I like to sit on the picnic tables by Double Bluff Beach on Whidbey Island, a place I can’t easily access, and watch Leslie walk with Gus. We tend to leave Seattle at dawn on these ventures and catch the first ferry over. I take books and my ledgers and pens. Leslie takes wellies and binoculars and dog treats.

That morning, I spotted a dog limping towards me. I could see the dog was down a leg. Me and that dog, we both could have used a ramp to the beach. So goes the struggle.

I moved to the car when the sun disappeared behind dark clouds. Gus soon hurled himself into the passenger seat. He looked happy: sand in fur; paws damp from adventure. Leslie showed me shots of Gus and a three-legged dog chasing each other. Sylvia, the owner told her, had an aggressive form of cancer that necessitated the removal of her back right leg. The surgery had not been successful; the cancer still remained. This trip was meant to be a last romp.

Gus incited play, barking at Sylvia in the downward dog position. She gave chase. They tumbled and tussled, owners amazed at the connection. “I didn’t think she still had it in her,” said Sylvia’s companion to Leslie. Gus ran his crazy eights, loops and loops. Tracing an infinity sign in the sand. His mark.

There’s something about recognition here. About sheer abandon. Joy in pain. The moments that erupt when we see the temporary and the beautiful.