Discovering Wisdom in a Wagging Tail

“TICK!”  I charged at Bob like a battering ram.

“Stop squirming!” he said, picking the tick off me.

“I have no feeling in my legs!” I screamed and threw myself on the couch.

“That’s not Lyme disease,” he said.

“I can’t see out of my right eye.”

“It was on your belt, for God’s sake. Do you have to act like this?”

“My therapist says it’s genetic.”

Last week we took our slide-on truck camper to Sandy Neck Beach on Cape Cod Bay. This commonly sighted Cape contraption is basically a pick-up truck with a metal camping unit on it’s back. We rugged plover-friendly pioneers camp on the beach, where we have to settle for battery TVs and a bathroom the size of a meatball.

The rangers, who think they have a lot of other things to do, require we bring shovels. That way, they don’t spend their entire lives shlepping out after us wacky campers (with way too much time on our hands) who get stuck in the sand.

We found a lovely spot in a picturesque cloud of greenhead flies. Gracie, confirming that canines do in fact, smile, was ecstatic.

At night, with the windows cranked open, allowing fresh sea breezes and mildew spores to waft throughout the camper, we’re lulled by the music of the waves. Inevitably, during the sultry nights, thoughts turn to one thing.

“Bob,” I said softly.

He opened his beautiful blue eyes. Moonlight graced his hair.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“There’s a tick on my rear end.”

He turned over.

I pulled out the 50,000 watt search light I keep under my pillow next to the hatchet (you never know) and shined it in his face. “If you don’t get it off  me, I’m going to snip your ponytail in your sleep, which would actually thrill my mother.”

“It’s the same mole I’ve checked a million times.”

I twisted around. “It’s got legs.”

“You’re a bonehead.”

Sleep was tough after that. This ‘music of the waves’ malarkey became a water-torturous drone.

Then came the knocking.

Gracie, ever vigilant, stopped snoring and hid behind me.

“Who’s there?”  I grabbed the hatchet.

“It’s us!”  We opened the door to five giddy rangers, all with cigars, hugging each other and giggling.

“They’ve hatched!”  I was handed a Polaroid of three baby plovers.

“This one has your eyes,” I said.

“It’s a miracle!” they all cried out.

“And all campers have to move,” one added quietly. Then he got choked up and took out a Kleenex. “I’m emotionally drained. Nothing prepares you for this.”  He sniffled and blew his nose.

Bob said, “Mazel tov!” and shook their hands. Collective curses  emanated from all the campers as we moved down the beach.

The following morning, we fried bacon and eggs over a campfire. I learned from Gracie an important lesson that day.

We finished our luscious breakfast, then walked about three miles, avoiding the sandpipers lest they get angry at us for making them move. Gracie wasn’t thinking about anything I usually do. . . did I lock the door . . . will we have money for estimated taxes . . . how will my mammogram go? 

What would have been the point in asking those questions at a time like this? 

I grabbed her leash and we took off, racing along the ankle-deep water’s edge. Her stride so sure and outstretched that consecutive arches of seafoam were cast up behind her. On her face was one heck of a giant grin. She was there, in the moment. Captivated in her joy.

And I realized, after I reminded myself as I often need to do, so was I.