Free Days with George

by Colin Campbell

  Then there was George and me. I was wearing rumpled clothes I’d salvaged from the floor, and George was dressed in nothing more than his plain red collar. We made our way through chaos with our big, banged-up old board. “Excuse me, pardon me,” I said, clearing a path through the sea of canines and owners all the way to the registration tent.

  As we walked, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that people were stepping back to look at us. They were nudging each other and pointing at George in disbelief. Some shook their heads and others simply laughed and said, “Not a chance,” or “No way.” And that’s when I realized that George was the largest dog at the competition—by far. He was a sumo wrestler in a room full of jockeys. It was also when I realized that no one in that crowd could believe George could surf.

  We made our way to the end of the line at the registration tent and stood behind a guy with a rugged, round bulldog and a woman with a pug. After a few minutes it was our turn.

  “Good morning,” said a nice volunteer with dark hair and glasses. She was bent over the previous dog’s registration papers so she hadn’t yet looked up to see who was in front of her. When she did, George was staring at her at eye level.

  “Whoa! That’s one big dog. He’s not … you’re not—Is he surfing today?”

  I didn’t know what to say. For a second I felt like George and I were the awkward kids at school, the ones who are always picked last to be on the team. “Well,” I finally managed, “he’s going to try. Aren’t you, George?”

  George wagged his tail when he heard his name, leaned forward and kissed the woman’s cheek.

  She laughed and patted his head. “You’re a big sweetie, aren’t you? What kind of dog is he? He’s huge!”

  “He’s a Newfoundland.”

  “Wow, he’s the biggest dog we’ve ever had. I hope he knows how to surf.”

  “Oh, he should be okay,” I said.

  “Really?” She eyed me and then George.

  “I think so,” I said. “But we’ll see how he does with all these people around. We’re not really used to crowds.”

  “Okay, let’s get him checked in.” She shrugged, and then completed George’s registration form. She explained that all the dogs were divided into different weight classes and that, not surprisingly, George was most definitely a heavyweight—dogs sixty pounds and up. Dogs and their handlers had ten minutes to catch as many waves as possible. A handler was allowed to help the dog onto the surfboard and get the surfboard positioned to catch the waves. The rest, like staying balanced and on the board, was up to the dog. George stared at her as she spoke, waiting for her to finish, and then planted a kiss on her the moment she paused.

  “Oh, George, you’re such a gentle giant,” she said, as she looked back up at me. “Do you have any questions?”

  “So he has to surf by himself? I’m not allowed on the board with him?”

  “Yup. Those are the rules.” I started to let that sink in, when she continued, “Most of the bigger dogs tend to jump off or lose their balance and fall because they’re tall and have a high center of gravity. The short-legged breeds tend to do better. He might have some trouble.”

  George had never tried surfing by himself, and I had no idea if that would be a problem.

  “Do you have a life jacket for him?” she asked, as she scratched George’s ears.

  “No,” I said. “I never thought of bringing one. He’s a very strong swimmer.”

  “Well, he’s going to need a life jacket today,” she said. “It’s a liability issue. I just hope we have one big enough.” She searched in a box of equipment and handed me the biggest life jacket she could find.

  “Try it on him.”

  I was never inclined to dress George up in scarves or sweaters or fancy collars the way so many other dog owners did. It just didn’t seem to suit him. So aside from his standard red collar, he’d never worn any kind of garment before. I adjusted the straps of the ratty bright-orange jacket to their maximum limit and clipped George in. The jacket wasn’t nearly big enough. George looked like he was wearing a small child’s hand-me-down. Still, the life jacket was on and it was not restricting his movement. She handed me a green competitor’s scarf and I tied it around his neck to complete his dashing ensemble.

  “What do you think, George?” He wagged his tail, gazed at me with excited eyes and jumped up to lick my face, resting his front paws on my shoulders and almost knocking me down. He was quite a sight: standing on his hind legs, he was nearly six feet tall, and wearing his tiny life jacket and green neck scarf—all told, he resembled an oversized cartoon character. And he wasn’t even on the surfboard yet.

