HanktheDog Blog

The first thing that strikes me is how quietly they congregate in the semi-darkness. They arrive singley or in small groups like tall, elegant shorebirds silhouetted against the lighter color of the sand. Some unfold beach chairs and speak with one another in soft voices; others just stand silently, their hands folded in front of them or behind. I can hear the small waves lapping on the beach.

At first, I can't understand why I'm on the leash. In this park, I'm usually free to roam and swim. But this morning is different. I pant and look at the humans, puzzled and put out. But I also sense the difference of the occasion.

As it grows a bit lighter, a man steps in front of the loose congregation and welcomes us. There's a soft hymn, which stops me panting and sets me listening. Then the man tells the story of another morning long ago, of some people entering a tomb empty of a friend's body and yet inhabited by angels.

And as the story continues, the shoreline grows brighter and the sun begins rising over the water. It's a fine morning, and the people begin to sing again, this time more loudly. At the same time, we hear other distant voices rising up as well, voices coming from other congregations of people along other parts of the shoreline. I hear even better than they, of course. I hear not only their hymns but the songs of the birds in the palms and oaks behind us, of the quickening breeze, of a seagull calling out somewhere on the shoreline. Even the smells change. There's a quickening now, an indefinable sense of excitement. They stand and hold hands, and I stand as well, in anticipation. There are hugs and people stroke my back, and my tail wags.

In the end, I get to swim after all. It's not a baptism, exactly, but at least a kind of celebration. Most of the people have gone but I remain, swimming in waters now dazzling in the morning light, watching as a single bright sail moves across the newly blue horizon.