Pirate's Ship Comes In

Pirate
The Story of his Life Continued...

Craig made his peace with Pirate. But up close, the hellhound, cast away a second time, just looked depressed. He never seemed to think that anyone was talking to him. He wasn’t listening and didn’t care.

I took him to a park where he acted like he’d never had a chance to run on grass or play in water. He was so glad it was pathetic and touching. Then Pirate sailed away in hot pursuit of a cat, heading straight for the end of the field, where a busy highway loomed. I screamed, “PIRATE!” He stopped on a dime. I yelled, “Come ON!” And he flew back at a dead run. I praised him for it.

With just that one command, something clicked with him. He took me in hand and gave me proper training. It was endlessly amusing. I would tell him come here, go there, go left, go out, come back, sit, lie down, and heel. He never was a bouncy, happy, laughing type of dog, though. “Give us a wag,” I would say, and he would wave his tail solemnly twice.

My Pal I took him everywhere. I took him to the lake in the summer with my friends. He liked to race in the water, and he hated to lose. We put our fastest swimmers up against him, but he always nosed them out at the finish. Tirelessly, he swam at heel, then herded us until we were all safely up on rafts. Then if I was lucky, I would scoop him up onto my stomach, where he’d perch, eyes always moving, checking, checking, making sure none of us had floated off or drowned. If I wasn’t lucky he would scramble up on his own and balance stiff-legged. Then our eyes would lock in horror. We’d hear, “PSST! PSST! PSST! PSST!” as his toenails pierced inflated vinyl. In his prime, Pirate sank a raft a week. Continue...