Hello Peeps,
Louise isn’t feeling particularly inclined to listen to my words of wisdom these days, so I’ve decided to take matters into my own paws.
Someone has to maintain standards around here.
My dad is gone.
My hooman dad, that is. I never really knew my four-legged one. They took me away when I was just a wee pup.
And, while I have nothing against the old fella, I think I got the better end of that deal.
I got C.C.
And let me tell you, Peeps, he was the best dawggone pup dad a dawg could ever hope for.
The Man was a legend.
First off, he had an arm that wouldn’t quit. He did play professional ball afterall. It taught him a thing or two about throwing. I mean, he could throw a ball long and straight, time after time after time. He never stopped until I did.
Which, as you can imagine, was not often.
Louise would stand there muttering things like, “He’s had enough, C.C.”
Had enough?
Woman! Do I look like I’ve had enough?
C.C. understood. A dawg with a ball is a dawg with a purpose.
He also understood the fundamental principles of bed ownership.
Louise was under the mistaken impression that beds were for hoomans.
C.C. knew better.
He understood that a king-sized bed is simply a very expensive dog bed with room for two hooman servants.
Naturally, I adored him.
And don’t get me started on food.
Louise had this ridiculous rule about not feeding dawgs from the table.
C.C. considered it more of a suggestion.
A suggestion he was happy to ignore.
He slipped me treats whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. And when she wasn’t home? Well, Peeps, let’s just say room service was alive and well at Chez C.C.
Sometimes he even served me in bed.
The Man knew how to live.
When I was younger, we’d go for drives to the park. Just the two of us.
I’d ride shotgun. He’d roll down the window and I’d stick my head out, ears flying, nose twitching, barking at the occasional pedestrian who clearly needed reminding that I was a very important dawg.
Louise said it wasn’t safe.
C.C. said nothing.
He just smiled and kept driving.
That’s the thing about my dad. He wasn’t big on unnecessary rules.
Especially hers.
And then, a couple of years ago, things started to change.
He couldn’t walk as far anymore. Couldn’t throw the ball quite as long or straight.
But did that stop him?
Not my dad.
He got himself an electric wheelchair.
I called it The Chariot.
And let me tell you, Peeps, we were a sight to behold.
Picture Peter Fonda in *Easy Rider*. Wind in our hair. Tongues hanging out. The open road stretching before us.
Okay. Technically, it was a road on Gabriola Island. And technically, only my tongue was hanging out.
But you get my drift.
We were rebels.
Two wild things refusing to be tamed.
Sometimes Louise would holler after us to slow down.
Naturally, we pretended not to hear.
But the best part of The Chariot wasn’t the speed.
It was where it took us.
Blue Heron Park.
We’d roll down to the park, C.C. in his Chariot, me trotting alongside, looking every inch the handsome, carefree adventurer I am.
He’d throw the ball until I’d had enough.
Which, as previously established, took some doing.
And then we’d sit together on the edge of the cliff, looking out to sea.
Watching for whales.
I don’t know what it is about hoomans and whales. Personally, I’ve always thought a creature that big should have the decency to come ashore and introduce itself.
But C.C. loved watching for them.
So I watched too.
Mostly I watched him.
We’d sit there, two old salts, surveying our kingdom.
No need to go anywhere.
No need to do anything.
Just my dad and me.
And the sea.
I liked those moments.
I think he did too.
The Man was my hero.
My best friend.
My confidant.
He never told me to stop barking when I had something important to say. Well, hardly ever.
He didn’t mind when I took up more than my fair share of the bed.
And when he looked at me, I knew I was his boy.
His best boy.
I suppose that’s what I miss most.
Being his boy.
These days, the house is different.
The machine that used to make all that noise beside his bed is quiet.
The Chariot doesn’t go anywhere.
And nobody throws the ball quite like he did.
Louise tries.
Bless her heart.
But the woman throws like she’s trying to swat a mosquito with a wet noodle.
I humour her.
It’s the least I can do.
She’s having a rough time of it.
She keeps asking me to sleep on the bed with her.
But here’s the thing, Peeps.
Louise sleeps like a WWE wrestler auditioning for the championship.
One minute she’s lying quietly on her side. The next she’s flinging an arm across the mattress, twisting around and launching a leg into the air like she’s trying to pin an invisible opponent.
Sleeping with her is an oxymoron.
It’s like going on a blind date with a Mustang. You don’t dare close your eyes because you never know when it’s going to rear up and buck you into the air.
C.C. was different.
He knew how to share a bed.
He’d lie there, nice and quiet, and I’d curl up beside him.
Sometimes he’d reach over and rest his hand on me.
He didn’t have to say anything.
Neither did I.
We understood each other.
I miss that hand.
I miss his voice.
I miss The Chariot.
And I really, really miss his arm.
But most of all, I miss him.
My Dad.
The Man.
The Myth.
The Legend.
And the best dawggone pup dad ever.
Four days after he left, something extraordinary happened.
A humpback whale showed up right in front of our house.
Not just a little splash, mind you.
Oh no.
This fella put on a SHOW.
Leaping out of the water. Again and again and again.
For five whole minutes.
Louise and her youngest daughter stood watching, mouths open, eyes wide, all accompanied by a whole lot of screamin’ and squealin’!
Personally, I thought it was a bit excessive.
I mean, honestly. Some creatures will do anything for attention.
But Louise thinks it was C.C.
She thinks he came back to tell us he’s having a whale of a time wherever he is.
Apparently, her mom always said the afterlife is a party.
Well, if that’s true, I hope they’ve got a good DJ.
And plenty of treats.
And somebody with a decent throwing arm.
Because if there’s one thing I know about my dad, it’s that he never needed much of an excuse to have a good time.
Especially if there was a dawg involved.
And Dad?
If that really was you out there…
Next time, give a fella a little warning.
I’ll bring the ball.
Love you to forever and back,
Beaumont
Chief Ball Chaser, Keeper of the Chariot, and C.C.’s Best Boy
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