Most of my social life happens by the sea. That’s where my owner and I walk every day, and that’s where I meet other dogs.
Here on the island, dogs fall into two groups: locals and visitors from the mainland. Naturally, it’s the locals I see most often. Making friends isn’t always easy, though. Many of us are rescues, with heavy pasts. Like my buddy Ritchie.
There’s one little white dog — I don’t know her breed. Her lady took her from a shelter almost 10 years ago. She lives in love and care now, but she still clings to her lady’s legs, trembling whenever someone approaches. Who knows what she went through? Was she beaten? Abused? Hard to imagine. She’s so tiny and fragile.
Then there’s Stanley. Adopted five years ago, also from a shelter. He’s a good dog at heart, but his past left scars. Nervous, unpredictable. He often refuses to follow his lady and heads home mid-walk. He’s nearly always on a leash. With Stanley, I don’t push it — just a polite hello. I can see how wary he is of the world.
Sometimes, size gets in the way of friendships. The small ones bark their heads off at me, too scared to do anything else. And yes, I still have this annoying habit of trying to climb on my friends — what can I say, nobody’s taken that instinct away from me. But I know when to stop: if dogs, their owners, or especially my owner frown at me, I back off. Anyway, with age, I can’t keep up with the young sprinters anymore.
A pair I get along with well is Baloo and Tinka, brother and sister. Both rescues. I’ve known them since my first days here. Baloo came from Romania — a serious guy, now walking in a muzzle after a recent incident.
Tinka is from Russia, with Siberian husky blood in her veins. Bright face, slim build, independent spirit. She loves to explore the shoreline far ahead of her human, but always returns the moment she realises she’s gone too far. She’s the kind who can run 15 kilometres before breakfast — while her human does 5. Mine calls him “the project man” because he’s constantly juggling unfinished ideas.
I once thought about flirting with Tinka — but quickly understood: not the type. She’s too serious for that. And Baloo always keeps watch.
My closest friend was Luna, a Labrador girl. We had the best games together.
Then her legs started failing her, and play was no longer allowed. My owner would leash me near her, just to protect her. She crossed the rainbow bridge last year. I miss her. Whenever I see her owner now, I always give a special bark — not asking for a treat, but as if to say: “I know you’re Luna’s owner. I remember.” These days, he’s on magazine covers and TV screens, advertising something for free. A local “celebrity.” But for me, he’ll always be Luna’s owner. And with Luna… life was good.
Our little pack here is truly international—Mochi the corgi — Welsh, bred for herding. Tobi was Scottish. Baloo, from Newfoundland — Canadian (or maybe Danish, depending on who you ask). Ritchie, an American Bandog. Luna, Labrador — cousin to Baloo, descended from the St. John’s water dog of Canada. (Though some say the breed came from Portugal.) There’s also a red Golden Irish, and a fiery little black Scottish terrier who just can’t stand me. No idea why. Our owners cross the road when we meet, just to avoid fireworks.
So yes, it’s a mixed, colourful company — different origins, characters, sizes, looks. And somehow, it works. We coexist. More or less peacefully.
Check out the photo gallery at the link below.
See you on the shore.
Vanya 🐾
