Waving at waves

 or: Can two peeps with two dogs make a La Ola wave?

There is a specific, highly anticipated moment when the local authorities of the Dutch coast throw their hands in the air and officially declare total beach anarchy. By October, the summer tourists are gone, and the municipalities issue a decree that turns the coastline of Zeeland over to its rightful rulers: the dogs.

For our party—two humans and two enthusiastic dogs—this was the cue for our annual pilgrimage to the holy waters that are the North Sea.

Our lil' house in the dunes

The first thing you learn about the North Sea is that nature does not do "gentle breezes." The wind blows with an industrial force, providing a free facial dermabrasion while ensuring your hairstyle remains strictly, permanently fuzzy. 

But for the dogs, it is pure euphoria. They transform into low-flying missiles, sprinting through the surf until the wet sand adheres to their fur with culinary precision. By noon, our little sand torpedoes are fully breaded like four-legged schnitzels.

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Which brings us to a question of physics: Can two peeps with two dogs make a La Ola wave? 

In Vlissingen, home to the longest promenade in the Netherlands, massive container ships glide so close to shore that our dogs viewed them as personal insults. 

Vlissingen harbour

Vlissingen town

Vlissingen beach

The resulting sequence—a dog lunging left, a human dodging right, the second dog leaping, and the other human tripping over a wooden wave-breaker—created a chaotic, undulating ripple of panic. A La Ola of domestic disaster.

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When the high tide swallows the beach, we retreat to the pine forests and bogs, before the relentless headwind eventually drives us toward the nearest beach pavilion. 

 

The beach pavilions are true culinary sanctuaries. Nobody cares that you look like traumatized survivors of a maritime catastrophe. You collapse into a booth, and the dogs immediately crawl under the table to perform a synchronized, heavy-duty full-body shake, effectively returning a solid pound of the coastline to the floor before dropping into a deep, twitching sleep.

By the end of the week, our minds are cleared of all civilized thought, the dogs are fitter than Olympic athletes. And yet, the vacation never truly leaves you. Thanks to the relentless wind, we will continue to find sand embedded in our shoes, our clothes, and somehow, inexplicably, inside the zipped compartments of our wallets for months to come.

Hilda: A triumph of selective genetic compromise

Our 10 year old 15 kg biological cocktail comprises of German Spitz, Jack Russel Terrier, and oddly so, Chesapeake bay Retriever, a combination of breeds that, on paper, should produce a dog capable of sprinting across a field, leaping into a freezing river, and barking ferociously at a passing cloud, all at the same time. However, since there is a black box of 20 other breeds involved, Hilda looked at her genetic blueprint, reviewed the terms and conditions, and politely opted out of almost all of it.

Physically, Hilda is an absolute masterpiece of inheritance. She completely bypassed the Spitz’s evolutionary strategy of looking like an exploded pom-pom. Instead, she wears a smooth tightly tailored coat of black and tan with a bit of grey sprinkles due to her age. Her weight is a direct handout from her Chesapeake Bay ancestors. She is solid. If you were to accidentally trip over Hilda in the dark, you would not hurt the dog; but simply fracture your shin.

It is in her behavioural choices, however, that Hilda truly shines as an individual. The Chessie was engineered over centuries to plunge joyfully into the icy, churning waters of the Atlantic to fetch dead ducks. It is a breed that is, for all practical purposes, half-fish. Hilda hates water with a passion that borders on the religious. To her, rain is a personal insult, and a puddle is an impassable chasm of liquid despair. She prefers her paws dry, her towel warm, and her dignity entirely uncompromised.

Similarly, the Jack Russel in her DNA should compel her to spend twenty-four hours a day vibrating with manic energy, digging through the sofa cushions in search of imaginary badgers. Hilda has decided that this sounds like far too much cardio.

She boasts almost no discernible hunting drive, having calculated that the energy expended chasing wildlife rarely correlates with a satisfactory return on investment. The only notable exceptions to this pacifism are the local cats and squirrels, both of which she hates fiercely.

If Hilda has inherited anything from her clever ancestors, it is an intellect of terrifying precision. But it is an intellect that operates under a strict capitalistic framework. Hilda does not perform tricks for applause. She does not do them out of a desperate desire to please. Her brain operates purely on a "Cash only, and by cash I mean treats, the good ones!" policy. If you have a piece of horse lung, Hilda will happily solve advanced calculus, open a small business, or successfully dismantle a cardboard box with the enthusiasm of a maniacal customs officer. If you do not have treats, Hilda will turn on her Karen-mode, look at you with malevolent pity and demand to speak with the manager.

She is, in short, a wonderful, water-fearing, snack-fueled monument to doing exactly as much as is strictly necessary, and not a single calorie more.

Bruno: Can a dog have spilt personalities?

Test results of Bruno’s DNA came back and revealed a hilarious software package: 60% Eastern Anatolian herding dog (Kars) sprinkled with Shepard dog genes, plus 30% French Pointer, and for the rest it's a mystery box of several pet dogs. This genetic cocktail results in very interesting personality treats.

Bruno loves other dogs but considers human owners highly suspicious. Strangers see an elegant pointer and think, "Oh, let's play fetch!" and he just stares at them with his stoic Anatolian gaze, thinking, "I don't know you. Do you have a permit for this area?" 

When his nose hits the ground, the Pointer takes over and his hearing system completely shuts down while reading the local news. All of them! Be patient and stay calm!

At a mere 20+ kg, he is a featherweight for a livestock guardian. But when trying to herd his family into a neat little pile, he feels like a 100 pound block of granite.

In the evening, the majestic guardian as well as the agile hunter leave the building, and Bruno becomes a couch potato squeezing his body into the tiniest gap on the sofa because his inner 10% convinces him he is a tiny lapdog.

The Verdict: Besides Bruno currently being in his peak teenager mode, he is a cute and smart pup, and eager to learn and explore. Obedience remains a mere option though, and every command goes through a strict review: "Does this benefit a) our security or b) my stomach? No? Then I'll skip it." 

A professional dog trainer has been summoned to make an appearance shortly. We'll see how that goes...