Meet Bert our rescue dog.

So we got this dog last March. His name is Bert. He came with it. Bert’s a 3 year old little short-haired white rescue dog. Claims he’s a Finnish Spitz which is probably about as accurate as claiming I’m a nephew of Napoleon.  In both cases a resemblance howsoever barely. Let him have his airs. As a rescue dog, he’s entitled to his misguided sense of self. As long as he feels good about it.

Dog owners, I’ve discovered, can talk fairly incessantly about their dogs. And in the 8 months we’ve had Bert I’ve thought of a lot of things I can say about Bert and about having a dog-being in the household. So I’m creating a Bert folder and this installation is Bert 1.  It’s not about Bert as much as it is about me, one of my favorite subjects.

I, of course, was counseled regarding introducing Bert into our household. I had to give serious consideration to this new under-18 dependent that didn’t merit a tax deduction. Sure, I agreed gamely, a house-broken, gentle dog with a ready smile as seen from the tail-end, would be welcome. Just one condition. My contribution to Bert’s well-being would consist of petting him. That’s it. I would pet him and say good dog.

Bert’s a great dog. It’s grand to see him happy. Who knows the sadness in him from leaving a household and owner(s) who taught him his domesticated manners. In our house he gets only kind words, 2 square a day and some awesome neighborhood sniffing around.

And I’ve stuck to my commitment. I’m not a jerk about it. I’ll give him the occasional walk and stand-in on occasion at feeding time. But, for the most part, I pet him. He seems happy with that. As am I.

You wonder. What is this driver thinking? Is he on the phone? A self-appointed speed vigilante? Unaware of traffic etiquette? Or simply oblivious?

Recently, I had the “opportunity” to ride shotgun with a colleague who occupied the left lane. As we cruised along, we enjoyed the animus of tailgaters, lights flashers and those of the obscene gesture persuasion who took umbrage at our occupation of the left lane. For my part, I wanted to either strangle the driver or crawl onto the floor of the backseat. Instead I asked the question to which we ALL want know the answer:

Why are you driving in the left lane?

The answer was as revealing as it was simple. There were 3 points:

1. This driver liked the open road. She liked the feel that no one was in front of her. And, to be sure, when you’re driving slower than traffic, most of it that can get past you leaves you in the dust. But for you, the road ahead is clear.
2. For this driver the left lane was the least threatening.  Of three lanes, we all know that entering and exiting traffic in the right most lane presents a constant challenge to the through traffic driver. But what I learned from my left lane lover was her aversion to the center lane. Seems like, with traffic on both sides, there’s just too much going on to be comfortable there. Okay then. Maybe see someone about that.
3. I-thought-so: “I’m going fast enough.” Or “traffic is moving fast enough.”  Love the spirit of vigilantism.  My speed is the right speed.

I still think most slow left lane drivers are oblivious. More commonly they’re on their phone with a brain a 1000 miles away from their corporeal presence. It was gratifying to have the opportunity to understand what is in the mind of at least one slow left lane driver. It doesn’t mean I like them any better.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My fortune is good enough to enjoy this lake proximity. But not good enough to stare out my window and listen to the waves. I live about 2 miles from the lake, a short bike ride if I were so inclined. But the lazy truth is I drive to the beach carting enough beach paraphernalia that would make a bike ride a shlep. And the prospect of pedaling home with the same crap wearing my wet bathing suit with sand chafing in my, well, you get the idea. So I drive to the beach.

Where I live, the lake sits below bluffs of 150 to 200 feet, part of the lake border moraines formed about 14,000 years ago. Although I could park in a lot at lake level, I choose to leave my car in the parking lot of the municipal park on the bluff and walk down the 88 magnificently crafted stone steps, part of an original design by famous landscape architect Jens Jensen. The bluff is alive and shifts a bit from season to season creating all manner of havoc with the stone step structure. Our park district (the parks & recreation department to those of you outside of Illinois) does a courageous job of maintaining the integrity of these steps. I feel it is my obligation to walk them in appreciation.

On the bluff, even on the hottest days of which today is one, there is usually a breeze which makes one forget about air conditioning. Looking seaward, or lake-ward, one can eye an occasional passing freighter, but more often than not it is just azure blue dotted by various flavors of pleasure craft. And down below come the sounds of people frolicking in the almost comfortable 70 degree water. The smell of grilled-something rises from the picknickers. It is heavenly.

I grab my gear and descend the historic steps embedded into the ancient bluff. Choosing my location – sun or no sun – I set up shop. I may listen to the Cub game often timing my sunbathing to the ½ innings – front, back, shade. Or I may study one section of the NY Times. The beach helps me keep perspective on the miserable fortunes of my baseball team or of the desperate state of our world presented by the NYT. Down here, the breeze is muted and in time I get sufficiently toasty. Then there is only one thing to do. Go for a swim.