A Dog’s Life

by Joplin King (Scott not Janice)

&

 Jen King

            Camping.  Sounds pretty harmless doesn’t it.  Not a little word like bath with it’s impending ring of soggy, tropical scented doom.  Not a big word like veterinarian.  You know that can’t be good if they’re making it sound like fun. “Want to go to the puppy doctor?”they say.  Hell no!  That guy never did anything good for me.  Go in feeling fine, come out having been pinched, punctured and poked in places even I can’t lick.  No, it’s just a normal, everyday, medium sized word.  Sometimes those are the scariest.

            I have always appreciated the finer things in life.  In summer, it’s  a good nights sleep on my puppy posturepedic in the cool garage followed by early morning rub down, a long stretch, and breakfast served on the patio.  During the winter, I prefer to sleep in on the couch in the den.  It has always been my job to watch the house and I am no doubt an expert at my advanced age.  I go from room to room making sure all the good places to take a nap are as they should be.  I survey the yard and make sure the squirrels and neighborhood cats haven’t turned into party animals.  (Sometimes they can get pretty out of hand, hanging off of the bird feeders.)  All in all, it’s a pretty comfortable life.  So I ask you, why would anyone do this thing called camping?

            Let me tell you what I know about camping.  First, everyone scurries around packing things into the car.  It’s not a small car, but if you should see what they call “my spot”  by the time they’ve loaded it all.  Then we get in the car and drive away from it all: comfortable beds, favorite nap spots, regular meals, and walks by the river.  Only people could do this.  Have you ever seen a dog voluntarily leave home to slum it? 

            My most recent and, from what I have been hearing from my bunk in the van, not my last camping trip was just this last weekend.  It was the 4th of July.  A holiday celebrated by people playing with alcohol and explosives after they have gorged themselves on something barbequed.  (“There is always room for God’s creatures, right next to the mashed potatoes!” is the saying inn our house.)  So, we went to the beach.  Or so I thought.

            Now, I am close to ninety-six in dog years so I’m no spring chicken.  I take my glucosamine and my rimadil for my arthritis and try to just enjoy life these days.   The beach means soft sand, warm sun, and surf to frolic in and maybe a kelp to whip around just for the heck of it.  Not this beach.  This beach was at the bottom of a mountain and we were at the top.  (Hey, the view was great from there and all us dogs were just lying around with our tongues hanging out, watching the people who were watching the whales and napping in the sun.)

            I never suspected that we were going to walk a mile out the bluff and down, down, down the mountain.  But we did.  I did.  My feet did.  My hips did.  My back did.  I made it to the beach and there I sat.  For a long, long, long time.  So long in fact that they were contemplating how they were going to get me back up.  I would have howled with laughter if I had had the energy to move.  No dog in their right mind would take good old mom for a two mile hike down a cliff in winds of 40 mph without expecting to carry her back up.  So they did.  Carry me back up that is.   All the way to the top.  When you get right down to it, people are pretty loyal even if they aren’t all that smart or easy to train.

            They are learning though.  I heard them talking on the way home about our next camping trip.  They are looking for more sun, less wind, shorter walks to the beach, for me, and a yurt with a covered porch so I can have a nap in the shade. 

            You know, camping may not be such a scary word after all.