A Moveable Target - Opus' Version

One evening I returned to the Beagle to find three tents, two cots and five young children clamoring around my pitch.  Had this been the middle of summer, I would not have been surprised.  But the campground was mostly empty; why was this group of apparently three families crammed right next to me?

Trying to stave off a bad mood, I said hello to them as I entered Beagle and they gave me a cheery hello in response.  In campground life, it is important to make that first connection immediately.  If you see each other a few times before saying hello then a tension builds that is difficult to overcome.  

From what I have experienced, campers come in two types:  The type who camp to get away from it all and will rarely say hello (yours truly) and those who camp to be more social.

It appears my neighbors camp to be more social.  The three families shared time around a campfire (four feet from Beagle, filling my environment with a constant stream of smoke) or playing the game where you attempt to toss a bean bag into a hole.  Clearly not a very talented group, I was treated to the thump, thump, thump of the bags hitting the boards; a nice break from the almost constant shriek of children.

Around 10:00 PM (standard quiet hours in a campground) my patience with it all was beginning to wane.  In a vain attempt to drown out the kids, I had turned up my podcast to the point I felt Sam Harris was yelling at me (he and I have enough issues without yelling at each other) but the turning point was when I heard the kids running between Beagle and Wurzig; entering another person’s pitch, even if yours is less than five feet away, is a social faux pas.

Trying to keep my smoke-agitated voice friendly and my temper in check, I opened my door a crack to ask the kids to play somewhere else.

Opus raced out the door.

Free at last to chase the squirrels he had been watching for days while tied to Beagle.

River went into hysterics. 

It was pitch black.

I changed out of my pajamas.

Every so often you could see a white blur jetting from one bush to the next.  I knew there was no way to catch him but wanted to alert other campers in case he found his way into their pitch.  I leashed up River and walked around to a few sites where people were outside enjoying a campfire.

River continued to whine and cry.

People decided to help.  As you may recall, in catching Opus there is no help.  So despite me saying it won’t work, soon there were three people out with flashlights trying to corner Opus. 

Cornering Opus in a Campground; just when he thought there wasn’t a better game than Chasing Opus in a Dog Park.

Then a lady decided to bring out her German Shepherd as a lure.  Sure enough, Opus began to circle around the Shepherd, barking manically, as the lady kept walking toward the Beagle.  River, who was tied up, began to sound like something out of the Hound of the Baskervilles; howling, crying, sounding like she was being tortured. 

Nothing quiet about these hours; no one was sleeping now.

Eventually I convinced the woman to take her dog back home.

After a good hour of racing around Opus appeared at the back of Beagle.  I had been sitting outside, bundled up against the cold, occasionally squeezing his favorite toy.  He stared at me, panting, from fifteen feet away.

My neighbors had just grilled some chicken and tried to grab Opus when he came over for a bite.  They made the mistake of giving him the chicken without grabbing his collar first.  Classic dine and dash.

They gave me a piece and Opus followed me to Beagle’s door.  He would not come in but he did sit still while I walked up to him, grabbed his collar and fed him chicken.  Just like he planned.

***

That was one of my final nights in a campground.  As I write this, I am sitting inside my room at Kismit, the house soon to be mine.   My door opens to the back yard (delightfully Opus proof) a combination of pavers, grass and ornamental plants including a fig tree.  I walk through the yard to cook my meals in Beagle while the noses chase each other around.  Half the time I cannot believe my good fortune and the other half I find it odd that I am basically living like a poor college student.

The house closing has moved up a few days to January 29^th, Kismit passed inspection with flying colors.  I am anxious to get to work on upgrades but am trying to keep a low profile; I have been the seller with an excited buyer before and it is difficult to see someone else making plans for your house.   I pick up paint and flooring samples and hide them in my room.

The noses and I are working out our routines; the six mile round trip walk into town only happens about three times a week—it is a little tiring for River.  The three mile round trip to the dog park happens on the other days, every evening we walk to the beach and watch the sun say goodnight.  Today is my first day to drop in on the tennis group—turns out I did have the wrong courts on that fateful day in 2018.

As most of you know, the click of a digit is not an impetus for me to change perspective.  But driving into Morro Bay on New Year's Day, with the rock and the smoke stacks standing before the shimmering sea, I was struck by it actually being 2019 and then was immediately filled with a quiet, peaceful joy.

-K

PS:  Dairy report:  Butter and Parmesan cheese have made it back into my diet.  It takes so little of them to make broccoli taste extraordinary I figured it was worth it.  I did have an ice cream on New Year's Eve, it was sweet and delicious and I treasured every minute; it will be a long time before I taste that again.