A nearly flawless beach morning…calm with just enough sun to be warm. New south swell showing with small, shapely waves. The beach strangely quiet for a Sunday—not even the homeless artist guy with the gimpy dog and the mean pit bull had set up his easels yet, meaning we could venture onto our favorite north end of the cove without threat of attack. A dead sea lion rolling to and fro with the shore break. A few people out longboarding getting fun looking rides. Mooka rollicking and swimming, chasing a found stick. Mooka meeting a new buddy, Chato, an endearing French mini-bulldog with an extreme smile almost wider than his head. Little Chato and large Mooka, racing back and forth high-speed laps with tongues flapping from dopey grins, nipping and trying to out-herd each other. Chato hopping over our prostrate bodies in the sand, but since he was such a lightweight we didn't care. Chato and Mooka wagging their stumpy tales with delight. Mom and Pops bickering immaturely over which one of us Chato likes better. Chato, as if in reply, marking Mom from behind with a lifted leg and stream of urine. Cries of horror and foul language. Pops laughing his head off. Bad Chato. Chato go away now. Stalking away from beach toward laundry facility.
"Madame, you are more lovely than a fire hydrant."