  “This is going to be interesting. Good luck, guys!” she said, and added, “You might need some.”

  “Thanks,” I answered. “Come on, George.” After a tug of the leash, George jumped back to all fours and we moved out of the line. As we did, a group of people nearby pulled out their cell phones and took pictures. George noticed the attention and immediately stretched out on his back in the sand, so that the whole crowd cooed “Aw-w-w-w-w” in unison and congregated around him to provide a mass belly rub.

  I used that moment to process what the volunteer had just said: that George had to ride the board on his own. Whenever we’d surfed, it was always in tandem, George on the front of the board and me kneeling on the back. I had no idea if he could or would surf on his own. A sense of uneasiness set in. Had I just set George up for failure by entering him in a competition to do something he couldn’t do? And what was I supposed to do when we were out there in front of all those people and cameras if George couldn’t get on the board? And if he did get on the board, what if he didn’t want to surf without me?

  All these questions made me feel queasy, but when I looked down at the sand in front of me and saw George sprawled out, oblivious to my concern, soaking up all the love of his new admirers, I realized I was over-thinking the matter. This was, after all, just a fun event to raise money for dogs—dogs needing homes. If George was happy in the midst of the crowd, I could be, too. I was ready to help him get on the surfboard, but if for some reason he didn’t want to, that was fine. The money would still go to a good cause.

  With George fully registered and equipped, we headed back to the SUV to get our towels, sunscreen, water, bowls, umbrella and other odds and ends. I set up our umbrella in a nice, quiet spot away from the Surf Dog judges’ tent. “Let’s just sit here a minute, George,” I said, and he plopped his rear end next to me. Together we took in the sights and sounds around us.

  I’m convinced that such a crazy event has never been seen anywhere outside Southern California. The crowd was definitely growing as the start time neared. There were even more dogs in costume now, some wearing sunglasses and some sporting custom-made board shorts that matched the ones worn by their owners. The Beach Boys echoed over the loudspeakers, and many owners had already donned their wet suits, preparing to take their family pets into the water to compete. The coconut smell of sunscreen blended with that unmistakable eau de wet dog perfume. It was an olfactory experience like nothing else.

  The number of volunteers seemed to have doubled in the forty-five minutes we’d been at the beach and the vendor booths set up in rows on the sand were now hawking everything from dog food, to dog toys, to dog collars and every other kind of dog-related paraphernalia under the sun. George was getting more and more excited, prancing on his front paws in that way of his that meant, “Let me loose!”

  “You need to behave, big guy.” George eyed me with a look that said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you gotta let me go play.”

  “Okay, George, go have fun,” I said, unclipping him from the leash. He gave me one big lick and then ran down to the water, followed by a pack of other dogs wearing life jackets that actually fit. It was one of the strangest sights I have ever seen. Evidently I wasn’t the only one to notice the oddity, because soon enough a group of photographers was taking pictures of the ragtag
pack running in circles and jumping in and out of the water.

  I overheard an older couple on a nearby blanket: “See that big black-and-white dog over there?” She was pointing at George.

  “Yeah,” her husband answered.

  “He’s going to be surfing today.”

  “No way! I can’t wait to see that!”

  “George!” I called out after a few minutes of watching him play with his new friends. “Come here!” His big head went up, and he trotted over to me, looking waterlogged but happy with himself in his ridiculously tiny life jacket and wet neck scarf.

  “Good boy, George,” I said as he walked right under the umbrella, following my instructions on the first command. He barreled into me and shook his coat, sending spray and sand everywhere and eliciting an audible chorus of shrieks and laughter from the other beach umbrellas in our midst. George was basking in the attention and excitement, glancing all around him and practically smiling from head to toe. I thought back to nine months earlier and the terrified dog in my dining room, too frightened to even move on his own. He was hardly recognizable as the same dog. It was an incredible transformation, and for a moment I was overcome by a feeling of pride.

