I stood mostly naked near the bow of the boat in the early hours of a Thursday morning. The sun hadn’t risen, and it was damp and chilly in my underwear. I hoped other boats anchored nearby wouldn’t witness this act of indignity. Desperate times require desperate measures, I told myself, as I contemplated the orange traffic cone standing before me atop a square yard of fake grass.
It was our sixth day into a month-long cruise aboard Indiscretion, and neither of our two dogs had availed themselves of this onboard privy, despite long passages and persistent coaxing by captain and crew.
On walks back home, they’d let go great streams on every one of these we encountered, barely sniffing it first. Even at the end of a long walk with bladders long emptied, they would find a way to dribble urine at the base of these bright orange beacons. They could not resist.
This gave us the brilliant idea for of a “Porch Pottie” for the dogs to relieve themselves without the hassle of shore leave. We even bought an aerosol spray to mimic the scent they most desire before the act.
“Maybe you should pee on it first,” Lisa suggested on the second day of the cruise. We had chugged along for 14 hours our first day out, with many fruitless trips underway to the traffic cone with the dogs.
“There is no way I’m doing that,” I said. “They’ll figure it out. They’re smart dogs.”
Thus, every morning began the same way. A persistent urging for the dogs to do their business at the traffic cone just beyond the Portuguese bridge. Zero interest. They wouldn’t even smell it. Tugging them to the cone with the leash felt like pushing the wrong ends of powerful magnets together. After ten or twenty minutes with both dogs looking at us like we were crazy, we’d relent and go ashore in the tender.
By the fourth day at anchor, the dogs took sport in the morning routine. If they humored us long enough with confused looks and a strong aversion to the orange cone, they would get to go for a walk afterward. Joyous barks and yips erupted once I began futzing with the tender. They had won again.
“You need to pee on it,” Lisa encouraged. Like that would make any difference.
Cruising with dogs is very popular. I’d say most trawlers we meet have a dog aboard. The necessity of frequent trips ashore means we explore beaches and inland areas of the anchorages while other boaters might stay afloat. Dogs warm up a cold sea berth and stand watch with you on blustery evenings at anchor. Even on our smallest sailboats, we had a dog along. I can’t think of a better way to travel or vacation with a dog than on a boat.
We didn’t know how good we had it with Bouncer, a small Boston Terrier that traveled with us on every cruise we took aboard our sailboat. Bouncer seldom barked. She slept a good part of the day and night. Her bathroom duties were carried out without fuss: she would step carefully into the dinghy in the morning, taking in the watery surroundings as we rowed or motored along, her front paws up on the bow of the inflatable. We had a leash for her somewhere rolling around the bottom of the boat, but we rarely needed it. She would jump out as soon as the dinghy touched the sand, trot about ten yards and pee, then poop. She took no notice of other dogs. She was usually back in the dinghy before I had a chance to properly tie up, ready for breakfast, and then snuggle back into a berth with one of the kids.
“I miss that little dog,” I muttered, feeling sorry for myself as I stared at the traffic cone, and thought about how different our life is now aboard the trawler with Franklin and Preston.
Franklin is a four-year-old Puggle, a cross between a Pug and Beagle, and the only dog we’ve owned that can’t be trusted off-leash. Should our front door be left ajar momentarily as you carry in the groceries, this sly little bastard will dart between your legs and race to freedom, looking over his shoulder with a look of delight and mischief before disappearing into the woods. Calling him is pointless. His brain is routed through his snout, and the outdoor smells are much more interesting than our shouts to come back. We’ve tried chasing him, but he sees this as a terrific keep-away game, his eyes flashing with mirth as he darts in and out of reach. Eventually, he grows tired or hungry, and trots home, clearly pleased with himself. It’s hard to be mad at him when he loves these romps so much. We live in a rural part of Vashon Island, so there’s not too much trouble this little fella can find here at home. However, afloat and in strange ports, we all worry about what might happen if Franklin were to escape on one of his adventures. One hand for the ship, one hand for Franklin’s leash.
He did escape in Roche Harbor, leaping in a flash from the cockpit to the narrow port side deck, and then down to the dock. In his excitement, he took a wrong turn down a dead-end, but soon reversed course and galloped at full speed toward the dock entrance and freedom. It was blind luck that Connor and Lisa intercepted him on their way back to the boat. We might still be looking for him had he made it to dry land.
Franklin defends our home against would-be intruders with a combination bark-howl that you have to experience to understand. It’s impressive. He employs this howl-bark to repel the UPS truck when it visits our home. Franklin runs from door to window, making a god-awful ruckus for a good three minutes until, sure enough, the truck decides the danger is too great and drives off (after leaving our packages and shaking his head). This near-daily occurrence has reinforced Franklin’s belief that if he barks and howls as loud as possible, the dreaded enemy will eventually retreat.
We hoped Franklin might be less possessive on the boat. Not so much. He soon learned that if he sits on the upper pilot berth in the back of the wheelhouse, he can enjoy a near 360-degree vista surrounding the boat. A fellow trawler captain dared to slowly cruise by and wave – to Franklin’s shock and outrage. He launched into howl-bark mode until the trawler was out of sight, saving us yet again. Ugh. He also defends the boat from kayakers, paddle-boarders, and any form of bird, in particular, the tame Cackling Geese we encountered in large numbers at Sucia Island. These, it turns out, are Franklin’s arch-enemy; his Moriarties. No amount of treats or admonishments could convince him otherwise.
