On Friday night we had some sort of canine bacchanal. The tide was very low, and they began barking as soon as we stepped out the door. They pulled me toward the beach like live divining rods! They had me stumbling in the dark down the steep hill. They pulled me straight toward the water and charged in chest deep. The low tide had exposed the oyster company's seeding baskets. The agitated surface of the inlet was clearly affecting the dogs' mood. I hauled them back and skirted along the waterline, but we ran into a mudflat. It was serious business getting back to dry land: I could hardly keep my boots on because of the suction. The ragged clouds passing over the moon changed shape every ten seconds.

As we crossed the mudflat I noticed that the clam digging areas were divided into sectors with wire mesh. I tried to lead them back to a sandy area, where the choppy waves could do a minimal cleansing of their beslimed underbellies. But no, these curs that earlier had charged into the water now wouldn't let me lead them into it! They tried to lunge back toward the mudflat.

With more of a pull than usual, I persuaded them to start back up the hill. On a sunny day earlier in the week I had taken the rank hound out on the deck and given her a painstaking standup bath. Now my work was entirely undone: her belly looked like a salamander, and it was too cold and windy for another bath.

The dogs have their own sofa, covered with a blanket to absorb their mud. I could only hope that they would settle soon on the sofa. But no, the dramatic storminess of the night had affected them, and they walked about in an agitated manner. That was when I noticed: the floor was covered with dozens of bloody paw prints. Evidently the hound had cut her paw-pad on one of the wire mesh barriers in the clam-beds. I rinsed her paw with warm water and hydrogen peroxide.