Welcome to Dog Beach (11 page)

“I guess he just seems to want to hang out with Calvin more than I thought he would,” I say. “Know what I mean?”

She puts her feet up on the support beam in the folding table. “I guess so. Maybe. He's just Bennett.” She hands a white shovel to a little kid who's all out of breath from running over the sand. “I haven't thought about it.”

I ponder this for a few seconds. Is it new for me to think about Bennett this much? Maybe I didn't used to think about him at all. I wonder when this really started, and when it will stop. I wonder if there's anything I can do about it.

I drop the subject. Then Micayla spends forever telling me this story about her brother and how his bus broke down on the way back from Washington, DC, and he ended up spending the night at the house of someone he met on the bus. It's not really that interesting a story, but the way Micayla tells it, it sounds like a plot to some crazy movie.

Things start to feel more normal between us.

The Saturday We Tennis team wins the contest, and everyone runs down to see their sandcastle. They built it to look like a town house—tall, with square windows and a steep front stoop.

The Seagate Sandcastle Contest has loose rules—it's not limited to only traditional castles. All kinds of homes are acceptable. And that's what makes it different.

When the contest is over, Micayla, Bennett, and I walk
home together. After Micayla and Bennett drop me off, I think more about the fact that I guess I am thinking about Bennett. And I know that sounds totally crazy—thinking about thinking about something.

Over dinner, my parents can tell I'm acting a little strange, because they keep asking me if there's something on my mind.

I don't want to tell them about Bennett, though. It just doesn't feel like the kind of conversation you have with your parents.

The next morning, Micayla, Bennett, and I meet
at Oscar's house. It makes me laugh that we think of it as his house instead of Dawn's house or her husband's house or even the babies' house. But the truth is, we know Oscar better than we know any of the others.

We know that Oscar likes to sit with us for a few minutes before we go out. I know we're not exactly having a conversation, but it almost feels like we're catching each other up on what has happened overnight or in some cases over the past few hours. We sit on the couch, Oscar sits in front of us, and we take turns petting him. His breathing slows down when we do this, and he looks so relaxed. It could be the way the white part of his fur curves, but I swear he even has a smile on his furry face.

After a few minutes of that, Oscar sips his water, we pack
up some treats in a little Tupperware container, and we head out. We leave Dawn either asleep on the couch or dealing with at least one crying baby.

We may leave with a calm Oscar, but we never leave a calm Dawn behind (unless she's asleep). And she always thanks us a million times.

Even though Micayla didn't start out as one of Oscar's dog sitters, she's quickly become his favorite. Maybe he can sense that she has allergies, so she stays back a little, and that's what makes him more attached to her. Whatever it is, Oscar loves Micayla, and when he's around, Micayla doesn't even really mind sneezing so much.

We have the same routine every day. We walk down to the boardwalk and then head over to Dog Beach, where Oscar plays with his friends, usually dogs that are much smaller than he is.

When we first started bringing him to the beach, he usually ignored Snowball and Marshmallow, but now they get along really well. They always chase each other at the beginning, and then when it seems like they need a break, they lie down in a circle with their paws in the middle facing each other.

They're a little crew who seem to pretty much ignore all the other dogs around them. Marshmallow and Snowball are smaller and daintier, kind of like Micayla and me. Oscar is bigger and more outgoing, like Bennett.

I watch them from across the sand, and I swear they're
even starting to look like us. I've heard that people can start to look like their dogs, but this may be taking it a bit too far—they're not even our dogs!

“Oscar is so kind,” Micayla says. “Don't you see how he's always looking out for the other dogs? That black Lab just fell down and Oscar went to check on him.”

“He's awesome,” Bennett adds. “He seems like the camp counselor at the dog park, always going around to make sure the other dogs are having fun.”

Just then Amber rushes up to us and taps me on the shoulder. “Hi, Remy, so sorry to barge in on you, but your mom said you were here. Would you mind keeping an eye on Marilyn Monroe for a second?” She smiles at me and then turns to face Micayla. “I'm not sure who is more inquisitive, my dog or my toddler! I guess my toddler, because he's running away!” She says the last part as she chases Hudson down the beach.

I'm so happy to see Marilyn Monroe on a day other than Monday or Wednesday that I bend down and scoop her up into my arms and give her a million kisses. Today, she has a purple bow in her hair, and the light brown part of her fur is looking extra light, almost like she's been tanning.

It's my first time seeing Marilyn Monroe at Dog Beach, and she runs around wildly, faster than any of the other dogs, stopping every five seconds to smell a section of sand or to study the dog closest to her. At Dog Beach, Marilyn Monroe has a constant expression of contentment. It seems
like she's about to say, “This is nice. I'll take it,” every time she stops moving.

I guess Oscar notices me by another dog, so he runs over and sits at our feet.

“Hi, Oscie,” I say. “Are you jealous?”

He stands up on his back legs and scratches his paw against the top of my jean shorts. I pet him for a little while, and Bennett gives Marilyn Monroe some attention. Soon, Micayla comes over with the Maltese twins, and before I realize what's going on, we're in a circle surrounded by dogs.

We look like a magazine advertisement for dog food.

“Guys, look at us!” I yell. “We are surrounded by dogs.” I'm not really a yeller, but between the barking and the sounds of the ocean, I'm forced to raise my voice.

