Updates:
Pictures:
November 2000: Finally…an opportunity to tell you what I think about life afloat! Like my mistress, I didn't embrace living on a boat with as much glee as our mutual Captain. That guy loves being in the water almost as much as he likes being on it - unless of course the water's cold. Me, well, this may surprise you but I'm just not a water dog. I mean they all think I'm supposed to be a water dog being an English Springer Spaniel and all, but I just don't get that back-and-forth stuff that some of my canine counterparts get all excited about. You know what I mean - they wade in and swim back and forth and back and forth - quite frankly, I think they've gotten too much sun or something.
And I get confused about the water. I mean water's water, right? Wrong! The stuff tastes terrible when we live on a slant but at least it's warm. And when it tastes good, it's cold enough to freeze my claws. Just kidding…but there's a big difference between Georgian Bay water and the Caribbean seas, salt being one of them. When I'm hot enough and thirsty enough I'll get my toes wet. I might even wade around a bit but I like to do it when I like to do it and not when my Master thinks I should behave like a dog. You know what I mean…he'd like nothing better than for me to leap off the aft deck, swim ashore, do my job, and swim back to the boat. But, it just ain't in the cards. Trust me.
What's more, I love being ferried to shore in the dinghy, hanging over the bow, the wind in my face, my ears flying. But I think I like the trip ashore on the kayak even better. Standing proud on the bow and posed to leap ashore I make a fine picture. In fact, I'm tempted to start charging. I mean almost every time I head for shore on our yellow bomb people hang over their rails and take my picture. Makes me feel like a star. It made my mistress trade in that ridiculous blue swim suit of hers that had more rolls in it than a hundred year old woman - no disrespect intended. But she did look ridiculous.
So get this - when I get wet with salt water they rinse me off. I swear they use as much water to rinse me each time I get wet as they do to bathe themselves. That's humans for ya…water freaks. And clean freaks. They keep the fur on my feet trimmed to reduce the amount of sand I bring aboard. Something about not wanting sand in our bunk. But what's a little sand between friends.
Going to shore is the highlight of my day. It's not as pathetic as it sounds. I chase pelicans (like seagulls on Georgian Bay only their mouths are bigger), poke around at hermit crabs (now that's a pathetic existence - living in those cramped shells!), and generally terrorize everything that moves. Goats are my favorite but my mistress and our Captain won't let me do more than bark at them and even then, they're always arfing at me to calm down.
Until a year or so ago, I hiked the same trails as my mistress and master but I've slowed down a bit. The sun wears me out and to be honest I'd just as soon while the day away in our bunk. That's right, our bunk. If there's one thing I hate, and I don't hate much, it's being restrained from the bunk. But that only happens when I'm wet or when they, you know…I mean…they've got to have their privacy too. I'm a comfort hound - let's face it. They've spoiled me rotten - "ruined me" - my mistress says. But hey, they've ruined me in all the right ways. After all, who else do you know that has four legs and barks and gets home baked biscuits? And I eat better than their son - even he thinks so. Apparently I have allergies and feeding me rice and ground round with minced garlic, chopped onions, grated carrot, and a sprinkle of oregano keeps me from scratching my face off and chewing my paws. You guessed it…I've got them wrapped around my dew claws.
Their only regret and mine? That I'm not eligible for frequent flier points.
What do I like best about life afloat? Well, to be perfectly candid, being with my master and mistress where ever they happen to be is what makes me happiest. It makes no difference to me whether it's land or sea…hey, maybe there's a poet in me.
Stay tuned to this spot. I'll share some of my canine adventures and those of my feline friends I've met along the way. Arf arf for now!
Newsflash December 2003: Since I shared my perspective on life afloat more than 3 years ago, I’ve covered a lot of territory. I’ve island hopped north from the British Virgin Islands with stops in the Spanish Virgins, Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, Turks and Caicos, and Bahamas before crossing the Gulf Stream to Florida. After a year and a half of dallying about on the ICW my master and mistress decided that we were Med bound. Look for more tales about my adventures in the Caribbean and along the ICW in the future. At the moment I’m enjoying my second winter in Toulon, a working class city situated in the south of France, on the Mediterranean Sea. And I gotta tell ya: France is canine heaven! For humans, this is the land of wine, flowers and two-hour lunches. For us dogs it’s the land of bones, bows and almost unrestricted access to everything - anytime and anywhere. Well almost anywhere. I wasn’t allowed in the Opera house, but then I’m not partial to operas anyway. Gone are the days of waiting in the car watching the world pass by; now I’m just as likely to be found nestled under a table in a portside café while my mistress and master sip a little rosé as the sun settles into the sea.
I’ve always thought I lived a charmed life – a privilege that in North America is very much contingent on the whims of one’s mistress. But here in France I have rights! Here I am as much a member of the family as a child and to be honest, more and more of the French are opting less for children and more for dogs. I think it has something to do with our skill in sitting quietly under tables – you don’t see many children sitting quietly under tables. In fact, I am so revered in this country that my importance is being debated in the legislature as I write – something to do with the fact that there are better bathrooms for dogs in Paris than there are for street people. Paris…now that’s a city! Rows of bushes have been planted throughout the city specifically for those among us who need a little privacy when lifting a back leg. Sandboxes have even been strategically placed for us to dispose of our more weighty baggage. The political debate centres around the fact that dogs have better access to free bathroom facilities than homeless people who cannot afford to pay to use the many public toilettes that are spread about the city. I feel bad for the homeless people but hey, I’ll share my bush with them any time.
Since I’m on the subject of bathrooms, I’ve gotta tell ya that one of the most unusual sights I’ve seen in this country is a fellow riding a motorcycle that’s equipped with a special vacuum cleaner for ‘scooping’. These two-wheeled scoopers are called ‘motor-crottes'. The French are reportedly so proud of this contraption that motor crottes are often show-cased in parades. At all hours of the day, the motor-crottes drive up and down the streets sucking up what they refer to in my boat as ‘landmines’. Boy does my mistress get ticked when people don’t stoop and scoop. I think she’s just too conditioned. She says it’s the right and respectful thing to do. I say, we canines have come along way: you don’t see anybody riding around on a motorcycle scooping up after humans! It’s all about rights and by golly do I have them here! Change is in the wind though. A lot of cities in France have passed laws requiring owners to pick up after their dogs. Only about 65% of the dog-owning population comply, however, as fines go up and the number of ‘poop patrollers’ is increased, I suspect there will be fewer land mines.
This time next year we should be in Italy. Stay tuned for the scoop on dog rights in Italy. In the meantime, all I can say is viva la chienne!