!!
Thanks, Barb! I have to admit that there are mellower ways to enjoy the coast.