Meet writer dogs. Rider dogs. Best dog friends. Surf the couch, the www, or a wave. Wave back at us!
It's all about the ride. The ride of life with a dog.
Doodle on the nose and our new rescue pup behind him, six days after adoption. Doodle has his eye on a stick, as usual. Photo (c) Barb Ayers DogDiary.org
A new rescue pup, a chiweenie, adopts us on Mother's Day.. He mastered a surf board faster than all four generations of low rider rescue dogs before him.
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Click on photos for links to related stories. Dude, Ayers family surf basset #3 and Elvis, surf basset #2, were taught by #1 Howdy Doody, to surf on land and sea. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org, Surf Dog Diaries
Excerpt from the secret Surf Dog Diaries book in progress
Recap from part 1:
Warm sand. Bare feet. Bare paws. Bare back. A sea of umbrellas and beach chairs, towels and tattoos. I smell a warm meatball sandwich by a dude in the sand.
Dogs dart around in circles, this way and that - chasing freedom and Frisbees and dog butts and fuzzy yellow-green balls.
Blue skies and ocean smelling breeze and all those brilliant rays of light and life. A smile grows wide from deep inside.
Click on photos for links to related stories. Elvis, first step son of Howdy, of Surf Dog Diaries. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org
I'm a surf dog. Surf basset Howdy Doody, more specifically. I’m rolling up on all fours at my home turf, Dog Beach, in OB - Ocean Beach, San Diego. The first leash-free beach in the US.
I’m thinking, I’m going for it.
We wade into the ocean, my mom and I. We jump on a board and head out, toward the magic and the mystery of the surf break.
I’m standing up, hanging twenty toes on the nose of the surfboard, all basset hound manliness in front. A surf dog hood ornament.
Click on photos for links to related stories. Surf doxie Doodle, named after Howdy Doody, is Surf Dog Diaries' Gen-x, 4th generation Ayers family surf dog. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org
Mom’s in back, paddling out. She’s a person, not nearly as efficient as us surf dogs. She paddles lying down, with hands, not paws. Giggling and making all those funny sounds. Words so cute, but I’ve no idea what she’s talking about.
Bright sun warms your back. Dog hairs swirl around, weightless, like dancing kelp as we go deeper.
I'm thinking.... Here she comes - a big, gnarly wave, barreling right at you.
And whoa- next thing you know, we’re up, and riding.
Surfing the ups and downs of life.
Part 2:
Looking up, looking over – I’m thinking…
Wooo HOOOOO! Surf dog Howdy Doody here! The Big Kahuna.
And right over there, down the wave, were two of my very best buds – a bulldog and a golden retriever. Both standing up with me, at the very same time, at the very same beach on their very own boards. And it was magic. There's no greater gift in life than sharing this moment with friends.
It was an incredibly long ride – ocean curls just kept coming up behind and chasing me, changing me. Waves pushing a little bit left, up toward where the San Diego River empties into the ocean, and the sea wall between OB and Mission Beach.
Then the surf changed and pushed back to the right – toward the OB pier. Ocean was playin’ with me. Teasing and testing me. Could I stay on when she tried to throw me off? I’d been thrown off before so many times. Mostly on land, with humans.
And with a light step, that wasn’t normally my way, and that basset hound dogged determination, we’d made it to this place and the wave was there – the test – and I rode it with everything I had. Everything I’d learned. From the rescue dog ride of life.
And Mom had been there, helping, every step of the way. Together, we were one.
Number One!
Click on photos for links to related stories. Surf bassets Elvis n Dude n friends. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org
Into the wave, on his own, riding the wave like one of the big boyz.
She’d paddled him out through the break, picked out the wave, paddled him into it, then slipped off behind and gave the board a huge shove at the critical moment, to launch him into the curl.
She got him his wave, his moment - and then she knew enough to let him go it alone. How’d she know that?
Seemed like hours and days passed - surfing suspended all time, all rational thought and all other feelings. That one-with-nature moment lasted forever.
That same wave that threatened to drown you, gave you pride and hope and peace and joy - the thrill of a lifetime – all, in under a minute.
It makes you want to race right back out after wave #1, for one more who-knows-what’s-gonna-happen-next Dog Beach ride of life.
All the way from outside the surf zone, back through breaking waves toward the beach, through indigo, to blue water and white water, to ankle biters, to bubbles, to shore. The fin of the board dragged up in sand. Howdy stepped off in ankle deep water.
Top dog style.
He smiled a big, toothy grin. Maybe it was there the whole time, for the whole ride. Who knows.
He felt like a king. King of the beach.
And together as one breed, dog and man - surf dogs all - we say or howl, bark
or sing...
Waaa-Roooooooooo.
Surf is UP!
Howdy rode solo in surf - here, with a cool dude at the Dog Beach Sandy Claws fundraiser. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org Click on photos for links to related stories
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 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.
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.
Surf dogs on vacation. Elvis n Dude apres surfing in Baja. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org
Before he found Her, the surfer, Mom #3.
