This week found us over at Hanlan's Point beach sans ball. The angels sighed, the fabric of the time space continuum tore a little bit and the Yorkie whined emphatically. How could we possibly be at the gay nude beach without a ball to entertain Sir Yorkiness. The ball is his elixir. If I was drinking beer, was the Yorkie not entitled to enjoy himself equally, to frolic with the nudies and chase balls like everyone else on the beach?
Luckily we were with a resourceful gentleman, both an entrepreneur and a dog lover. He removed the shoulder strap from his cooler bag and rolled it into a magical ball like shape. Ira was very skeptical at first, but he gave it the old college try. At least someone was throwing something. The strap unravelled upon impact with the sand on the first few throws and resumed its unmagical shape of a cooler shoulder strap. The entrepreneur soldiered on, determined to create the game of fetch the dog so desired. After a few more throws, the strap became tangled and wet, assuming the slightly magical shape of a piece of soggy bark. Good enough thought the Yorkie, game on. And for the next hour he fetched strappy on the beach and out of the lake. A good time was had by all.