My people go into the deep

Sometimes these days mum and dad go into the water, then they don't come up. They just make the water go blub-blub-blub, then quiet. I wait and wait, then give them up for dead, roam up the ramp of the dock and poo somewhere they don't want me to poo. Ha. That's what you get for leaving me above the surface. Then later, when I'm starting to miss them, they pop up through the waves again, start peeling off all sorts of heavy and stinky things, shoo-shooing me out of the way.
Mum seems to be enjoying these watery excursions considerably less than Dad. She has a faint pong of panic about her.
They went out in the boat this weekend and did something called a Wreck Dive. First, Dad went with his friends, then just this past weekend he dragged mum. Mum feels obliged because she's always cajoling Dad into doing lovely fun arduous things on land. This is his get-even.
They went here (although this is someone else's video--I didn't film this. I wasn't invited.) 
Who cares what you can see under the surface. As far as I'm concerned, it can't be anything very important. I personally have lost at least two tennis balls in the bay and I have yet to see one of those resurface.
I know what a Wreck Dive is. That's getting on the couch when no one is around, then pouncing on things and breaking them.

The lonely sea and the sky

Ah, back at the sea after a muggy week spent at home in the Interior. Happily my nan and my cousin Murphy came up to visit so the days passed comfortably--many pats, the occasional furtively attempted-and-aborted hump of Murph, some tasty drinks from that massive dog-bowl connected to the beach. The dog-bowl here on the coast tastes so different! So delicious fish-salty! On an unrelated matter, I barf really a lot down here by the sea. Kooky, no?

A couple pics from the week before this last week. These were old friends of mum and dad's supposedly: they smell roughly the same age, and seem very nice. They brought lots of little people. Love the little people. The rub my belly, marvel at my soft fur as if its spun gold (only brown); wobble around shedding crumbs and snacks. Mobile vending machines, only for free.

Some of my loved ones

A bit more about me and mine

Still iffy here, weather-wise, so in between licking the salt water off my paws and passing a bit of gas, perhaps I'll tell you a bit about me and my family and what we've been up to for the last little while.
First of all, I'm eight. That's 51 in dog-years. But dog-years are a crock, a gimmicky bit of arithmetic cooked up by dog-doctors to make your people get all worried about your declining years. Me, as I've said, I'm eight. A dignified age for a dog--bit of grey in my leathers, patches of eczema on my elbows, like the suede on professor's corduroy coat.
My dad is an excellent person, a Fixer of Aches and Pains. Handsome, although a different kind of handsome than me (human-handsome). Once I was chasing stones at the beach and sort of 'misplaced' my rear left haunch. Dad did some of his physio-magic on me, stuck a few needles in my back (I'm tough) and I was as good as new. Sometimes dad travels to other parts of the world to fix people, or to tell other people how to fix other people. He is an excellent Fixer of Aches and Pains.
My mum is also excellent, handsome, etc. In fact, I'd say I take after my mum more than my dad. We have the same hair colour, same doleful expression on our faces a lot of the time. This is a ruse--we're happy inside, we just don't squander our smiles on the undeserving.
Mum is a story-maker. She makes stories on the computer about hearts. I can't believe anyone would pay her to do this, but they do, and for the most part I'm glad. Glad because she stays at home with me most of the days of the year, making the computer stories all day long and sometimes into the night. I can lie on her feet, a furry muse, stockpiling farts then letting them eek out when she's talking on the phone and can't escape.
Dad now has three clinics where he fixes people up. He's busy.
Mum got a promotion and now she travels even more than before, leaving me with my grandparents who are less appreciative of my attempts at communication, my predilection for human beds at 5am. Ah well, I love them. Love them all.

Speaking of the dock...

Here I am, in sunnier, more agile times.

Launching the blog, as I would a big leap from the dock

My name is Sage. I'm a dog. I'm at the cabin with my people and the rain is falling, falling, falling. I would be out in the rain myself, out on the trails, snuffling. The world smells better in the rain. More full. But my people choose to stay indoors, staring at the machine that shows fast-moving images, and occasionally makes the sound of a doorbell. It is fake. Do not run to the door, wasting barks, when the image-machine makes the doorbell sound.