Twilight of the Chihuahua
I took a two hour walk on Ocean Beach last night. The opportunity was right, with the new moon's very low tide and the last late twilight before daylight savings. Today, it's pouring rain, so I'm glad I went out. Low tide at sunset is my favorite beach time: I always walk as far toward the ocean as possible, right along the edge of the water line, and then run like a kid toward the safety of the beach if a wave forces me back.
As usual, the few additional people out on the beach so late were with their dogs, and all the dogs had a grand old time chasing balls, the waves, and each other. Strangely, at the bottom of the cliffs below Fort Funston, a steam shovel was digging up heaps of wet sand beside one of the drainage tunnels. I couldn't imagine how the thing had gotten there: certainly not directly down the steep cliffs. Where would it go at high tide? And why was it working so frantically at 7:30 on a Saturday night? Perhaps to repair the drains before the rains hit? Regardless, it made an odd contrast to all of the dogs running up and down the beach--especially when a chihuahua, dragging a leash and wrapped in a bright orange jacket, stopped short and began barking at it, as if commanding it to stop. The owners called, but the dog ignored them. So the owners sent their other dog, a borzoi mix, to take care of business. The borzoi strolled over, picked up the leash in its mouth, and led the still-yapping chihuahua away authoritatively enough that I almost expected the steam shovel to follow, too.
The semester is kicking my ass: no time to read or write or walk on the beach since September. So now I'm trying to reverse that, with the beach walk for starters. All I have left to (re)gain is my sanity.
As usual, the few additional people out on the beach so late were with their dogs, and all the dogs had a grand old time chasing balls, the waves, and each other. Strangely, at the bottom of the cliffs below Fort Funston, a steam shovel was digging up heaps of wet sand beside one of the drainage tunnels. I couldn't imagine how the thing had gotten there: certainly not directly down the steep cliffs. Where would it go at high tide? And why was it working so frantically at 7:30 on a Saturday night? Perhaps to repair the drains before the rains hit? Regardless, it made an odd contrast to all of the dogs running up and down the beach--especially when a chihuahua, dragging a leash and wrapped in a bright orange jacket, stopped short and began barking at it, as if commanding it to stop. The owners called, but the dog ignored them. So the owners sent their other dog, a borzoi mix, to take care of business. The borzoi strolled over, picked up the leash in its mouth, and led the still-yapping chihuahua away authoritatively enough that I almost expected the steam shovel to follow, too.
The semester is kicking my ass: no time to read or write or walk on the beach since September. So now I'm trying to reverse that, with the beach walk for starters. All I have left to (re)gain is my sanity.