Today I took three dogs to a dock diving seminar in Virginia Beach. Two of the dogs with me were mine (Cherry and Smooch), and one belonged to a friend of mine– a duck toller named Titan. I also had my husband and son, along with my friend’s son (the actual owner of Titan). The four of us, plus three dogs and tons of gear, all piled into a rented Dodge Grand Caravan (long story for a different post!) and headed for the beach.
We made pretty good time, barely encountering any traffic along the way, and pulled up a few minutes before 10am. This allowed us enough time to check in, show our rabies certificates, and eye the pool. The pool was an above ground affair, with a large dock at one end (as one might expect). There were distance measurements along the edge of it, and the instructor explained how the jump distances were measured.
And then he brought out one of his dogs to demonstrate. Now, women would understand me on this one, so, if you look down and note that you are NOT female, just follow along. Ok? Ok. So you know when you are at the beach, and you are feeling mighty good, all stretched out on your towel in your new bathing suit? You know, that one that strategically hides your figure flaws, perhaps under a silly skirt ruffle thing, and has extra padding to hoist your no-longer-twenty-something boobs up to your chin? And then, out walks this hot tanned blonde with an impossibly sculpted derrière in a string bikini, and every guy on the beach is staring at her as she saunters slowly past? And sometimes she’ll even stop to let the wind catch her hair and work that angle for her audience? Yeah, that’s what made an appearance. The Weimaraner that came out of the building and joined the trainer on the dock (stopping occasionally to pose and work her audience) was that girl. And she knew it.