Picnic Connoisseur

Romantic picnics and sunbathers slathered in coconut oil…at the off leash dog park…even my dog is a foodie…

There is only one off-leash beach in Santa Barbara, so it’s with mixed chagrin that I chase after my coonhound as he catches a whiff of the giant salami in the sky about 100 yards away towards a family of unsuspecting tourists. I suppose they turned left at the lifeguard station to the off-leash part of the beach out of naïve interest in the novelty of being able to watch dogs fetch balls and chase birds in an untethered splendor that manifests all the romantic notions of life in Santa Barbara. The locals are sun drunk and friendly in the thick of January’s darkness, while folks in higher latitudes shovel snow and seek counseling and medication for seasonal affective disorder. The children are fit, bright, and know how to surf. The adults are sophisticated farmers market shoppers with an affinity for fine wines and local cheeses. It stands to reason that the canines of Santa Barbara herald an unprecedented connotation of the expression “it’s a dogs life.” Indeed it is, with gourmet treat shops, spas, acupuncturists, remarkable veterinarian care and even a canine day camp complete with waterfalls, swimming holes, shaded cots for nap time…and one off leash dog beach.

Maybe the vacationing family had to leave their own pooch behind at the kennel and was hoping to satisfy a vicarious need to imagine their own Rover bolting after pelicans and hopping waves. Maybe they thought the kids would stop lamenting Rover’s absence by being able to watch busy labs focus obsessively on their fetching sticks. Maybe the kids are unrelenting in their begging for a dog, so the parents chose the off-leash side of the beach to illustrate exactly how challenging life can be with a canine pal. If not, this is surely what occurs to them when they meet Truman…all 85 pounds of love and vigor as he dives into their picnic at 20 miles an hour.

It’s nearly a religious experience; I feel almost deity like, knowing what is about to happen to this family before they even have a second to anticipate the events unfolding in the sliver of their periphery. They don’t know it yet, but the next two-and-a-half minutes are about to define a significant portion of their day, if not the tone of their vacation altogether. At the very least, no doubt they will turn right at the lifeguard station next time. But in the meantime I run. I more than run. I sprint, fighting flip-flops and sand, hollering over the crash of waves and holiday chatter that fills the spaces in between each dog walker; “Truuuuuumaaaan!!! Truuuuumaaan!”

He is still a good 25 yards ahead of me, chasing a god far greater than all the hours or training, schooling, treat-bribery and scolding. Although I know better than to slow down, I realize I won’t make in time. His enormous hound-on-the-hunt-nose will be in the cooler, and depending upon the level of scuttlebutt and screeching I will be able to tell whether or not the family went left instead of right on purpose.

I see them become aware of Truman almost exactly at the moment he skids into their towels, toppling their umbrella, spraying sand all over them as his nose finds its target. For a split second amidst the din I am impressed at his precision. He manages to brake and land at the exact center of a foot-long hoagie, and he emerges so pleased with himself it does not occur to him to run away with his prey. Instead he jogs a circle around us with a triumphant swagger, rubbing it in, taunting the sandwichless.

Surprised, unafraid, undaunted, and not to be denied a picnic, (and all the other clever ways to say “pissed”), the man of the camp shoos Truman away while the children duck, dodge and giggle in shock as the wife leaps up in disgust. “Get him out of here! Roy! Do something! Get him away from the cooler!” Roy is wrangling the sandwich from Truman as I approach reciting the “sorry, sorry, so sorry” speech I have become so familiar with the past five years it spouts from my mouth on reflex. I am a mere 5 feet away, so close to leashing Truman and dragging him from the scene and changing how all of us will remember this day, when he does something even I didn’t see coming.

I try to understand as I replay the scene later, and the only thing I can imagine was going on in his coonhound brain was, “If I can’t eat the sandwiches, at least I can make them mine.” He begins a sprint as I reach for his collar and with a quick lift of his left hind leg he manages to ensure no one else, certainly, will eat the picnic now.