THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, June 5, 1996 TAG: 9606050029
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Larry Maddry
LENGTH: 63 lines
IT'S SUMMERTIME and, brother, does my dog Mabel dig the beach.
Literally. I have never seen a dog more intent on finding oil, water or whatever in the sand.
Mabel's a cocker spaniel. The dog's not much larger than a big loaf of bread with legs. But she can move more sand than a Corps of Engineers dredge.
People tend to like Mabel. She's a sandy cocker with floppy ears. And friendly - wagging her tail at just about everybody.
But once we hit the beach, spread the blanket, set up the chair, and open the umbrella, there's a complete personality change. She is a dog with a mission.
Her eyes narrow. Her black lips pull back, exposing clenched teeth. She goes to work with a vengeance, front legs pumping like pistons, her paws raise clouds of sand that exit between between splayed back legs.
Mabel usually digs a hole about 2 feet deep. At the end all you can see is sand flying out of the hole. Sometimes she goes down to almost 3 feet, but can go no further because the shower of sand flying between her back feet cannot clear the side of the hole.
Once her hole is finished, she flops inside it to cool off. Lies there about a minute or two, resting, chin propped on crossed paws.
Then she begins to make a whimpering sound in her throat very much like the one she makes when she has a fresh chew bone and is vexed because she cannot dig her way into the mattress beneath the covers to bury it.
So, Mabel hops out of the hole, shakes the sand from her back and ears and starts a new hole. On days when the weather is mild, we sometimes stay on the beach all afternoon. By that time, there are so many holes surrounding my collapsible chair that the beach looks like a combat zone or the lunar surface. Holes everywhere you look.
We both leave the beach exhausted - Mabel from having moved enough sand to fill one of those monster sand traps at the Pebble Beach course and me from protecting myself from the sand Mabel throws back.
I make it a practice to always carry a copy of The Virginian-Pilot. I know our newspaper has its faults and we make mistakes from time to time, but if there is a better way to deflect sand hurled from between a dog's legs than with an opened newspaper, I'd like to know it. A television can't do half the job and a radio is utterly useless.
However, Mabel sometimes showers sand in the direction of strangers sprawled on blankets or seated in chairs around us. Most of them have the good sense to move to another location once Mabel begins to dig.
But sometimes an indignant man wearing white socks in his sandals will storm over and demand: ``Can't you do something about that dog?''
The answer is no, of course. But that won't satisfy such people. I have found that lying is the best policy.
I tell the man that I could do something about the dog, but refuse to because of her terminal condition.
``We're not from here,'' I explain. ``We have been flown here from a mountain hollow near Blowing Rock, N.C., by the Make-A-Wish Foundation. My poor dog here is dying of arthritis. Only a few days to live, you know. And her last wish was to come to a beach and dig. I just don't have the heart to tell her to stop. Why don't you go over there and do it.''
Sometimes, after I have toppled over backward into the hole that Mabel has dug behind my chair, a stranger will come over to ask: ``Why does that dog dig so many holes?''
Now that's a fair question. And Lordy, don't I wish I knew. by CNB