like having friends over for barbecued steak and beer, like pitching the tent in the backyard for the kids, knowing that they will be back in their beds before midnight, like ice tea on the porch at sunset, like sifting beach sand through one's toes while he and his lover watch the rising sun, some things just become traditional summer activities.

Like taking Reekie, Moo, and Lowlandz's Skye swimming.

Such was how the evening transpired for The Goddess, me, and our wayward hounds/surrogate children, and beloved friends.

It was a perfect evening to take them to the river for a swim. We drove to my hometown, about twenty minutes away, to an old wharf that was once a launch point for ferry services long since replaced by a big, ominous steel bridge. Beside the decaying concrete remains of the dock is a tiny cove with a little beach, a lot of driftwood, and the seclusion of tall grasses and even taller evergreens. Its roundness seems to provide the dogs with a natural boundary past which they know not to swim, for it leads into more open waters.

This evening, we drove along said river, and Reekie knew what was up. Sticking his head out my window, letting the cool evening air fan his face and squint his eyes, he looks for the cove with the eager anticipation of a child. Moo, sticking her head out of The Goddess' window, fur fanning and eyes squinting, follows Reekie's lead, although she is just excited for excited's sake.

We got there as the sun was just starting to set, casting a yellow red glow onto the river. The waters were relatively calm, despite a cool evening breeze; the only waves were created by the occasional speed demon boating by. The wind blew the smell of fresh water into our noses, and provided a plethora of new scents for Moo to stick her snout into the air over. She sniffed the rocks, she dug in the sand, but Reekie was all business.

His business is fetching driftwood. And it does not matter how far I throw it out, he will swim until he retrieves it. This time, however, he had a water shy Moo waiting on the shore for him to rob him of the fruits of his efforts. She would wait, water only halfway up her legs, for him to come into snout's reach, and then she would snatch the stick right out of his mouth.

But it didn't matter. There was always another stick in my hand, ready to throw for him, and the game would start all over again. Moo would retrieve sticks on her own, provided they were not beyond walking distance in the water.

This year, Skye seemed to have over come her fear of the water. Either that, or, as Lowlandz surmises, she just does not want Reekie stealing all the thunder with his swimming bravado. She would fetch from as great a distance as he, and it is all Reekie can do to get the stick before she does.

As the sun began creeping down past the tree line on the opposite shore, casting a rich copper hue on the water and our skin, we knew it was time to head home. The dogs, panting from exertion, fur matted and supersaturated with water, take their time getting back to the cars. Just like kids, the fun should never be over. And it isn't, at least not quite.

On the way home, we all stop for ice cream. Of course, Reekie and Moo devour their small soft serves as though it is their last meal, leaving minute cone crumbs on the back seat, perhaps as a reminder of the evening they had; the sun in their faces, the exotic smells carried by a light wind, the sand between their paws, the rocks underneath them, the water cascading off their coats, the never ending supply of sticks, the insatiable desire to fetch them...

...the time spent with Mummy and Daddy.

Time spent which leaves an indelible snapshot for us.

Thank you, Reekie and Moo.

Be Well