A Winter's Morning

It was 26 this morning; no doubt colder with the wind chill. Another day in the “mild winter” world of Charleston. As usual, Mojo came over for a “visit” to my side of the bed about 7:45 -- you can count on it -- and it doesn’t take a psychic to know what was on his mind. With his head resting on the bed and those soft brown eyes forlornly looking up at me, he was wondering if this, at last, might be a beach day. Lately, it’s been so damn cold in the morning that going to the beach with him just wasn’t an option I was so terribly interested in. I mean, who wants to subject themselves to wind chills of 13 degrees on a windswept terrain that is disturbingly lunar in its personality, devoid of life but for the occasional passing pelican? But, this morning I reacted differently. Mojo is headed for knee surgery in two weeks, his second in 9 months. For three months following that, there will be no beach time for him at all. Just house arrest and rehab. How could I say no?

I bundled myself up in more layers than the best lasagna; a veritable Pillsbury dough boy was I. Or, maybe the Michelin Man. I thought it would take a crane to get my coat over the last of my fleeces, but I managed to waddle to the door like a sumo wrestler and took a wagging Mojo with me. He was naked, naturally. And, very excited.

Pulling me as if we were about to be overtaken by a maniac bear, Mojo and I reached the beach in near record time. As is our ritual, he sat patiently while I got his leash unhooked and then waited for me to give him two pats on his side whereupon he launches like a rocket. Eat my dust. As I walked on to the sand, I immediately noticed that the sand was frozen! As crunchy underfoot as a graham cracker crust. The sun was bright, if not warm, and the wind blew the few errant particles of sand like whirling dervishes across the desert. Seeing that I was the only game in town, Mojo returned halfway from the water’s edge to urge me to get on with the business at hand: the flinging of tennis balls far out into the ocean.

Some would consider this tantamount to animal cruelty notwithstanding the (somewhat) warmer temperatures of the ocean water than the ambient air. But, this was not about human activity; it’s all canine. As my brother-in-law-Jim would tell me later, think of Mojo’s coat as a built-in down-filled parka. Warmth is not so much an issue. Except to the canine’s shivering owner. And so our little dance proceeded. I would launch a ball as far out as I could into the icy waters and Mojo would leap over and through waves to track it down. He returns, drops the ball near my feet, shakes off the excess ocean, and expectantly waits the next throw. Throw after throw, throw after throw. Spring, summer, winter -- this exercise knows no season. I stand at the water’s edge my toes secure in the L.L. Bean waterproof boots that I simply never thought would see the light of day once we moved down here. But, here we are and Mojo’s ceaselessly wagging tail tells me I’ve done good here.

As is his fancy, Mojo will approach anything with a pulse, no matter how far he has to roam, if only to drop the ball at their feet in the hopes -- indeed, with the full expectation -- that his new playmate will pick up the nasty, slobbered-upon orb and toss it into the ocean, where it belongs. This morning was no exception. In the distance, a solitary figure approached so hooded and wrapped it was impossible to determine age, sex or anything else other than there were two arms and two legs belonging to this person. As advertised, Mojo ran to him/her looking much like the deranged epicenter of crazed play that he is, and dropped the ball at the person’s feet. Getting the idea, the person tossed the ball into the ocean and repeated and repeated as the two of them worked their way up the beach. As the figure approached, it became clear it was an older guy. I apologized and said what I often do which is that the lucky devil is now Mojo’s new best friend. He smiled and said, “That dog is just full of life, isn’t he?”

Tough to argue with that.