“We must look crazy,” Micayla shouts.

“We should start a doggie day camp,” Bennett suggests. “Like Seagate Day Camp, but for dogs! Look, they love us!”

First Mr. Brookfield said it, and now Bennett, and the more we talk about it, the more I wish it was a real idea and not just a funny thing to think about.

We start coming up with all the activities we could do in our doggie day camp—totally in a joking way—but even discussing it is so much fun. We decide we could even safely offer instructional swim in the ocean, since dogs are already good swimmers. And we could serve lunch on Dog Beach.

“It'll be better than the Seagate Day Camp lunch,” Bennett says. “We were practically eating dog food to begin with!”

Seagate Day Camp used to have a cook named Trey Fischer, and my mom said he was some musician back in the day. He loved cooking—he just wasn't very good at it. His lunches were pretty terrible. He somehow found a way to ruin grilled cheese. Eventually he retired, and now kids bring their lunches from home. It's much better that way.

“Thank you guys so much,” Amber says, now pushing Hudson in a jogging stroller as he shoves Cheerios into his mouth. All parents have jogging strollers on Seagate—they're the only ones tough enough to maneuver on the sand. “Come on, Mari,” Amber says. But Marilyn Monroe just stays where she is, lying on the sand, with Micayla rubbing her belly.

“Well, this is the happiest I've seen her since we've gotten to Seagate, except when she's with you, Remy,” Amber admits. “Normally she has a dog walker in the city, since I have my hands full with this one.” She points to the stroller. “I think she's felt neglected.”

Wow. There really is a need for a doggie support group. All these dog owners admit that their dogs aren't getting the attention they need.

“Everyone loves Dog Beach,” I admit. “Even humans.”

Amber attempts to put Marilyn Monroe in the second seat in the stroller, and Bennett bursts out laughing. I elbow him to get him to stop, but in all fairness, it's just so funny. Soon Micayla is laughing too, and once two of us are cracking up, the third one can't help but laugh.

“It's crazy, I know.” Amber is laughing along with us now.
“I should let her walk, but I need to get home quickly.”

She puts Marilyn Monroe in the seat, only for her to hop back out. This happens three or four times, and then Amber turns to us. “Hey, I have a wacky idea. You guys can totally say no. I know this isn't in your set hours, but, Remy, you are so good with her. And you're here anyway. Do you have any interest in keeping an eye on her for a little while longer? And then walking her home?” She raises her eyebrows. “I'd pay you extra, of course.”

The three of us look at each other, moving our eyebrows up and down, doing weird blinking patterns, trying to communicate with our eyes.

“Sure!” we all say at the same time.

“Thank you.” Amber smiles. “I had a feeling Remy would have awesome friends.”

We spend another hour at Dog Beach, playing with the dogs, running around with them, and joking that we're on the path to really running a doggie day camp.

After that, we return Oscar to Dawn, and Marilyn Monroe to Amber, and we tell them that we're available for walks in the afternoon if they need us.

“So you're making all this dog-watching money,” Bennett says to me as we're walking home. “Are you saving up for something?”

I shrug. “I haven't thought about it really.”

“Well, there's a new iPhone coming out in September; you can always get that,” Micayla suggests.

“Maybe.” It does sound cool, but I feel weird taking these people's money, since I enjoy watching the dogs and spending time with them so much. In some ways, I feel like I should be paying
them
. Spending time with these pups has helped me so much when I'm sad and missing Danish. It's not like he's been replaced, but spending time with other dogs is better than spending time without any dogs at all. In the back of my mind, I've already decided that I'm going to donate the money to an animal shelter in Manhattan when we get home.

We're all so tired after the morning of dog-sitting that we head down to the pool and get side-by-side lounge chairs and decide to pull a Mr. Brookfield and take an afternoon nap right out in the open.

“Psst,” I hear Micayla say, from the lounge chair next to me.

“I'm sleeping,” I mumble, even though I know that won't stop Micayla from talking. We made a pact at a sleepover when we were eight that we could always wake each other up if we had something to say. And we've never broken that pact.

“Do you think it's weird that people trust us so much with their dogs?” she whispers.

“No, they can tell we're dog people,” I assure her. “Dog people can sense other dog people. It's kind of like how moms can tell if another woman is a mom too.”

“Is that true?” Micayla asks.

“I think so.”

“Okay,” Micayla says, and closes her eyes again.

But after that, I'm pretty convinced my afternoon nap is over. I've never been much of a napper. My mom says that getting me to nap even as a baby was pretty difficult, that the only place I'd really nap was in the stroller on the boardwalk. Obviously this only worked in the summer months, so winter in New York City was kind of hard.

I look over at my two friends, sleeping peacefully on the beautiful royal blue lounge chairs, and I realize that though things may be different this summer—it's strange without Danish, and we didn't expect to be dog-sitting—maybe different is okay. Maybe I can get used to different.

After the pool, I'm home, sitting on the front porch
with my mom, when Mr. Brookfield walks over and asks to talk to her. That's something about Seagate that's probably the most different thing of all—people rarely use the phone; they'll just walk to someone's house to talk to them. It's kind of like we're living in olden times, in a tiny village.