Pooch
Pooch was my father's dog. He lived in Charleston, South Carolina. My father liked to sail and surf, and so did Pooch. When my father and his brothers sailed, Pooch rode in the bow. When they surfed, Pooch paddled after them.
When a surfboard popped loose out from under any of the boys, Pooch would swim after it and try to ride it in.
Usually he just pushed it to the beach, because his paws kept slipping off as he churned away behind it.
But one day he really did get hold and scrambled up. For one glorious moment in his little dog life, he stood up tall on a surfboard and rode a gentle wave, while all those present cheered.
My father was not a liar — the farthest thing from it. But as he got older, late in the evening, after a glass of gin, whenever he got to remembering Charleston, his glasses took on a rosy glow, and he would think of Pooch. Sometimes, Pooch surfed every day. But usually he rode the famous wave just once. He got on by himself and rode it all the way in.
The picture of Pooch and Daddy was taken in 1916.