Missing Whiskey.

It was hot as hell in New York on Saturday. Even with the air-conditioning on full-blast in the apartment, I didn't feel much like moving. 

Whiskey would have none of my lethargy, of course. Her icy nose on my back pushed me out of bed and in short order we were piled into my 1966 Simca 1500 and headed up to a secluded beach I've found in Westchester County--the suburbs just north of the city.

Whiskey galloped out of the old car and made for the beach. I grabbed her rubber duck out of the trunk and hurled it underhand, thirty yards into the sea.

Without even checking the water temperature, Whiskey careened for the surf and swan for her toy. She was back in a minute or so and at my wife's side, gobbling down her breakfast by the sea.

For the next 90 minutes, I wrassled Whiskey's rubber duck from her maw and hurled it into the brine. Whiskey leapt through the low waves and retrieved it, befitting her breed.

After some moments, a few other dogs arrived. A chocolate lab named Penny. A giant brown Newfoundland named Lulu. And a black lab named Lucien--the pride of her French owner.

The dogs played in the sea, each to her own toy.  An orange ball each for Penny and Lucien, and assorted tree branches for Lulu.

Now, Whiskey is headed off to Rodrigo's house for the week. I'll be shooting out in LA and my wife is coming to visit friends and relatives. Whiskey stays with her dog walker.

He won't take her to the beach. But he's liberal with the treats and she's happy with Rodrigo's children and his ample air-conditioning.

I'll miss her. 

I do already.