I had a wonderful new job, which I loved. Every morning before work I visited the beach, basked in the sunshine and watched pretty girls. I knew I should have been overjoyed at the direction my life had taken. Instead I struggled with the feeling that I didn’t “belong.” I was emotionally disconnected and I felt homesick, even though I no longer had a home to be sick for. When friends and family called to ask how I was doing, I said, “I’m great!” How could I complain when I lived in a paradise mere blocks away from the beach? But the truth was, without knowing it I was slipping into a depression.
George, on the other hand, was taking all the change in stride. Big dogs aren’t common in Los Angeles (Newfoundlands, even less so) and the attention he got any time we left the house was astounding. In the land of “Hollywood purse dogs” like Chihuahuas and teacup poodles, big, black-and-white George stood out from the pack. It was next to impossible to walk even a few blocks without being stopped and George being fussed over. Almost everybody noticed him—middle-aged couples, retirees, rock stars and celebrities, young beach volleyball players, surfers, skateboarders and groups of Asian tourists. From as far as half a block away I’d hear “Oh my god! He’s beautiful!” and “What kind of dog is he?” I was having the same “basic facts” conversation—“He’s a Newfoundland. His name’s George. He’s a rescue. He’s friendly”—twenty or more times a day.
George began to lose his introversion, even around men. It was as though he suddenly picked up on how special he was and started to gain self-confidence. He developed new tricks and go- to moves I’d never seen before. If folks hugged him, he licked their faces. And when they loved it, the next person who hugged him would get licked twice as hard. People took photos and George would patiently pose, his head held high for the camera.
I also saw that he was a magnet for women. The rumors and legends of beautiful California girls are all true, and many of these women, often in tiny bikinis, would approach us, or rather George. “Can we pet your dog? He is so big and fluffy! Can we hug him?”
I would stammer, “Sure. I’m sure he’d love that,” and then stand there and watch my dog receive the kind of attention most red-blooded guys only dream of. I wasn’t jealous, but it was a bit weird.
One time, as he was being patted and admired by a group of attractive, bikini-clad women, he flipped on his back and let them rub his belly. The ladies let out a collective “Aw-w-w-w-w” and got down on their knees to scratch and tickle him, while George closed his eyes and blissfully stretched out to his full length—about six-and-a-half feet—on the sidewalk. Flipping onto his back soon became one of his favorite moves, and people loved it. Some days he spent more time lying on his back than walking.
What set George apart from other dogs, though, was the special interest he was now taking in children or anyone he perceived as weak or vulnerable. Parents would approach and ask, “Can my kids pet him?”
“Of course,” I’d say. “He’s very friendly.” Kids’ faces were at George’s eye level, and he loved that. He would gently look children in the eye before offering up a slobbering, affectionate kiss on the cheek.
“Mom, he’s a teddy bear!” I’d hear as kids squealed in surprise. And when parents would inevitably have to draw their kids away before they wanted to leave, I’d hear “Bye, George!” and “You’re the best dog ever, George!” or even “George, I love you!” Sometimes it was the adults making the comments, not just the children. George heard these things, too, and it was obvious the gentle giant was thriving on all the attention. Something in him was healing. He was becoming a happy new dog. He was becoming George.
As George was coming into himself, I continued to feel less and less like myself. Despite feeling disconnected, I made a conscious effort to get out on the weekends and explore. Of course George helped motivate me—he approached every day as a new adventure. He suddenly wanted to do things with me, go out and live life, and he forced me to come along for the ride. When he jumped up on the bed Saturday mornings, wagging his tail and looking at me like “Let’s go! Let’s go for a walk! Let’s go for a drive! Let’s go down to the beach! Come on!” he was impossible to resist. He was always excited to head out into the world. It was always nice outside, so I had no excuse. He made it easier for me to click into that same headspace.
