My dad called me this morning and cryptically asked, "Did you read today's Chronicle?"
"Not all of it," I replied, "just a few sections."
"Did you read about that girl and her black Labrador?"
Did I? It was a story that had me melancholy over breakfast. A woman and her fiance were out walking their two dogs along a beach. The dog jumped in the surf, the woman followed to save the dog. Her fiance went in after her. Only the woman was pulled out to sea and her body still hasn't been recovered. The fiance and dog managed to make it back to the sand.
"Yes, Dad, I read that story. It's so sad," I said, wondering why my dad was so interested in my morning reading. Perhaps my parents knew this couple?
"Hey, listen," he said, his voice stern with exasperated authority. "If your dog ever jumps into the ocean, just let her go, okay? Don't jump in after her. She can swim. She can take care of herself. She's a dog."
"Okay, dad. I promise."
He didn't ask me to promise, but I know that's what he wanted to hear. And I meant it. I imagine I'll be the same way with Six and Q.
I think I already am.
