Ellie and her Flock

At all our campsites along the coast, Ellie and I have gone on a long, early morning walk on whatever beach we've been at. At Bullard's Beach, our most recent site, it was a 1 mile walk to the beach on-leash, then about a half-mile out along the beach off-leash, then back on leash for the walk back to camp on the paved trail. Typically, all this happens about 8 a.m. We leave Steve sipping his coffee and surfing the internet on the laptop. We haven't been able to get a good signal from the campground here, however, so the last two mornings, before we were up and out the door, Steve had packed up his coffee and the laptop and driven the car down to the beach parking lot, where the signal is good.

All went as usual on the walk until we hit the beach parking lot. Ellie of course recognized the car and pulled us over, tail wagging frantically, to greet "Dad," whom she had not seen for all of about 15 minutes. That done, Steve still computing, we headed over the little dune toward the beach. Or at least I headed. Ellie couldn't believe we were leaving Steve behind, to the mercy of who-knows-what. I tugged at the leash, got her over the dune and on the beach, then unsnapped the leash from her collar so she could run, chase sticks, chase gulls, her usual. Instead, she started heading back up the dune towards Steve. "Ellie, come!" She hesitated, then came. Reluctantly. I kept walking. She sat down, looking back toward the way we came. I called her again. She came again, sat down again. We repeated this process several more times. Normally, I don't profess to read minds, especially non-human ones, but I could read Ellie's loud and clear: Are you crazy? Where are you going? What about Dad? We can't just leave him! Something might happen. Something bad! No! No! Don't just keep walking farther and farther away. I have to keep this flock together. That's my job. Come back! Come back! Okay, if you won't come back, I'll come get you. Okay, I've got you, now let's just turn around like a good sheep and. . . oh no, you're doing it again. Listen to me!

After about 20 minutes of this, I gave up, turned around and said with a sigh,"Okay, you win. Go find Dad." Ears up, tail up, she was off like a shot, body low to the ground and running for all she was worth. She must have trusted that once I was turned around in the right direction I would be okay, because I only rated one quick look over her shoulder to make sure I was still coming before she disappeared up the trail and over the dune. When I got back to the parking lot, she was already there of course, lying next to the car, but watchful and alert. Oh, there you are, she seemed to be saying. I knew you'd make it. I got back in the nick of time. There was this attack squirrel. . . .