Someone at the office had told me about a place the locals called Dog Beach. It was a two-mile stretch of Huntington Beach in Orange County, just north of the famous pier. Dogs were not only permitted, they were allowed to roam leash free. I threw some towels, water bottles and an umbrella beside George in the back of our new SUV, and we drove down to check the beach out.
I hoped George would get a chance to swim and enjoy the water without worrying about rules or disrupting surfers and families the way he had that first day in Hermosa Beach. We arrived to find the beach populated with a ton of dogs of every breed and size, and the same could have been said for their owners. When George caught sight of the beach, his tail beat against the seat of the SUV like he was banging on a big bass drum. I parked, opened the back, and George leaped out, ready to go. “George,” I said. “I need you to be on your best behavior, okay?”
As we approached the beach, George pulled on the leash excitedly. Once we were at the beach I said, “Sit,” and after some protest and straining, he eventually gave me his attention and plopped his rear end on the sand. “Good boy!”
We took a moment to survey the scene—two miles of beautiful white sand with big Pacific Ocean waves rolling in. Everywhere around us dogs chased balls and sticks into the surf, lounged with their owners under giant umbrellas, ran around in yipping packs, dug at the sand, herded each other, swam and sniffed butt. George and I both loved the chaos right away.
“This looks great, George!” I said, as his tail swished a sand angel behind him.
Making sure there were no surfers or swimmers in the water in front of us he might try to “rescue,” I unclipped his leash and drew in a deep breath. “Okay, go play!” I said, hoping he wouldn’t cause disaster and destruction as he took off like a rocket across the beach and into the ocean.
As it turned out, he loved playing with the other wet, sloppy beach dogs—running, wrestling, swimming and chasing seagulls. In Toronto he hadn’t quite known how to play with other dogs and would only watch the social sequences from afar. At Dog Beach that started to change. George clumsily reciprocated the playful advances of other dogs. Even though he was by far the largest on the beach, George was gentle and submissive with big and small dogs alike.
The surfers down the beach weren’t too fazed when George swam out to say hi. “What’s his name?” one kid waiting for a wave called out to me. I told him, and he patted George’s big, wet head as George circled his board.
It got to the point where the local surfers all knew George and would greet him when we arrived. “Hey, George! Surf’s up!” I’d hear, and George would gallop into the water and eagerly swim out to greet them. Often I’d join George in the water, and that’s how we learned to swim together. George and I liked to swim in the flatter water away from the shore, out beyond the constant break of the surf and churning white water.
It was on one of these swims, late on a warm, windless, sunny Saturday, with George right beside me that I looked down and saw a large, black torpedo shape streak underneath us. “What the …?” I said, startled. I glanced over at George, who was placidly swimming along and hadn’t seen a thing. I scanned the water and spotted a telltale triangular dorsal fin break the surface just ahead. A big knot instantly formed in the pit of my stomach—the object was a shark.
I turned to George. “George! Come!” He must have sensed my urgency, because he picked up speed and swam right over to my side. Just then another dorsal fin broke the surface, but this time a loud exhale of mist and air accompanied it. “George. It’s a dolphin!” I said with a huge sense of relief and excitement. George’s wet ears perked right up, and as we looked all around us, dorsal fins surfaced from all direc
tions and loud exhales sounded. An entire pod of curious Pacific bottlenose dolphins encircled us.
George was equally curious and delighted, and swam toward each one as it broke the surface. At one point several of the larger dolphins slowed and lifted their heads out of the water to get a clearer view of the big, hairy dog fearlessly churning toward them. George called out with one of his rare, deep barks, and this brought them even closer—so close I thought George would be nose to nose with them at any moment. It was incredible and I was smiling so much that swimming seemed effortless.
The dozen or so dolphins cavorted around George and me for two or three minutes before they continued on their path northward along the beach. George tried to follow them, and for a moment I was struck by the image of the sleek water creatures, with their smooth, slippery, gray skin, and their odd adopted land sibling weighed down by a thick, furry black-and-white coat.
Eventually George did a U-turn in the water and paddled back my way, with an expression on his face that can only be described as wonder. I expect my face looked about the same.
