Hank and friends recently took to the waters off Double Bluff Beach, one of his most favoritest of localish spots. Blue skies, blue seas, and high adventure ensued!
The three buddies piled into Hank’s R/V Lab Cruiser and set off aboard the M.V. Kittitas to Whidbey Island. Wheehaw!
Darned if that boat wasn’t thick with dogs doing the same thing, and hoping to get topside for some serendipitously dropped french fries and lots and lots of wind.
Too bad the Washington State Ferries see fit to play the NO DOGS ALLOWED song outside of the car deck, which makes Hank sad every time he hears it.
According to the Washington State Ferries, Hank’s known accomplices are, essentially, cancer sticks and dangerous footgear. Well, somebody’s the Number One something or other back there.
Once the threesome sped off to the more ecumenical Double Bluff area, however, they luxuriated in sunshine, cool waters, and more scents than you could shake a stick at—though there was some lovely stick-shaking to be had.
Such lovely sticks!
Such fetching rocks!
And such cliffs! Such beautiful, complicated cliffs!
It was all almost too much to take in.
Fortunately, “almost too much” did not include “taken by eagles”. Which would have been too much.
Hank tethers his small pals in eagle country.
He also uses them as handy measuring tools. Here Hank has discovered a petrified sea cucumber. Or something. (See Chihuahua for scale).
The day ended with making tracks to Langley-by-the-Sea and a leisurely lounge-about amidst winsome sights…
Yikes! And sounds…
Rowr! And random curiosities…
What Hank really wanted to do was check in on The Dog House.
Which he adores.
The Dog House, which remains, unfortunately, CLOSED.
Closed. As in Not Smokin’. No cleats. No dogs.
Hank’s longtime dream—a Dog-Welcoming Saloon/Hotel/Surf Shop—sits. And stays. Closed. Again. Still.
Established 1908. Closed since about then.
No pitter-patter of little paws…
No theatrical tumbling down rickety stairs…
Nothin’. Pay no attention to that plaque behind the curtain.
So. Scoot your nose closer to the glass for a peek inside:
Those are swinging doors, folks.
Be still Hank’s cowboy heart.
Honestly, now. Could this place just be any better? Could Butte come any more clearly to mind? Can you imagine any spot that Hank Williams Sr. Labrador would rather preside over and sing a little song? (OK, pipe down, Hawai`i. You too, Baja.)
And what’s this fuss about earthquakes, anyhow? Put floats on that puppy. Let it go all houseboat if necessary.
Could there be a better launch?
So Hank waits. And wishes. And waits some more. And thinks, for perhaps the third time, “I wish I had a million dollars!” and, “Maybe this would be a good time for someone to drunk dial Mr. and Mrs. McMenamins!”
Good thing Hank doesn’t have thumbs.
Or is it?
Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.
– Allen Ginsberg