Years ago, my parents retired and moved to the coast. Darrell and I and our girls would go down and visit frequently. They had a big, beautiful dog named Gus that they had had on the farm which they brought with them to their new home at the beach. We all loved Gus – he was gentle and loved everyone. My folks hadn’t raised him from the beginning - he was given to them so we didn’t know his background. But he was the best.

When we’d visit them, he’d go out and run up and down on the beach. He seemed to love the freedom and the broad expanse of sand which he could cover in no time at all. Everyone was very happy with the way things were, but then something happened. I don’t remember the circumstances, but my brother told me that every so often, Gus would tear up into the trees when he was walking with my dad. He’d dash up there, be gone a few minutes and then run back. He seemed very happy after his little excursions, so he and my dad would continue on their walks. He didn’t do it all the time, so there was no reason for concern. He always came back, so there was no worry that he was going to run away. But it finally came out that Gus wasn’t just sight-seeing, he was killing sheep. Who knew there were sheep up there, but I guess there were because someone recognized Gus and told the owners. The owners spoke to my dad, and shortly thereafter Gus was moved to a farm way out in the country where he could run and live a good life. I hope it wasn’t a sheep ranch! We all missed Gus as we thought he was special, and I guess he was in his own way. The picture is of Gus, Teri and Darrell on the sand.