When we got back to the shore, George shook himself off and then stared out to sea where the dolphins had swum away. His eyes were wide and he pranced in the sand, his front paws sending up spray in his wake.
“You made some new friends, George. Maybe they’ll be back next week.” George wagged his tail and we made our way up the beach to the SUV.
As we got settled in the vehicle, the sun and sand still on us, it occurred to me that we’d had a near-perfect day, maybe even a “free day.” I looked back through the rearview mirror at George. His happy face and serene eyes said it all. He was content. Yet, while this pleased me and I could recognize it logically, I couldn’t feel happy or content myself. I had all the reasons in the world to, but somehow I still felt emotionally disconnected. Only one question remained: why?
In the inexplicable fog I was in, I started to pay careful attention to George and his blooming confidence. Maybe if I watched him, I would learn something about how to be happy. Maybe if I acted like George did, I could feel good, too. It was worth a try.
Over the next few weeks I observed George. I studied how he treated everyone he met. Whether he was being patted by someone wealthy who’d just stepped out of a Bentley or by a down-and-out street person, he was the same: he was just George.
“You can’t buy friends,” my grandfather always used to say. Like George, he was great with people and everyone loved him. When I was a kid and feeling unhappy about things at home, he would put his arm around me and talk in a soft voice. “It’s the simple things in life that matter most, like watching big clouds floating in the blue sky, like the smell of fresh-cut hay or the sound of waves against the shore.” His encouragement still echoed in my adult head: “Don’t worry about things being perfect. Be happy with doing your best, and the rest will come.” As I watched George behaving first like a normal dog and later as a beacon of light to everyone and everything around him, I couldn’t help but wonder, Why don’t I feel normal? Is there a way to be more like George?
Then one day George and I were on our usual walk in our neighborhood, when we came upon an old man sitting on the sidewalk. He was in pretty rough shape, his face weather-beaten and drawn. There aren’t a lot of homeless people on the streets of Hermosa Beach, so this guy stood out. He had a couple of garbage bags and a beat-up hat beside him, filled with small change. The sign by his hat read “Vietnam veteran. Homeless. Please help.”
George was out in front of me as we came upon him. “George, walk with me,” I quietly said so he would not disturb the man sitting there. George had other ideas and he pulled forward on the leash right up to the homeless man and gave him a lick on his face.
“Sorry,” I said, as I tried to tug George back.
The man took some distance from George for a second to get a better look at him. He smiled and said, “That’s okay.” To George he added, “You’re a big dog, aren’t you?”
George’s tail swished behind him and he leaned into the man, something he only did when he was really comfortable with someone. In response the man chuckled and threw an arm around him, pulling him into a side hug as if George were one of his old buddies.
“You sure are beautiful, aren’t you?” After a while the man looked up at me. “What kind of dog is he?”
I told him.
“Not many people are friendly to me. But you’re real friendly,” he said. George started licking the man’s face again.
“Sorry,” I said. “He can be a little too friendly sometimes.”
“No, no.” The man hugged George. “It’s okay. I like it.” He scratched George behind the ears and George’s leg started thumping. George proffered another lick on the cheek, and then he looked up at me as if to say, “I made another friend. Isn’t he great?”
George could have sat with that homeless guy all day. In fact, I’m sure he would have, but it was me who wanted to move along. I felt a bit guilty and awkward, so I fished some money out of my pocket.
“Here you go,” I said, reaching down to pass the man a couple of dollar bills.
“What?” He grabbed my hand and closed my fingers around the bills. “No, man. I don’t want your money.”
“Please, it’s okay.”
He ignored me and smiled at George, addressing him, not me. “You just gave me something so special,” he said. “Do you know that no one’s kissed me in years? Most people don’t even want to come anywhere near me.” He patted George’s head, and on cue George licked his face yet again.
“You see?” the man said, his eyes welling with tears. “This is way better than money, man. You keep those bills. You buy him a treat.” He gave George one last squeeze and then said, “I think your owner wants to go, buddy, so you better be off.”
