If Chihuahuas Could Talk

Just like people, I suspect not every dog automatically loves the beach. Take a chihuahua, for instance. Typically, they enjoy being cuddled, carried around in the crook of a young lady’s arm, or nestled in a canvas bag above the crosswalk of heavy footsteps. While rambling barefoot along the oceanfront this morning, I passed a gal sunbathing on a blue striped towel. She didn’t seem to mind reclining close to the shoreline beyond the reach of crashing waves. Like a sleep number bed, the sandy beach conformed to her body shape. The Winter sun was brightly shining. Although the temperature was rising, the cooling sea breezes felt refreshing. About six feet away the tiny brown dog was sitting with a look of displeasure on its face. One paw was raised above the beach as if to keep the fine, loose grains from getting between its toes. It slowly turned in my direction, blinked its eyes, and shifted uncomfortably as though a few light brownish pebbles had already lodged into the derrière folds of its short fur bottom. I could practically read the chihuahua’s thoughts:”This is ridiculous!”

“How much longer are we going to be here?”

“I’m thirsty and this ocean water tastes like salt.”

“I have sand in my ears.”

“I have sand between my toes.”

“I have sand in my butt cheeks.”

“And I want to go home!”

If only chihuahuas could talk. 

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