Howdy could see their mouths hanging open on shore - the sense that something amazing had happened.
He felt like, for once in his life, he got noticed. He was a throwaway dog in a former life. Many lifetimes ago.
They were clapping, laughing, running towards him.
And the surf dog shook it all off – the time and the tides and cold water and heavy thoughts he used to drag around - with a full-body side-swiper back-n-forth salt- water-in-flight slow-motion of the ocean notion.
He trotted off down the beach.
Dog Beach - his home beach. Cross roads of all breeds and all creeds. Dogs and their people and surfers and seniors and families with kids and lawn chairs and floating umbrellas and Frisbees and lots of dog-butt sniffing, too. Tattoo viewing. Yes, he knew what tats were, even though a dog shouldn’t.
His new mom finally swam in from the ocean, walking back up the beach to join him. She was panting, exhausted, dog-tired. He’d surfed; she’d swam. She’d paddled the two of them together out past the break, then hung back when he took off on board.
Now she was laughing and running toward him. She scooped him up and held him upside down, on his back, cradling him in her arms like a tiny puppy. Even though he was a big, manly surf dog, he didn’t try to wriggle out, or break free. Like old Howdy would have.
Because this was their most secret, sacred moment - her giving him the gift and him, stepping up. Believing.
He was big and small, young and old, man and dog, crazy and chillin,’ happy-sad, all at the same time.
He'd never needed anyone in his whole life before that moment.
He just let her coo and kiss him.
He totally deserved it!
Right then and there - he was King of Dog Beach.
And then hoards of people came running up, laughing and chatting and cheering them on.
“Whoa- what a good dog!”
"How’d he learn to do that?"
"How long did it take to teach him?"
"His wetsuit says Howdy – is that his name?"
His dog friends that rode the same wave he did, were just swimming in. Sopping wet dogs. Dragging, drowny dogs. They’d fallen off that beast of a wave. The one he rode all the way in.
Big Rich, the overweight boxer with a big, loud bark and this whole. I’m the Big Man body language. Even though he wasn't.
And Hookipa, the hot-babe golden retriever with a white, bright smile. And a big fancy pedigree. Born and bred for water, not like land-hunting low-rider basset hounds.
Not like him – not like Howdy.
He was so not your typical water dog.
With a low-man physique – short basset hound legs.
A long-board basset hound back.
And extra-wide UGG-boot feet. Toes splayed out in the sand. On a surfboard.
Grip it and rip it.
So maybe basset hounds were really bred for surfing after all – not just for hunting.
Maybe the whole low-rider-surf-dog-custom-basset-hound-specialty- package wasn’t just an accident.
And somehow this dog - adopted, rejected, returned to the pound, the 3-time rescue mutt, least likely to succeed - had shown everyone else, all water dogs and would-be surfers and gnarly surf dudes and beach breeds, how to get ‘er done. How surf dogs roll.
A stray, a mongrel, a runaway, an “incorrigible pet,” according to those judgey people he used to know.
A basset, a born “sinker" – like short boards that sink into water.
But here, now, a “floater” - a long boarder, riding with style and pizazz.
And with a whole lot of genetically engineered basset hound pride and stubbornness.
Which, when you think about it, is the most important secret to surfing waves of any kind.
He was maybe three years old, still in his first year of surfing. After riding out a couple of lifetimes already, all former failures.
