PAINTING THE OCEAN: Must Love Dogs

This still-dark morning, I startle awake, hearing Kayla pace from my bed to the door and back. Judging from her near-frantic pacing, I realize I’ve not been conscious of her usual sedate tempo that begins a normal day.

Being forced to get up fast, find footwear, flip on the coffee machine, find a jacket, and trip over Kayla as she hastens me by being underfoot until I comply is not my favorite way of waking. I would rather wait for the sun! But she is on the clock. Sun or pelting rain, sky dark as night or bright as flowers in February, she will wake me at 6 a.m. I never tell dogsitters this.

We pad downstairs together, and I let her out into “the gulag,” as one neighbor calls it: a large concrete enclosure that came with the place. I wait for her on the porch, watching the sun bloom in the clear air. The porch faces west. I can see white herons leaving their roost and light filling up the sky, defining features of trees.

I hum anything that comes to mind, looking out at the made world. Trees are good listeners. They don’t shout over music, like people do in bars. The creek bordered by redwoods plays soft percussion. It’s been days since the big rains, so the runoff is slacking.

Once the dog and I are both back inside, I read the news and check my email, responding in more detail than any recipient really wants. The sun has fully risen before I consider taking Kayla to the beach. She and I hop in the truck and drive a few miles down to the February coast, the sky clean-aired and hopeful, cold enough for a hooded down jacket.

Even at the beach, people like to keep their distances in cold weather. Scattered singles and doubles pass without comment or head-nod this morning, except one man walking alone toward me along the tideline. He greets Kayla as enthusiastically as she greets him. The man smiles at me and says, “I hate dogs.”

I laugh, and we go our opposite ways. I could still turn back and shout something — we’re that close — but what? I could say, “Me, too! We both hate dogs!” Too late.

In the parking lot, I get in the truck with a few new hand-warmed beach stones, a prize piece of rounded aqua beach glass, and a driftwood stick that Kayla has clenched in her mouth and somehow can’t leave behind.

Margaret Kellermann concludes nearly 10 years at Senior News with this, her 118th and final column. Contact her at SN@humsenior.org.