Today’s adventures were supposed to start with a trip to the beach, but the tsunami warning put a dent in those plans.  Carmel Beach was closed when we arrived.  We were standing on the bluffs overlooking the ocean when the tsunami pulse hit, but like the majority of California, it wasn’t really noticeable.  Maybe the water receded a little more and then came back a little higher, but not so much that it would be visible to the average person.  But as it turned out, the beach closure was no big deal.  Plenty of people were walking their dogs around on the bluffs, so we hooked up with a pack of rowdy labs (and a French bulldog who wasted no time showing Mr. bin Laden who was boss), and had a fun time with them instead.  There’s a big patch of tall grass in one area of the bluffs, and for some reason it drives Bernie completely mental.  As soon as he gets in the grass, he goes absolutely insane and starts bouncing around, running in circles, and attacking Linda.  I think he thinks he’s a leopard or some other type of predator who hides in grass.  He loves it.  Linda is less amused.

Today’s Bernie incident happened just after lunch.  One thing I haven’t mentioned yet is that until a week or so ago, we could never get Bernie to go to the bathroom while on a leash.  Don’t ask me why – he just wouldn’t do it.  He never had the slightest qualms about fertilizing the scenery any other time, but something about that leash made him shy.  In the past couple of days, he’s finally started to get over this.  It’s probably more out of desperation than anything else, since we can’t let him run free to use the bathroom anywhere but the beach.  So he’s been doing it when we go to the beach in the morning, but by noon he’s ready to pop after walking around town all day on a leash.  We’ve been very proud of him for starting to get over this weird hang-up, but it almost bit us in the arse today.

Most of the shops in Carmel welcome dogs inside, and usually have a handful of treats for them.  Bernie and Linda make out like bandits, of course, and by lunch they were stuffed silly with dog biscuits.  Bernie’s stomach gets a little upset on such a treat-rich diet, though, so by noon he was whining and grumbling a lot.  We weren’t sure if it was because he had a bellyache or if he was just tired and cranky, which also makes him whiny.  We’d taken him to several dirt patches and tried to coax a crap out of him, but to no avail.  So we shrugged our shoulders and went on with our wandering in and out of stores.  

We went into a shop called the Carmel Bay Company, which sells a variety of eclectic merchandise with a general Carmel/Monterey/central coast theme.  Bear in mind this isn’t some junky tourist trap store – they sell some very nice things in there, and the construction and décor reflect that.  Bernie did his usual treat mooching from the ladies running the store, then settled back into his whining and grumping routine.  We were upstairs, and Linda and I were on the other side of the room from Di and Bernzilla.  I wasn’t looking at them, but all of a sudden I heard Di cry out, “Oh my God, Bernie, no no NO!”  I turned around just in time to see my wife’s and Bernie’s tail ends vanishing down the stairs at top speed, leaving a shocked sales clerk in their wake.  By the time Linda and I caught up, they were outside.  Di told me she just happened to be glancing down at Bernie when she saw his back arch, and he assumed the pooping position.  Only her quick reflexes and hard pulling on the leash snapped him out of it long enough to make it out of the store before Bernie’s cork popped.  And it’s a good thing, too, because I shudder to think what would have happened if the flood of mostly liquid sewage that erupted out of Bernie’s bunghole a minute later had happened in the store.  They had floors of unfinished, unpolished wood, like a rustic log cabin.  A toxic flood like that never would have come out of the wood, but instead would have penetrated to its core like some unholy rancid woodstain from hell (and don’t even get me started about what would have seeped into the cracks between the floorboards).  We would have been paying that cleanup/floor replacement bill for years.  Bernie, for his part, felt like a million bucks after dropping that load of sludge, and pranced around merrily for the next hour or so, blissfully unaware of the near heart attack he gave me and his mom. Diane said she needs to take some kind of stress-relieving drug after a scare like that.  Maybe heroin.

We then did the famous 17-Mile Drive that loops between Carmel and Monterey after that, which winds through the forest and then along the coast next to the world-renowned Pebble Beach golf course.  We got out and walked along one of the many beaches along the way, where we met some other dogs and had an impromptu play session.  

I got a decent portrait of Linda, as well as one of Bernie and his new friend Kelly.

After that, we went back to Carmel Beach to wear any last edges off Bernie, then went to dinner at a local dog-friendly restaurant called "The Forge in the Forest," where they have the greatest French onion soup ever.

They also have a menu for dogs, so Bernie and Linda got their own hot dogs as a snack.

Unfortunately, Bernie’s stomach was still suffering mild aftershocks, so the restaurant will now be renamed "The Fart in the Forest."  At least tomorrow at the tripawd party in Mill Valley, Bernie bin Laden can run free and poop at his leisure.  That’ll be a welcome change of pace. 

fightingforsammy said:

Who is the pretty blond one at the end of the photos?  It looks like that puppy was truly happy.  I love the shot!

None other than the famous Shelby, professional camera hog and one of the longtime members of the Tripawds club.