Greetings, Friends!
Having just come back from summer camp in Northern Minnesota, I finally understand why they call them the "dog days" of summer. It's not because of the heat (the average summer temp up there's around 60 degrees); it's because of the dogs.
The absence of our beloved German shepherd, Axle, who died earlier this year, was felt all around. We did, however, bring our 26-pound cat, Fred. It was Fred's first trip to summer camp, and he was a hit with children and adults alike. As a city cat, he was blithely unaware of the dangers lurking in the wilderness, so I lugged him out to the field to supervise his first forays into nature. (Bald eagles dwell around the lake, so I wasn't taking any chances, though it would probably take a pterodactyl to heft his substantial bulk.)
Fred had a swell time eating grass, rolling in dirt, then throwing up the aforementioned grass, but this summer really belonged to the dogs. It's always amusing to see the motley pack waiting outside the dining hall for their owners. There are five labs (chocolate, black and yellow); a bearded collie (Wrigley); two dachshunds (Mimi and Landis); a pug from St. Paul named Murphy; and Gilly, a border collie who'd like you to throw something for her -- a ball, a stick, a pinecone, a clump of dirt … anything, really … PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, THROW SOMETHING!
Murphy, the pug, is a city-bred critter like fat Fred; he had a few mishaps this season, including stumbling into a wasps' nest, tumbling from a dock and spraining his leg, and nearly foundering himself on hot dogs, funnel cake and whipped cream after the summer carnival and pie-throwing contest. His owners weren't sure if it was possible to overdose on carny food, but it was touch-and-go there for a few days, with Murphy lying around on his side, grunting.
For his part, Wrigley, the bearded collie, didn't care for the air horn that announced the annual canoe regatta. Not much of a swimmer when it came to retrieving balls from the lake, the Wrigster nevertheless decided to go for it on regatta day and paddle across the lake to the mainland, an incredible journey for man or beast. His owners called and called for him all that night and the next morning, with mounting despair; just as they were trudging despondently back to their cabin thinking they'd never see Wrigley again, he came bounding up behind them from the woods. Meanwhile, a woman from the mainland called to say she'd just seen a dog jump into the lake and swim toward camp. She was hoping it was one of ours. There's been talk of awarding Wrigley a swim medal.
When I wasn't on ball-throwing duty, I helped make some signs and restore an old painting of an indian chief that had been pooped on by bats for 30 years. He looks pretty good now (from far away, at least).
It was a pleasure to get away from computers and cell phones, eat carb-loaded meals, read, look at the clouds and wander around taking in the goings-on of dogs (and my fellow campers, of course). Fred, meanwhile, is glad to be home. You can take the cat out of the city, but ... I hope YOUR summer has gone swimmingly. See you on the road this fall!
Cheers,
Alice