Dog number two is Preston, a five-year-old Boston Terrier, the same breed as our beloved Bouncer, yet so, so different. He’s massive, tipping the scale at 35 pounds which is an outlier for Bostons, yet all muscle and gristle. He’s a rescue dog with extreme anxiety issues. He warmed to Lisa and the kids right away after we adopted him, but he wouldn’t come near me, especially if I wore a baseball cap. After a few months he decided I was OK, and now loves us all unconditionally. Other people or dogs outside our family unit, however, are Not OK. He has nipped more than one of our house guests and has a complete fit should another dog have the nerve to meet us on a walk. He’s a bundle of nervous energy that no amount of love, or CBD, seems to diminish.
Also, he has poop anxiety. He must have been abused as a puppy, for he refuses to poop while in the presence of others. This is a problem on a boat. On a cruise last summer, he went three days without pooping. By day two of the trip, his eyes appeared even bulgier, and his butt was definitely puckering, but he refused to go. Finally, after a long trek on the third day, a volley of poops shot out of his bum while he carried on down the trail. He did not squat or even stop. They just flew out, and he kept walking, apparently making the case that the impossibly large pile of poop on the trail came from some other dog. He’s done better on this trip, but it’s still a celebration when Preston has a bowel movement.
While Preston has his issues, he is without question the smartest dog we’ve ever owned. His understanding of English is unrivaled. He communicates his intentions and desires very clearly and responds with joy once you finally understand him. He runs circles around Franklin’s somewhat dimmer intelligence. Should Franklin have a toy that Preston wants, he runs to the basement door and barks until Franklin races down the stairs, through the doggie door, and outside to our fenced yard, seeking out the intruder. Preston then takes the dropped toy for himself. Franklin falls for this every time.
Franklin’s whimpers had commenced early this morning. I nestled further into the blankets to block out the sound, which repeated just often enough to reawaken me.
“The dog needs to go ashore,” Lisa informed me from her side of the berth. Her voice contained a trace of accusation as if peeing on the damn cone would solve all our canine issues.
“Aah ump,” came my muffled reply.
As sleep faded, I began to think through the sequence of events that must soon unfold to stop that dog’s whimpering. I would get up and dress. I would get the dogs ready for sea: collars, leashes, doggie life jackets. I would bring the tender around to the stern and warm up the engine. Our anchorage doesn’t include a dinghy dock, and the tender is too large and heavy to beach, so I would need to deploy an anchor. I would load the dogs into the tender and head for land through the chop. About 20 feet from shore, I would hurl the Anchor Buddy over the stern, goose the engine a bit, and quickly raise the prop, so it doesn’t hit bottom. I would lash the leashes of the dogs to the rail while I leap off the bow into the frigid water to pull the 800 pound craft up near the shore. Wet and sandy, I would secure the tender and hoist the dogs out on to the beach to do their business.
This assumes, I mused, that the beach at this early hour is empty. Meeting another dog would spell serious Trouble.
Each dog comports himself reasonably well alone, but some pack chemistry born into their genes a millennia ago transforms them into would-be killers when they meet another dog together. On a quiet walk up the dock, they are angels, taking in exciting smells, jostling each other good-naturedly, smiles apparent on their canine mugs. Yet, the second we encounter a dog – a Poodle or, heaven forbid, a German Shepherd, the fangs come out, and pandemonium ensues. Restrained by their leashes, they often set upon on each other, snarling and biting. Folks emerge from their boats to observe the carnage, and dog people along the docks look on in dismay. I know that feeling. I’ve been there with my docile dog, wondering what in the hell is wrong with those awful dog owners who can’t control their dogs. And yet I am now that guy, tugging ineffectively at the leashes of two gnashing demons, blood-lusting for the nervous Poodle, the tail-wagging Lab, the puzzled Shepherd.
As a result, one person cannot take both dogs anywhere we might meet another dog. Two humans must form an escort to maintain any semblance of order.
“You’ll have to go with me,” I told Lisa as I came fully awake.
“Why won’t you just pee on the damn thing?” She moaned back.
And so, it finally happened. In the growing light on this Thursday morning at sea, I let go a great stream of piss, covering the cone, grass, and a bit of my bare left foot as I misjudged the strength of the breeze.
Did it work? Did the dogs finally grasp the purpose of the great orange cone after their alpha dog modeled the way? No. If anything, they viewed the apparatus (and me) with even more mistrust.
I cleaned most of the sand out of the tender from another morning expedition with the dogs. I was finally ready for that first cup of coffee.
And still, despite the hassle of frequent trips ashore at ungodly hours, and the anxiety of what might happen when we invite friends with dogs to the boat, we wouldn’t consider cruising without our canine mates. They’re part of our family, after all. And they bring us joy in their own peculiar ways.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Lisa said, smiling at me. Both dogs were fast asleep on the settee beside her. “I didn’t really think it would work.”
