High above the glittering sea, Michel relaxes on the white stone terrace. He stares at the whisky-furred dog lolling on the stone wall in the hot afternoon sun: the animal lies on his back, his four legs aimed skyward: the model of sunning etiquette, sporting a faded blue bandanna tied around his neck.
“Hey, Blue,” Michel calls. The dog rolls onto his side and smiles. He jumps off the stone wall and walks over to Michel. The man kisses the dog’s forehead and kneads the folds of his neck while he unties the bandanna. “It’s time to soak your scarf, Blue.”
Michel drops the cloth into a pan of ice water next to his chair.
A small fishing boat chugs north through the happy choppy sea. Michel can just make it out on the horizon, a tiny speck. He reaches for the bandanna and gently wrings the cloth.
“Here you go, Blue,” he says. The dog rolls onto his back under the man’s posterior. Blue’s nose and mouth are buried in the chair cloth and he knows suffocation for the first time. Michel leans to one side and then the other, fishing for the dog. Blue is struck with terror; his lunch is coming up to drown him.
“Shtph!” and again, “Shtph!” the dog blows out the sides of his mouth.
“There you are,” says Michel. He rolls off the lounge chair onto his knees and pats the dog. “Here, let me put this back on.”
He ties the bandanna around the dog’s neck.
“All set now.”
He pats the smiling dog’s head.
