Most years we tend to move mountains each January to find homes for the menagerie of pets we have on land in Maine. The dog is easy, the cat a bit less so, the fish theoretically very simple, but the chickens are a bit sticky, as they tend to be homebodies and also don’t love playing with others.
With a bit of effort we find a way, and then come down here completely pet-less, which is really quite lovely, and also a bit sad. When you’re used to the tapping claws on the wood floor, the tail thwumping against the walls, and the cat yelling at you because he’s always on the wrong side of the door, it feels like we’re missing components sometimes. (Also after our most recent grocery run, we’re REALLY missing the almost-free fresh eggs.)
A few islands can be measured in the number of stray cats lolling about in shady spots (and Violet does indeed count), iguanas are spotted around as well, but there are always dogs. Most can fit into the same category: remarkably healthy-looking strays, all of roughly the same size, similar coat and body shape, and thanks to a fellow sailor and dear friend who introduced us to the idea, we call them all Ginger. (Most, but certainly not all, have that general coat color.)
We end up finding a Ginger on almost every spot we land, and if we’re lucky, she enjoys the company of a family missing their hound. Ginger has found us in Treasure Cay, and sits on the dock waiting for us to pop our heads out, so we can give her a bit of love (and also a bit of cheese, or whatever nibble we have). She started to walk into town with us yesterday, but clearly knows the demarcations of her territory, so peeled off at a certain point. She’ll be back again today, I’m sure.
The local dogs are all called potcakes, which doesn’t roll off the tongue, but refers to the sticky cake of rice burned onto the bottom of the pot that people would feed to them. As one who loves burned food, any house I would have lived in likely wouldn’t have participated in that naming, and perhaps we would have gone with something I don’t enjoy, like “leftovers”, which makes more sense for strays anyway. (Wait… NO one asked me?! Huh.)
In a sharp and often miserable contrast to the potcakes, the wave of Canadian and northern-climed American retirees that flock here tend to bring yappy dogs that find their voice whenever any occasion calls, such as a Tuesday at 11:19am, or when a leaf blows by. Our friends here named one such pack The Jerks, and now it’s so wonderfully stuck in my brain, it’ll never leave. Instead of gliding gracefully along the roadsides like the Leftovers (ahem, Potcakes) do, they ride with clothing and matching harnesses in the laps of their people while out for morning golf cart rides. And they bark. Oh my gosh with the barking…
In non-canine news, our Echo Charger comes today (it charges our starting battery from the house bank, exciting stuff), and we’ll do our ‘Big Shop’ to really fill the holds with dry goods, since the Exumas (and anywhere much further south that we’ll stop) will only have little, very expensive options. Hopefully a propane fill as well.
We’ll then run over to Man O’ War to see friends for a night, before hopefully finding a mooring to tuck into Hope Town for a big blow this weekend. All of the little things, hopefully fitting into place. Now to see if Ginger wants to go for a walk…