  “Here, big guy,” I said. “Have a drink.” I offered him his water bowl. As George splashed his water about, getting more on our blanket than into his mouth, a thin brunette with a huge smile walked over to us and peeked under our umbrella.

  “Hi, I’m Lisa Scolman,” she said. “I’m one of the organizers of the event.” She extended a hand and I shook it.

  “I’m Colin,” I replied. Then, nodding at my sloppy, wet dog, I added, “And this is George.”

  “Hello, George!” she said. “Some of the staff told me a ‘super-huge’ dog had entered. I wanted to meet him for myself.”

  George took to Lisa right away, pushing his full wet weight into her and craning his neck to look her in the eye.

  She laughed. “They weren’t kidding. You really are a big boy, aren’t you?”

  She bent to pet him, and George rolled over on his shoulder and then onto his back, showing her his belly, which was covered in sand.

  “Someone’s already been swimming.” She rubbed his belly, not the least bit concerned with getting wet or sandy herself. “So he’s really surfed before?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We have surfed together a bit, haven’t we, George?”

  She shook her head, amazed. “I just can’t even imagine. Most of the dogs we see in the competition have a low center of gravity, but George … well, he’s got those long legs, and he’s just so … big. So, are you going to get up on a board today, George?”

  I was wondering the same thing myself.

  “If nothing else, he’ll add his big personality to the event,” she said.

  She had stopped petting George as she spoke, and he now put a large, wet paw on her arm as a subtle reminder that she was neglecting her belly-rubbing duty. “You sure are something, George,” she said. “I’m so glad you came out with him. It’s a fun event, and we raise a lot of money for rescue dogs.”

  “That’s why we entered. He was a homeless dog, too,” I said. “He’s come a long way.”

  Looking me right in the eye, she said, “You’re really lucky to have him.” And as I stood there watching George lying on his back on the beach, getting his belly rubbed by a friendly stranger on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, that’s when it struck me: you never do know where life will take you if you let it. This once-terrified and neglected dog from Canada was now in California and about to go surfing in a crazy dog-surfing contest. He really had come far, literally and figuratively.

  So what about me? How had I ended up here? A year and a half earlier, I’d suffered the biggest loss of my life. And now I’d been transplanted from everything I once knew to this beach, in another country so far away from my home. When I was completely alone, this dog had become my good friend. He got me up in the morning. He made me laugh, forced me to take walks and meet new people. He even brought me to the beach, where we discovered by accident the one thing we both so loved to do: surf. It suddenly hit me with profound force: I had rescued George, but really, it was he who was rescuing me.

  EIGHTEEN

  Just then the music stopped and the PA system announced that the first heat of small dogs was taking to the water. “Oops,” Lisa said. “I’ve got to run. It was so good to meet you. Hope you ride a wave as big as you, George!” she said. “Nice meeting you both.”

  “Very nice meeting you, too,” I said. She tore off to the judges’ tent, and George and I settled in to watch the first heat.

  The Beach Boys faded out and an announcer said, “Good morning, dog lovers and surf lovers! Welcome to the Surf City Surf Dog competition! We’re thrilled to have you here today, and we’re about to get started with the first heat of small dogs—up to twenty pounds. But small is no barrier when it comes to surfing, so you’re about to see some pretty amazing canine carving, folks!”

  The judges, three well-respected pro surfers, took their positions in a high stand on the beach. The crowd moved closer to the water’s edge. Several reporters ran by George and me on the beach on their way to get a better view. I knew they were with the media not just because of their nice cameras with large lenses but because of identifying signs pinned to their backs: PUPARAZZI.

  The competition was in many ways just like a real pro surfing event, except instead of Kelly Slater, Brett Simpson or Taj Burrow, these surfers had names like Hanzo, Ricochet and Dozer.

  “And taking to the beach are today’s minute-but-mighty contestants …” Their owners brought the competing dogs to the shoreline and turned to wave at the crowd. Once they were all in a row, the announcer said, “And those are your small surfers, ladies and gentlemen, just about ready to take the waves!”

