Page 26 January 24, 2014
DAN’S PAPERS
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Tippy, Farewell My Wee Beastie They say that losing a pet is like losing a child. Naturally, the loss of a pet can’t really compare to the loss of a child. Still, losing a cherished pet can be very painful and has its own little grieving process. A few days ago, we lost our cairn terrier, Tippy. She lived to be 19 years old and was surrounded by love her whole life. She looked just like the world’s most famous cairn terrier, Toto, from The Wizard of Oz. Small and scruffy, but oh, those big brown eyes.
Some people say Tippy was spoiled, just because she trained her people to hold an umbrella for her whenever she went to go potty in the rain. Like all dogs, Tippy was as much an individual as a person. She was very clever, and even downright sneaky at times. I recall taking my kids to school in our minivan, dropping them off and continuing on to the first chore of the day, which was frequently grocery shopping. About half-way between the school and the grocery store, just far enough that she realized
I wouldn’t turn around and take a family who loved umbrellas and her home, a small black dog who we simply wanted to test our new had been hiding under the third umbrellas and they just happen seat in the van would quietly to coincide with Tippy’s bladder and casually slip over the front schedule. console and into the passenger’s Our daughter, now in her 20s, seat, looking out the window. She has only just recently recovered wouldn’t make eye contact—she from Tippy jumping up on the knew she wasn’t supposed to be table during her eighth birthday there. She knew as soon as I got party and eating most of the her home I was going to punish chocolate birthday cake before her mercilessly. But maybe anybody could catch her. I would just use a small stick. For myself, I recall a morning Okay, maybe with a little mercy. when I put my plate of poached Maybe I was occasionally swayed eggs on toast and a cup of coffee by enthusiastic kisses and pitiful with hazelnut creamer on the looks and maybe the stick was table next to the couch. I went actually a piece of bacon. to answer a quick phone call Tippy was one of those dogs Tippy’s tongue hanging out and returned to find my eggs who could tell time. People don’t gone, the toast licked clean and often believe me, but I believe many dogs can the coffee also gone. I never saw the culprit, tell time. Tippy loved her people and she knew and I can’t prove a thing, but I have my when it was time for someone to come home. At suspicions. around such a time, she would sit by the door Rest in peace our darling wee beastie, we will patiently until that person arrived because she miss you, sweet lassie. knew everybody needed to be greeted, jumped on and licked every time they came home. It didn’t matter if they were gone an hour or a year. The heart does not know time. Some people said Tippy was spoiled, just because she didn’t like to go potty outside in the rain and had trained her people to hold an umbrella for her whenever she went to go potty outside in the rain. The truth is, we were Bigstock.om
By sally flynn
This is the Hamptons!
GUEST (Continued from previous page) was mahogany and fishing, and the almost 180 degrees of ocean from the elevated platform upon which we were building deck. I had to catch a fish. Had to. We finished building the club in early June. I drove up 27 and the ocean parkway one night to meet my Uncle Jimmy in Long Beach, and see the Rush concert at Jones Beach. I left that night with his old, ratty 9 foot surf caster and a popper that was “friggin nuts” and would definitely work. There were a couple schools of fish out a few hundred yards in late june, too far to cast to. Finally, in mid July, they were in real close. The unusually chilly July air sat pretty still under some high, thick clouds. I saw the schools boiling out there around noon. I ran up the beach, up the long stairs, around the club and under the deck, grabbed the surfcaster and ran back, I got to the edge of the shore-breakers, and cast. Nope. I just couldn’t cast anywhere near that far. I tried a dozen more times. The beach was almost completely empty, except for a few construction guys at different houses, and a guy in an orange shirt, jeans, and boots sitting on the beach a couple houses east, all watching the schools. I walked up to the lifeguard stand, and dragged the 11 foot rescue board into the waves, got past the breakers, and hopped on. I felt like I probably looked stupid and thought the orange shirt guy probably thought so too. I paddled out one-handed, grasping the surfcaster with the other, and drifted to a stop about 100 yards out. The very light north wind left the water cold and almost glassy. 20 yards
ahead of me boiled underwater the dark red school, wound into a squished ball, splashing on the surface. . Every now and then or so a medium to large sized bluefish would pop a foot out of the water, looking surprised and hungry, then air swim into the surface, leave a football sized splash, and blast down into the darkness. I sat up on the board and took a few nervous kicks back, getting ready to cast. You don’t want to get too close to that. When frenzied those things will bite your toes off. A couple years ago there was a surfer and lifeguard massacre across Southampton. Over the series of a few days in late july, a half dozen different ocean aficionados got chunks of ankle and foot removed by prehistoric choppers. Sunburned, skinny, disappointed looking, giant foot-cast wearing dudes on crutches were everywhere. I leaned back on the buoyant board and cast well past the school twice. Nothing. On the third cast i got a big hit, and i was ready for it. Sort of. I was holding the rod tight enough but the thing was pulling me right into the school. Not good. I laid down, let out some line and one-arm-back-paddled and worked the fish around the school. He started swimming away from the school. The fight was on. He tugged, I reeled. I paddled with and against him and reeled and let out line and got towed and pulled and paddled and paddled and finally he was weak, and I towed him back to shore. He was quite diffident. I got about chest deep
and dragged the bright, big blue in through the breakers. He got rolled twice, and then lay there flopping in the sand. “Lifegad tooda rescue!” I looked behind me and the ostensibly mustachioed orange-shirt guy was right there, on his feet and psyched. The construction guys who were watching were in various stages of head shaking and smiling, like someone told a dirty joke in front of kids. Orange shirt guy spouted, “Go gettim byda tail!” I obeyed. This guy knew his stuff and knew i didn’t. “Whoa man dat was awesome. Thanks fuh doinat, i been fishin fora lawng time, an i aint neva seenat!” “Thanks man. What do i do?” “Dats good eatin. Puttim on Ice, gutim, filletim, an cook it onna webba in some tin foil. Friggin awesome. I gotta go back to work, friggin awesome man.” I put the fish on ice and a little later did the best I could to fillet it. I put both of the fillets in the club’s fridge, one marinating in some of Tennis Pro’s orange juice (sorry, Frank) and the other in Italian Dressing with crushed pretzel. I put them on the giant club gas grill in tin foil and steamed them up good, and took them off when i thought they were ready. I enjoyed the ocean’s gift on the club’s new teak tables with club staff and a couple members. The fillets were delicious, but I’m happy to try again and do better.