Prose Page

Clamoring for the Calamity of Clams
I have a day job. I work at the animal hospital. I help people with too much money scrimp and pinch, and the people with no money spend it all. After all, what could be more precious than your pampered pet, or someone else's abandoned critter they didn't bother to take care of? That's my job: to keep the ball rolling, to keep the money coming in, and keep the tourists bringing their pets back. If one person, after bringing their sick cat to us, comes back with their dog on the next vacation, that means I did what I was supposed to do. This town depends on people with a little bit extra leaving that little extra here so we can spread it around in our little getaway. If the third of our kite shops goes under, so do all four employees, their families, their landlords, maybe the ice cream shop next door, and on and on. We all depend on each other more than we'd like to admit, and it's kind of nice sometimes. I'm friends with the tellers at Anchor Bank, the Taqueria owner and cook knows what I eat for lunch, and our MdDonalds provides competitive employment.
I moved here because of a big, empty house available for squatting. I had lost my job in California, and this is the kind of place people run to: a crazy mix of scummy trailers and posh retirement. Some people spend their entire working lives saving to be able to relax out here at "the beach". Others relax prematurely on unemployment or disability. And we're all remote together: disgusted and delighted and home.
How does somewhere like this happen? How does an amazing natural realm become the clammers' haven? They come out in droves on rainy, weatherful, dark weekends to dig around in the sand and then maybe eat something that looks like like slugs. And they love it! I shake my head, take their money, and eat my leftover sandwich while they leave happily, a trail of broken shells in the sand. During the week, sunsets are watercolors of bliss and the woods smell mossy and ancient. Deer stroll through town at midday, pheasants pick from bird feeders, and otters compete with bald eagles for salmon spawn. Some recent move-ins complained that someone was stealing their newly-planted expensive trees. The locals laughed and pointed at the canal's family of beavers. Blackberries, huckleberries, wild apples and strawberries, mushrooms, salal, and once in a while, tiny sweet dewberries find their way into my oh-so-seventies era kitchen. I can't resist the cornucopia of free stuff that's just sitting around outside. And the old-timers laugh all their way to the food bank.
I haven't remodeled the house: first, because that would cost money, and second, nobody else has so far. The thick, rust-colored carpet is worn nearly bare in patches, and extends (unfortunately) even into the bathroom. The kitchen floor is gold and rust linoleum. The house's original appliances are all either brown or wood-paneled - even the dishwasher, and custom-built countertops, strong enough to stand on, are a solid, dark orange. Evidence of quality is everywhere, such that if I did remodel, I'd just have to find a neutral color scheme to complement the orange. And the windows! Eight picture windows turn the whole west side of the house into a seascape and dunescape. With the exception of the neighbors' new deck, nothing human-made interrupts the wind-stirred blues, greens, browns, reds, and myriad other shades that make up this vista. If the carpets didn't stink, I might think this place was a dream. On the plus side, I don't have to care if the dog comes in wet or muddy, which is a near-daily occurence because of the inviting creek just beyond a row of dunes.

Neil and Some Dog Psychology
I bundle in layers and mittens to walk the dog to our beach. The wind whistles deftly, Arctic fresh, to whip snatches of hair from my braid and slap the sides of my face. Neil trots along, ears pricked, eyes sharp, dog-smile out in the open. Dune grass rustles and rattles and ticks as I make my way by. Ducks, geese, and Harry the heron explode into terrified flight as I approach their islanded creek. If the otters are out, they watch the dog peripherally and pretend we're not important. Sand crunches along the path, and Neil pants in joy as he follows at heel to his retrieving grounds and waters. He used to live in darkness, locked in an attic. His sob story on Petfinder.com convinced me to drive to Canada to rescue the big black mutt. They said his dream life would include never being alone, getting to run outside, and swimming every day. Welcome to the family, Neil - the Big Deal!
He teaches me to be firm, to be consistent, something the cats just weren't equipped to do. He has to earn every privilege: coming indoors, going outdoors, having the leash off. As a former biter (the humiliating truth) he can't be allowed to get away with anything. He doesn't jump up. He always comes back when called. If I follow all the rules, my dog is a model citizen. If I forget the rules, his teeth remind me quickly. I don't often forget.
Neil lives for praise. To be called "good boy" is his rapture. Each earned privilege is something to take cautiously. With each new thing, he looks to me for approval. He tried for months to keep from me his awful, shameful secret: that he bit people. When he finally did draw blood, I barely had to discipline him at all; he was humiliated. Each time he snarls and shows his teeth, it's with less fury and more embarrassment. Sometimes he cries afterwards. Sometimes he goes to his time-out dark bathroom all by himself. He knows, and he's ashamed. The first time I let him sleep in the bedroom, he was so afraid I'd make him leave that he squirreled and squirmed under the bed and hid all night.
Every week, I take Neil down to the local shelter to play with our "other pack". He doesn't interact with them much, just shows off his super-fast retrieving and pretends not to notice how they try to be as good, as cool, or as obedient as he is. Since I've taken Neil, the other dogs have respond to commands. They learn to come, sit, wait, and drop it - so well that today a pup surprised me by sitting at the door and waiting to be invited in. I'd only shown her once, but she'd watched the other dogs and figured it out. Every so often, I think there is hope for shelter dogs. Then I'll find out one of them doesn't have a collar on because "if you take him by the collar, he bites you". Then I curse creatively and put that dog in a harness.