Her favorite ball is red and green. Neither poison ivy, nor bramble bush, nor eroding cliff has stopped retrieval of her treasure. It sits in the cup holder of my truck, waiting for the beach.

Last week we enjoyed one of those blue-green days that visits in mid-October: cloudless sky, gentle southern breeze, sun-warmed sand, and ocean water still holding the heat of summer.

We always park at the far end of the lot where she can walk onto the beach wearing nothing but her red collar. I follow, leash draped over my shoulders, bags in one pocket, her ball in the other, and my phone tucked into a third for picture taking.  Dressed for the season above my bare feet, I am layered for wind and snug in sherpa lined sweats, hooded coat, and knit hat.

After serpentine sniffing over seaweed and through broken shells, she makes her way to the tide line. A chocolate lab, always swimsuited and ready for the water – up to her belly anyway. 

I reach into my pocket and throw. Off she goes, racing it down, snatching it out of the air, a hard u-turn, sand flying, the ball proudly displayed, then dropped at my feet. A game we play until her tongue hangs and she drops to her belly – the ball safe between sandy paws. 

Recently, she had found a new game: drop the ball into the water and play fetch with tumbling waves pitching to the undertow. One flaw: she does not like to go in over her head. So when she dropped the ball and the white water did not tumble up, she just stood, belly deep, head cocked, watching her ball roll over the crest and down the trough of the next wave – making a break for Ireland.

Confused, she looked at me, then the ball, then back at me. Into the waves she bound, vanishing when she hit the drop off. Sputtering to the surface, nose reaching for air, eyes wide open, she scrambled to get her footing. Then bucking through the white water, the undertow racing beneath her, she sprinted, tail tucked until she reached dry sand. Safe, she searched the water, turned to me, then back to the water, then stood on her hind legs pawing and barking for a rescue.

In I went, wearing my heaviest sherpa lined sweats, hooded coat, and knit hat. Knee deep my pants flooded. Chest deep, the cold rushed everywhere. Overhead, I began treading.  Cell phone raised in one hand, the other paddling, I could hear her barking. The wind had it now. The race was on. Legs kicking, arm stroking, choking salty chop, I lunged.

Then I was kicking my way back to the beach, one hand holding my phone, the other clutching her ball. Cold water soaked my hat and spotted my sunglasses as I struggled to keep from swallowing another mouth full of wave. She bounced and circled, racing back and forth barking in celebration.

Then it happened: I stood victorious, phone and ball held high overhead . . . and . . . my sherpas dropped. 

There I stood, pants anchored – wishing I had worn anything underneath.