Maine Redux

There are no crowds.

The Old Colonial Motel mostly caters to displaced Arcadians, down for a "holiday", and disgruntled dog owners, seeking a room with a pooch privileges.
Maeve waits atop the second bed, looking out the picture window, past the balcony, waiting.
(It's the only time the entire trip that we leave her.)
She isn't happy, but she isn't howling, as we lock Ann's room and head out for dinner.

When we return, Maeve is joyful. Until Ann tells her, "it's Auntie K.K.'s turn to take you down to the beach"... (Seems like it was just my turn a few hours earlier...still...Ann has paid for the vacation....) I hook up Maeve's scarlet harness, avoiding her peace-sign- fabric- lightweight- and waterproof- hand- designed- collar-with heart-shaped- tags. (This dog has more bling than I do.) I unroll the super long, scarlet walking leash--while Ann reminds me: "Maeve hates other dogs. Especially the small ones."

"What if I see another dog on the beach--" I am suddenly very concerned.
"Hold Maeve back. Step on her leash if you have to. She'll look like she's going to be friendly, maybe even allow a mutual butt sniffing, but--"
"But what?!" I panic, glancing out the misted windows.
"She'll go for the throat...or the nose--" Ann calmly informs me.
"Not Maeve?" I can't believe this. The dog weighs about twelve pounds, max. She's seven years old and hardly ferocious. (I have put my fingers between her teeth, retreiving a stuck piece of rawhide, to no reaction) No way would this dog attack--well--maybe a duck or a goose--but that's it.
"She's an only child, Karen. She doesn't play well with others." Ann opens the motel door for us.

Outside, the rain is only a soft fall. (It's still cold as Hell, though.) I am armed with another baggie on my hand and have buttoned my jacket all the way up. My hoody covers my head but does nothing to keep my glasses clear. I peek around the parking lot, on the alert for invading dogs. The parking lot has begun to fill, but no one is walking around.
Maeve, again, refuses to do more than a quick pee at the bottom of the stairs. Immediately, she turns, bolts past me and heads back to the comforts of her mother. I am nearly knocked on my butt as she scuttles up the staircase.

"That was fast--" Ann says, smoking at her kitchenette table, mixing Maeve's dinner. Victoria Stilwell, on ANIMAL PLANET, is admonishing lax puppy owners on t.v.
"Maeve doesn't like the beach--" I drop the sopping leash.
"She doesn't like rain...I know she's gotta poop. She always poops at this time. She knows the schedule..." Ann looks at Maeve lovingly, but sternly. (Ann looks at me with contempt.)
(I feel Victoria staring at us all, from the t.v.) I pull off my hood and sit.
"I guess it's up to me..." Ann moves from the table, grabbing the leash and coaxing Maeve outside.
(Ann's got on her capris, CROCS without sox, a short sleeve, madras peasant shirt, and her cigarette. I am freezing, just watching at her.)

Ten minutes later, she returns. Maeve bouncing in, tongue lolling out the side of her adorable mouth, clearly feeling much better, proceeds.
I ask the inevitable: "Did she poop?"
Ann answers with the obvious: "Of course."

A beaten woman, I return to my single room. I take off my wet clothing. I pull on a thick sweatshirt, bought earlier. MAINE is embroidered across my sagging chest. I click on the t.v. (ANIMAL PLANET is advertising fatal attractions: people with wild animals for pets and how the animals ate them.) Unfortunately, it isn't showing until next week.
I flip stations. I find a horror film on FEAR.NET.

Later in the evening, I hear Ann and Maeve, happily descending the outdoor staircase, then returning. Maeve hasn't barked--even as other dogs and their owners begin to arrive. Ann converses with new arrivals, greeting them as they pass, truly non-chalant. My sister is such a nurse!
(I am decided: in the morning, I will buck up and take Maeve for a beachwalk.)

At six a.m., Ann knocks, Maeve in front of her. Both have sandy feet.
"We've been up since four--must have walked three miles. We met the huge sheepdog two rooms over, the Aussie shepherd, the crazed poodle--"
"How did Maeve handle introductions?" I sit up on my bed, shocked at Ann's good humor.
"I yelled to the owners not to come too near; she's a diva and doesn't make friends. They listened..." Ann lets Maeve off her leash.
The dog immediately explores my kitchenette and bathroom, then returns, smiling.
"What about dogs off leashes?" I scrutinize Ann, looking for any cracks in her too-cool fascade.
"I hollar--the owners come running," Ann scans into the cold but clear morning. "Only a few pea-brains off leash...I hate owners who aren't responsible and make people without dogs hate people with dogs!" Ann moves to the open door, lighting a Marlboro. Maeve watches every move.

I pull the covers up to my chin--just a wee bit horrified that people, and their dogs, are passing by, waving. Ann smiles, wishes all a "great morning", continues to puff in the doorway.

"You hungry? Breakfast at this rennovated schoolhouse--it's a restaurant-- they have an amazing buffet on weekends..." Ann clips Maeve and walks outside.

"We taking her?" I jump from the bed, sprinting for the shower.

"What do you think?" Ann answers, pulling the motel door closed behind them.