From Chapter 17...
Copyright © 2011 Rebecca Wilson
My wolves loved the beach. We’d pile into the car with all their gear—water bottles, water dish, snacks, leashes, ratty dog towels I’d bought at yard sales—and drive Shoreline Highway along the coast to Muir Beach, or Stinson. Each trip began with a ritual: Once on the beach, I unleashed them, threw up my arms, and yelled, “Go play!” They raced into the water and then ran in ever-widening circles, Max loping and grinning, Chau, born with bad hips, a little slower, but determined to keep up.
Later, she dug little dens in the sand and dragged huge pieces of driftwood through the waves. Max sometimes trailed small canines that looked suspiciously like prey, freaking both the dogs and their owners out. I’d wave, smile cheerfully, and call him back to me.
If it was hot, I’d build a shelter of scratchy driftwood boards and an old sheet I’d packed, and when they were tired, we’d settle under the shelter and picnic. Raw turkey dogs for them, a sandwich for me, potato chips for all. On the ride home, they were wet, sandy, and content, and they slept as hard as children.
Home
Copyright © 2011 Rebecca Wilson
My wolves loved the beach. We’d pile into the car with all their gear—water bottles, water dish, snacks, leashes, ratty dog towels I’d bought at yard sales—and drive Shoreline Highway along the coast to Muir Beach, or Stinson. Each trip began with a ritual: Once on the beach, I unleashed them, threw up my arms, and yelled, “Go play!” They raced into the water and then ran in ever-widening circles, Max loping and grinning, Chau, born with bad hips, a little slower, but determined to keep up.
Later, she dug little dens in the sand and dragged huge pieces of driftwood through the waves. Max sometimes trailed small canines that looked suspiciously like prey, freaking both the dogs and their owners out. I’d wave, smile cheerfully, and call him back to me.
If it was hot, I’d build a shelter of scratchy driftwood boards and an old sheet I’d packed, and when they were tired, we’d settle under the shelter and picnic. Raw turkey dogs for them, a sandwich for me, potato chips for all. On the ride home, they were wet, sandy, and content, and they slept as hard as children.
Home
