I woke at my customary early hour and used the time before Ellie and George woke for a good, quiet meditation. Then down to the shore, the three of us, for a walk at dawn to the extreme north end of the beach. George, as usual, in heaven, free to run as far as either of us could manage to throw the ball for him before charging back, ball firmly clamped between his jaws, impatient for the next challenge. There were a number of other dog-walkers at this time of day, a few challenges for ball possession from larger pooches, but George is not to be beaten at his own game. He’s fast.
We stopped at a local coffee shop on the way back to our room. Ellie disappointed to discover they had run out of their supply of black English breakfast tea—a habit she has acquired over years of living with a Brit who is unreconstructed in at least two matters: the morning tea and marmalade for breakfast. No other country, including this America, has managed to understand the difference between marmalade and orange jam. In this instance, Ellie was reduced to settling for an Italian latte.
Back at the hotel, we were treated to a breakfast “basket”—muffins, some butter and jam, and a hard-boiled egg—much of which was left uneaten. A little while later, we hit the sidewalks of Carmel in search of a New York Times and a special restaurant for our last dinner before leaving this dog-friendly tourist haven. We found both—the former only after many false leads, the last copy in the rack at a liquor store. The NYT sales department would be proud of our persistence.
One thing you can say about George: he is a smile maker. It’s a wonderful quality. Walk down any street with George, and you’ll manage to create a dozen smiles. In the course of any given day, he can be relied on to create hundreds of them. Plus, of course, the inquiries into what kind of a dog he is (a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, as I’m sure I have mentioned recently.) Occasionally, as today, we will run into another of his breed—in this case a “tri”, a tricolor, black, white and brown.
(We ran into her at a coffee shop,
where we were surprised to find that dogs were permitted inside the café, joining their people gathered around the tables there.) George, by the way, brown and white only, is a “Blenheim”—pronounced, please, in the English manner, “blenim.” He takes the widespread admiration in stride, allowing his admirers a brief pat or two, but without pandering for more.
Speaking of dogs, Carmel boasts what has to be the most elaborate dog paraphernalia shop on the face of the earth. It’s called, I think, Doggidy-dog—or some such thing—and we stopped by to admire the wares...
... from home-baked doggies birthday cakes to capes and sweaters and thrones of all shapes and sizes. We abstained. I for one am not a fan of doggie-designer items. George plays with a tennis ball, rescued from the disposal bin at the local tennis courts, not some fancy rubber bone or stuffed animal. Sniff.
We shared a ham-and-cheese Panini for a light lunch, and repaired shortly to our hotel room for a nap and an hour or so with our books before starting the packing process for an early departure, Thursday. The restaurant we had located earlier in the day, on our rounds, proved a winner. Grasing’s. We sat outside, in a courtyard behind the main restaurant, and shared throughout: excellent onion tart for a starter, a first-rate Caesar salad (with real anchovies, a treat for P), and rack of lamb accompanied by a very pleasant glass of Pinot Noir. Leaving room, at the end, for chocolate mousse cake a la mode.
All of which Ellie managed to enjoy with George planted sleepily on her lap.
You may say this dog is pampered…
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