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186 FirstFriends T he morning after June and I didn’t qualify for the semi­ finals of the World Sheepdog Trials was cool and foggy. I didn’t attend the semifinals. The dogs and I hiked across sand dunes toward the distant beach. Other dog­walkers appeared and disap­ peared in the fog but none came near. It was a morning for mistakes, for getting turned around and walking miles and miles and miles through the sand. If visions are not created equal, I suppose mine had been one of the better ones. The Mister and Missus explored. The tide was out and shorebirds pa­ trolled and pecked in the dark sand where the ocean had been. I perched on the wreck of a plastic bucket that had floated from some­ where else. Shreds of plastic twine entangled driftwood. Bleached, scuffed plastic somethings were half buried in the sand. A gull’s caw was sweeter and lonelier than the ravens’ cry back home. The leaves would be turning on our north slopes, first the walnuts, then the gold oaks and the shocking red maples. Soon it would frost and wood smoke would curl from our chimney. On this faraway shore, Luke and June rolled in the sand. They shook themselves and rolled again. Luke grinned. June’s tongue lolled. After a time, June came and lay beside me. Luke was busy on a scent trail but when he noticed that we were still, he returned and flopped down on my other side. June licked her paws. Waves hissed against the wide Atlantic beach. Puzzled, Luke frowned and thumped his tail tentatively. When that First Friends 187 drew no response, he got up, shook himself, and shouldered into a sand roll. He writhed. Four furry feet waved in the air. My dog grinned like a fool. “Come on, Boss,” Luke said. “Wave your feet! Give us a roll!” Would that I could. ...

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