There’s only so much New Hamphire beach. A strip, really, is all it is. But that strip is where I live and love. So don’t bad mouth it.

It’s where our dog Mason roams. Mason gets distracted by all of the smells circulating in the Atlantic’s crisp and salty breeze, and subsequently, he entertains us with his attention deficit disorder. That’s what we’d call it if he were human. And, in that light, we do refer to him as our fur child.

He has this untrained by-a-real-family-of-dogs tactic of sprinting full speed at the various ducks and sea gulls he spots soaking in the luxurious summer sun. They flap and fly, seeing him barrelling from a distance, and we laugh and wonder what he’s thinking.

Does Mason think we built our home with our bare hands? Do we control the electronics with a god-like ability to shed light? Do we mentally power the car we transport our whole family to Wallis Sands with, with our minds?

No matter.

He believes in the love. And honestly, that’s what’s important.