I gave a light tug on the leash and George stood up.
“You take care of him.” It took me a while to realize he’d directed those last words at George, not at me.
SIXTEEN
I was seventeen years old, and when I wasn’t spending time with my grandfather at his cottage, I was lifeguarding at Rissers Beach in Nova Scotia. Rissers Beach is not exactly a surfer’s paradise. In fact, back then no one surfed in Nova Scotia. There were no surfboards for sale locally and no internet to order one online.
The waves at Rissers Beach aren’t the long, smooth-faced, rolling works of art like the waves in California. Quite the opposite. At Rissers Beach big, rideable waves are more abrupt and random, and the water from the North Atlantic is much colder than the Pacific Ocean water off Southern California.
That summer, the Parks service sent all us lifeguards on a special surf-rescue course where they introduced a surfboard to be used as a lifesaving tool at the beach. Imported from Australia, it was a clunky thing, about eleven feet long and wide enough to allow you to haul another person onto it during an emergency. As professionally-trained lifeguards, we took our role seriously. We needed to be fully prepared, so every day we practiced rescuing each other from the cold Atlantic Ocean, paddling out to “save” a panicked or unconscious “victim,” hauling the person onto the long board and then navigating back to shore through the pounding surf.
But one stormy day, with big waves and no patrons on the beach, I decided I would give the board a try, not as a rescue tool but as a surfboard. I grabbed the giant board and off I went.
I needed a few tries to get the hang of it, but once I figured out the timing and managed to stand up, the ride was great. I caught a wave about forty yards from shore, surged along its face until it broke and then let the white water carry me back to shore. The whole ride couldn’t have lasted more than ten seconds, but it was magic. I was hooked on surfing! I spent my next three summers at Rissers Beach with my fellow lifeguard and friend, Mike, paddling out whenever the swells and a lack of swimmers allowed it. Unfortunately, after university when I moved away to Toronto, I had to abandon the sport. My relocation to Los Angeles decades later, however, p
resented a great opportunity to pick surfing up again, especially once George found his groove at Dog Beach. He didn’t need as much supervision anymore. He no longer insisted on “rescuing” every person and animal near or in the water, and he learned to socialize with other dogs as they played in the waves. Now that I could let him swim and roam freely, it occurred to me: I could get a surfboard.
I often visited Bruce Jones’s Surf Shop about five miles up the Pacific Coast Highway from Huntington Beach in Sunset Beach. Bruce was a surf legend who’d been shaping boards since the 1960s, and every time George and I drove home from Dog Beach, we stopped at Bruce’s to rinse the sand off George with the shop’s hose. We met all the surfers who congregated at the shop at the end of the day, and not surprisingly, all of them, including Bruce, loved George. This side stop became part of our weekend routine.
When I finally rented a board from Bruce, I settled on a big cruiser like the one I’d used at Rissers Beach. It was about eleven feet long. It was not particularly maneuverable and wouldn’t have been good in very big waves, but it was stable and buoyant—a nice board for easing back into the sport.
“George, you don’t need me to babysit you anymore,” I said when we arrived at Dog Beach at ten one weekend morning. “You stay on the beach and play. I’m going surfing.”
The beach was relatively empty that day. There was a light wind and by California standards the waves were small and a bit mushy. It was a perfect day for trying to get my sea legs back. Only a few surfers were already in the water, waiting for the next set of waves to roll in.
I put up our usual umbrella home base and then let George off his leash. “Go have fun, big guy!” I said, though I really didn’t need to. George was off in a flash, and was soon cavorting in the waves and meeting every dog and human being in sight. He made friends with a young lab pup and didn’t seem to be causing anyone grief, so I figured it was as good a time as any for me to go try surfing again. I settled the board under my arm, carried it to the edge of the sand and launched it into the water. When the water reached my waist, I hopped on and began to paddle out.
Free Days with George Page 14