Third time’s a charm.
Howdy and me, surfing on the Colorado River, circa 2002. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org
She wasn’t really #3, She was the Only One.
And he was Her One and Only.
Finally, they'd brought each other home.
Dog Diarians Doodle 'n Tia hard at work in bed. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org
Oregon winter - a nonstop deluge of dreary grey skies. Downward dog days. Sometimes we slow down, go inside like nature intended. When fireplace is your closest friend.
Dog 'n cat curled up together in bed. The new 2-dog night after we lost our old dog besties - the basset brothers Dude and Elvis.
RIP Dude, soul surfer. Photo: (c) barb Ayers, DogDairy.org
A year ago this week, we lost Dude in Snowmeggadon. Last winter was too much for him, the strong yet fragile one. It was all too much for the rest of us.
I can’t stop thinking about him now and how much I learned about plucky perseverance from his mighty dog soul, facing so many challenges in his 13.5 years (that's 95 for you dogs.)
Blind dog. Pirate surf dog. Cancer dog. Doggie Alzheimer’s. Grace and dignity. That was our Dude.
Doodle n Tia by the fire. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDairy.org
Lap dogs Doodle and Tia. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDairy.org
Tia and Doodle – burrowing under covers. Unwilling besties – not quite bffs, but it’s a start.
Same weight, 16 pounds each – she, the behemoth fatty catty and he, the doxie diminutive. Lion and lamb. Not sure who the lamb is….
Same overwhelming personality – no shrinking Violet’s here. Jockeying for, muscling out – Olympic trials for the best spot on her lap.
Oh that’s right – it’s me. My lap, my kiddos.
It came up, growing like a bad seed, out of nowhere, around Christmas. My deepest, Darkest Fear. We need to get that growth removed.
Remembering tumors of the past, the cancer and the surgeries. Why is it that dogs get sick, anyway? It's so not fair. I’m not ready for that yet.
No more medically fragile years for any of us, for a number of years, I hope. Doodle is a young dog.
OK, well, now that I think about it, he's technically middle aged - 45 in dog years. But don't tell him that. Or the part about the tumor, please.
SUP pup day in winter - pares paddling!! Me and my Doodle. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDairy.org
At the same time - saving grace - a raucous celebration! His 6th birthday – or really 6th anniversary of adoption day - tomorrow…. 1/22/12 was the big day.
Wow, I just did the math. Six years ago this week, I adopted Doodle. And a year ago this week, we lost Dude on 1/20/17.
What’s the saying... “when a door closes, a window opens.”
Speaking of windows - there they are. At the window, quail, hunting for seed left under the bird feeder in our Mosier front yard.
My Mosier. The Twin Tunnels trail looking west through the Columbia River Gorge. That's Chicken Charlie's Island on the right. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDairy.org
Small town living. Our small town - Mosier, OR. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDairy.org
The fleeting quail family visit– so quick to arrive – so flighty. I can't live without them, but clearly they can take us or leave me.
Their visit is reassuring. Everything is OK. The coo announces their arrival – Big Man Quail Leader Dude, calling his tight knit family of 17.
They sneak in, under cover, materializing as if beamed up from the Starship Enterprise, from the few plants in the yard that still have leaves. They hurry, scurry, to their Leader Dude.
Selfishly, I leave seed where I can peak at them. They refuse to have their photo taken, try as I might for the last 10 years.
They commute the same paths, most every day from above our house through our yard, then off to the neighbor’s yard for another sneak peak viewing.
Ear flaps up, ready for take off. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDairy.org
Fleeting friend sunshine comes out when you least expect her - HOOOOOORAYYY!!!!!
Load up the board, quick, let’s hit the river before Ma Nature changes her mind! Bundle up SUP pup; we’re in our warmest wetsuits and vests. Double leashes, just in case, though neither of us has any intention of falling in.
Double Doodle reflections on the Columbia - Wells Island. Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDairy.org
Savor and celebrate the gift – a quick slice of sun, ever elusive. Not like that place we used to live, where all you had was ridiculous sunshine. Maybe more upward dogs live there today? I can just hear my old San Diego friends snickering.
Here, water is 45, air maybe 50. At most. And that’s ridiculously warm for Oregon.
And still, we love her to the depths of our souls. Her raw nature, her forest majesty. Her small town experience. Old soul, Oregon.
Tia, my 2nd "dog." Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDairy.org
Seriously now – you’re missing Snowmeggadon today, too? No way! I’m afraid to say that out loud. We’re bruised after last winter’s storms, but be careful what you wish for.
Looks like spring green has come early – hills are not barren and brown - Hooray! But … pay now or pay later. Remember last fall’s Eagle Creek Fire. And the year before, a drought emergency.
As an Emergency Manager (aka Disaster Girl,) I worry about Ma Nature sometimes.
Syncline rainbow in our Mosier front yard. Photo (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org
No endless downward dogging allowed.