Socializing at the Beach

I go to the water’s edge for solitude, for meditation, for peace.

But my dog goes for the social life.

The beach on a wintry Sunday morning. All the humans are bundled in hats and scarves and parkas. We pass each other with a wordless nod, or no acknowledgement at all.

But the dogs don’t give a darn about the wide horizon and the lonely sky. None of this solitary meditation stuff for them. To them the cold wind is rich with fascinating smells–it’s like a newspaper gossip column, packed with juicy information about their colleagues and neighbors. There are big dogs, little dogs. Two greyhounds in plaid sweaters. A Pekingese with two-inch legs invisible under a mop of fur. An amiable St. Bernard. A grouchy black lab. A hundred and one different kinds of dogs–there’s even a couple of dalmatians. The canine crowd trot busily to and fro on the beach, total strangers greeting each other like long-lost brothers. They approach each other, wagging or bristling, sniff each other from head to tail, then gallop away in a scatter of sand with their new friend or enemy.

There’s a network of social life more complex than Facebook going on, as the oblivious humans trudge past each other.