Free Cottage Daze by James Ross Page B

now, I show the scar to my children.
    Yes, back then I was just a kid, a mere serf in this domain. Now I am royalty!
    The children are at the shore now, climbing out on swim rock, asking what is for lunch. My wife is awake, giving me orders to put the barbecue on for hot dogs.
    â€œCan you take us out water-skiing after lunch?” the kids ask.
    â€œYou said you’d take me fishing,” my son reminds me.
    â€œAnd you were going to fix the dock this afternoon,” suggests my wife.
    â€œYes, my liege,” says the man who would be king.
    Puppy Love
    I recently introduced a new family pet to life at the cottage. Boomer is a year-old husky, playful, athletic, good-looking, and a little thick. Technically he is no longer a puppy, though he certainly does act like one.
    It was love at first sight for him as far as the cottage goes. And why not? Cottage life is a perfect fit for most dogs. Upon arrival on the three-acre island he is in constant motion. There are so many new sights, smells, and places to explore. As we unpack and get things organized, Boomer and Timba run this way and that. They are just two medium-sized huskies, but sound like a whole herd of elephants as they thunder past.
    With my chores complete, I sit down in the rocker on the front porch and open an ice-cold beverage. I’m asked to light the barbecue, so I set down the beer for just a second and step off the porch. When I turn back I see that the darling pup has pierced the tin with his incisors and is lapping up the spraying liquid. I let out a piercing scream, causing Boomer to dart off into the trees with the can of Kilkenny still clenched in his teeth. It’s my own fault. Why would I leave an almost full tin of cold, crisp ale unguarded? Who could blame the parched canine, overheated from all the running, for satisfying his thirst.
    After dinner I take the kids for a quick ski. Boomer worries greatly about this ritual, people being dragged around the water on a rope, kind of like backwards dog sledding. He paces and whines, and smooches with the children when they return safely to the dock. At one point he leans out too far and tumbles into the lake. He panics and swims under the dock and gets stuck there looking like a drowned rat. I have to get in the water and rescue him.
    We take an evening paddle around the island. Boomer follows us on land, dashing around the trail, alighting on different rocky viewpoints on the shore. When we pass that point, he darts back into the bush and reappears at the next rocky precipice. When we return to the dock, he comes bounding down, slips and slides off and into the water. He tries to swim underneath the stringers and gets stuck. I look at Timba and we both shake our heads.
    I had a restless sleep in the boathouse bunkie that night, as I tossed and turned and dreamt about being on an African safari with elephants, lions, and hyenas circling my tent. The night is filled with all kinds of weird African noises. In a sleepy, half-dazed, early-morning state I stumble to the cabin to put on some coffee, and almost immediately fall into a huge crater that was dug in the middle of the trail. I yell for help, but neither human nor dog responds, so I scramble out of the hole myself. It appears that the dog had been trying to dig up some kind of rodent, perhaps a vole.
    She would welcome the kids back to land — swimming and skiing, were to her, supreme acts of folly.
    Awake now, I look at the scene before me, horrified. It looks like a war zone, even worse than the kids’ bedrooms at home. Somehow Boomer has opened the door to the utility shed and dragged everything out — tools, nails, gas cans, boat oil, pieces of lumber, paintbrushes, tarps, and rope. Every knick-knack necessary for cottage survival is spread about. He has even pulled out the chainsaw and appears to have tried to start it.
    I then find all the cooking utensils that usually hang neatly on the barbecue, scattered about