  The crowd started to clap and cheer, and from where George and I were seated we could see owners doing last checks of life jackets and giving encouraging pats to their dogs.

  Pugs were very well represented in the first heat, their wide stance and low center of gravity offering a natural advantage, but the talent pool ran the gamut from Chihuahuas to Boston terriers. All of them were decked out in life jackets and colored scarves to help the judges recognize them—their gear was nice and new and fit well, unlike George’s last-minute outfit, I noted once again.

  All along the lineup, owners picked up their pets as though they were dog-shaped briefcases, and when the air horn sounded, off they ran—dogs in one hand, boards in the other—splashing into the ocean. Because these dogs were so small, they didn’t go out past the break. Instead they focused on riding the smaller waves in the white water close to shore. It was hilarious watching the handlers position their animals on their mini boards and struggle to keep the boards still until the moment they let go. Then each dog would either ride the wave victoriously to shore as people cheered and hollered the dog’s name, or the little surfer got knocked off the board and the crowd let out a unified gasp of dismay. The crowd would resume cheering as soon as the little dog appeared in the foam, doggie-paddling madly back to the board. “Go, girl, go! You can do it this time! Get back on there!”

  I was surprised when I found myself as caught up in the event as everyone else at the beach, and when an incredible little dog named Bobby ably surfed wave after wave after wave, I found myself on my feet, clapping right alongside everyone else. Meanwhile, cameras were going off everywhere and volunteers on the shore were scrambling to grab stray surfboards. In all directions there was mass pandemonium for the full duration of the heat. It was totally fun.

  I held on to George’s life jacket while I was watching, and at one point I turned to look at him. “What do you think, George?”

  He was focused on the beach and seemed to be studying the water. There one of the dogs he had been playing with earlier took to the board on a smooth, spectacular ride. George spotted him and did his signature two-step puppy hopping on his back legs to get a better view. �
�Pretty cool, isn’t it, George?” I said. I, too, tried to observe, so I could see how owners were helping their dogs get on the boards, but from the shoreline it was hard to make out any consistent techniques. Owners seemed to have their own methods for helping their dogs hop on. A couple of the dogs appeared a little frightened, but for the most part it was clear these were animals who loved to surf and didn’t mind very much when the waves got the better of them, tossing them into the ocean; they would swim back out for another try.

  After ten minutes the air horn blew, and the competitors and handlers made their way to shore. I had to laugh as a couple of the dogs needed to be put on leashes because they wanted to stay out for more.

  “And that’s the end of the first heat, everyone! We had a great set out there for our first run. We saw shredders and floaters and a couple of really impressive wipeouts, too. Way to go, little guys! Miniature can be mighty! Give it up for the dogs!”

  A huge whoop issued from the crowd. “Our judges will soon post competitors who will move on to our finals round this afternoon, but in the meantime, let’s get ready for our medium-sized-dog heats—for dogs twenty-one to forty pounds. All competitors please make your way to the judges’ tent.”

  The heats continued in this fashion from small to medium to large, and even though I was starting to feel a bit tired, the crowd, the dogs and their owners were, if anything, getting more excited. In between heats George received a steady stream of visitors. Most couldn’t believe he was actually a competitor and had stopped by just to see the big dog and confirm the rumor for themselves.

  The sheer volume of people who wanted to meet George was unlike anything I’d ever seen. He was like a rock star or royalty. He was meeting a new person every thirty seconds. As he had been on so many of our previous outings and adventures, George was hugged and petted over and over. He posed for pictures and he gave out kisses freely. He was far more comfortable and confident than I had ever seen him, even with men. And he didn’t get tired of the attention; in fact, he seemed energized by it. He had been off his leash most of the morning and had never strayed too far from me. Whenever he wandered off to meet new people or dogs, he would stop after a minute or so and check over his shoulder to make sure he could still see me. I could not have trained him to behave this well if I had tried. And I had.