As the year turns towards winter, I find myself looking back to our sea dog summer spent at the southernmost point of the continent in the state of Victoria. There, on a stretch of coast between Lakes Entrance and Wilson’s Promontory, is Ninety Mile Beach – an isthmus that holds back the ocean. Behind it, a network of lakes cuts into the land like lacework.

Our destination for my partner’s big birthday holiday, and where we would see out the summer solstice, was The Honeysuckles on Ninety Mile Beach – a collection of shaggy beach houses about 5km east of the tiny town of Sea Spray. Although only last December, those golden weeks spent climbing the sandhills across from our house to walk the long unpatrolled beach, and dipping warily in and out of the water, have already become a sand-tinged memory.

For a real swim we’d head to Sea Spray where, although it was still too early in the season for the beach to be patrolled, we at least shared it with a few other lucky souls. This obviously satisfied our flocking instincts even if it did nothing to outsmart any predators that might have been lurking beneath the waves. (And not just beneath the waves. In my whole life, I have never seen a shark that wasn’t in an aquarium or on film until this summer and this holiday when we spotted not one, but two, cruising black fins along this very beach, but that’s a whole other story.)

So I spent much of my time here sitting on the yellow sand staring out at the turquoise sea. That’s how I made a new summer friend. But even after he introduced himself, he never revealed his name, so for the sake of this story I’ll call him Sea Dog. I’d been watching Sea Dog have the time of his life: chasing sticks into the surf, swimming out beyond the breaking waves, then deftly turning and catching the swell to body surf back to shore. It was a performance worthy of the World Surf League. This dog committed to waves a lot of adults would baulk at. He would then drop the stick at the feet of the human that I’d assumed was one of his family and run back into the water in anticipation of the next throw. Then the whole action would repeat again. And again. And again. He never tired, never faltered in his quest; leaping each time without hesitation into the ocean, swimming out to the stick, his head going under as the rough incoming surf rumbled him, but each time coming back up for air. Then with the stick firmly in his jaws, he’d begin to paddle until he caught a wave. He showed no fear at all of the ocean or its wild inhabitants.

I was amazed at his fealty for the game and at the patience of the stick thrower, surely evidence of the bond developed over millennia in this ancient relationship between humans and canines. But now, the game had come to an end and the human had gone back to his pack who were gathering their belongings in order to leave the beach. I was intrigued when Sea Dog didn’t immediately join them. I’ve witnessed many a dog refuse to go home after an outing. Usually, the leash has to come out and be clipped on. That’s when the dog plants his bottom and his front paws firmly onto the ground and the human is forced to either drag or carry the animal home. What surprised me now was that the leash never made an appearance and the family left the beach without even once looking back. Sea Dog stood nobly on the sand ignoring the desertion.

So, maybe he wasn’t their dog? But looking around I realised there wasn’t anyone else on the beach now. It was nearing lunch time and it seemed that everyone except us had returned to their hearths to satisfy their hunger. My partner continued to play blissfully in the shallow waves, somewhat resembling the labrador I must say, and I was contemplating joining him when Sea Dog walked my way. I said hello. In reply he turned himself to face the water and sat on my foot. I patted his salty black fur as he lovingly dripped saliva all over my beach towel. Of all the feet on all the beaches in the world, Sea Dog had sat on mine. This was going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Perhaps we were even mirroring the start of the loyal relationship between our two species. Picture this: a Neolith is daydreaming beside her campfire when a Canis lupus approaches and sits on her foot. From thereon in, (wo)man and wolf are inseparable. I’m shaken out of my reverie by the more likely picture of the wolf running into the fire circle to snatch whatever was on the grill while the human was distracted by their jar of fermented berries.

As I basked in the warmth of this new found relationship, and the December sun, I watched my partner emerge from the water and walk up the sand until he was standing next to us. I was about to introduce him to Sea Dog but sensed a sudden tension in my new friend; a subtle shift on my foot. That’s when Sea Dog turned to look at me accusingly, as if to ask, “Who the hell is this guy?” Without waiting for my response, he pushed himself up, shook the remaining sand off himself and walked calmly away. Just like that. Not looking back even once.

What had just happened here? I’d been with my partner for over thirty years, and this dog had been with me for all of three minutes, and suddenly it was ‘my way or the highway’? That’s when it dawned on me that the whole relationship had been conducted on his terms, not once in the whole interaction had he done anything but sit around as if he owned the place.

Reeling from the realisation, I watched as he strolled over to a little family that had just arrived on the beach. The children had run to the edge of the surf and the father was setting up their cabana. Mum was sitting on a towel unpacking a picnic basket. Sea Dog flopped down on mum’s foot and turned to look out at the ocean. It was as if our relationship had never happened. This dog was like a furry re-incarnation of the Fonz. He was a rebel without a cause. He was Casablanca cool. He was everyone’s dog and no one’s dog, happy to leave a wave of broken hearts in his wake. Well, he probably was someone’s dog, particularly when it came to dinner time. I imagined there was some old lady somewhere waiting for him to return at twilight, filling his bowl and asking about his day.

Now, firmly entrenched back in my city life, the summer holidays long gone and winter on the approach, I think back to that brief friendship and wonder what my temporary canine companion is doing now that the summer visitors have long left the beach. Who does he befriend in winter as the sharp winds tear in from the South? Does he hang out at the Bowlo? Tee off with the blokes at the golf course on a Friday afternoon? Perhaps mow people’s lawns in exchange for a cuddle? And in the evenings, whilst tucked indoors with his wrangler by a roaring fire, does he ever dream of his lost summer friend?

And when she falls asleep, does he silently leave the house, meandering out onto the    star-sewn night beach, possibly with a little barrel of apology attached to his collar, in search of his friend from this summer past? Does he sit on the cold sand gazing out above the inky ocean into the vastness of the Milky Way and regret so easily walking away? I guess I’ll never know what he’s up to now but we’ll always have Sea Spray. Here’s looking at you Sea Dog.

(Wolf drawing by Henri Breuil, and starry night sky, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.)