Why did we wait so long into spring to start it up again? Julia’s first camera, a pink “Insignia” brand 5 megapixel thingy, broke. I’m fairly certain her mother dropped it.

However, Julia’s Grammy, supplier of the original camera, underwrote the purchase of a new camera (I picked it up on Woot!), a sleek, turquoise(ish) 10 megapixel number from Kodak. Our five year-old has a nicer camera than the family. It has more settings than I know what to do with, but it takes pictures quickly, which is a good thing when folks your mission is to interrupt people during their evening’s perambulations.

We spent Monday night scouring the Jenkintownside looking for dogs to little luck until we found Roxie (below, click to embiggen) and her family marching up Walnut Street. (We should just wait until they pass our house, that’s usually when we see them, but what’s the fun in that?) Benny was with us, which adds a bit of a wrinkle to the process, since I have to help Julia get the camera set while keeping Ben out of traffic or away from the dog.

I have no real notes on Roxie other than she’s a mutt and that she has a black tongue. But she’s our inaugural dog, snapped with the new camera, so we can’t complain. It took a few tries, but eventually Julia remembered to hold the button until the click and to keep her finger and camerastrap away from the lens. Nice job, sweetie.

We had better luck Wednesday, when we found two dogs right outside our house.

More to come.

All pictures courtesy of Julia R. Lester.

From right to left: Bella (sans head), Greta and Karch (judging your soul).

“You know, Karch, like the volleyball player,” the owner said. Um, sure. Let’s go with that.

(Yes, a town exactly one square mile in area has two fire companies because, as it turns out, Catholic houses burn too)

We took a few pictures, but I really don’t have the time to post them all at once, so here is a new friend (with a cameo by Julia’s thumb) that we met at the town square. His name is Rocket

Rocket was named rocket because he, as a puppy, ate a rocket. A toy rocket, mind you, not an Estes model or anything.

That’s a charming naming convention that, if applied universally, would have disastrous consequences. Puppies named Coffee Grounds, Used Condom and Own Shit would flood the borough.

Thankfully, our citizens have some sense of restraint and don’t use those names in public.

Puppies, like this one:

…after the fold…

Duck is a neat little resort town built on or abouts an old naval bombing range. The Army Corps of Engineers maintains a coastal research facility. We tried to finagle a tour, but apparently September is the start of their busy season. I can see why, the water was too rough to swim in the entire time, and few dared to do more than poke their toes in — except for one poor old fool who decided to go in for an evening swim and got himself et (another reason I don’t go in the water).

That’s why (and here’s the segue, kids, we’re getting to the puppies) Aly and I took the kids to Jockey’s Ridge State Park further down the coast in Nag’s Head. The park has these enormous sand dunes where people can sled down or use as a base for hang gliding, It has a lovely visitor center full of stuffed critters, very friendly staff who let us watch a movie about lizards while it rained buckets outside, and some odd bits of history.

(It is a bit of bummer to learn that the place was named Nag’s Head because pirates would hang lanterns around the necks of donkeys and walk them on the ridge to fool passing ships. Thinking the swinging lanterns were ships bobbing on the waves, the passing ships would assume that land was further away, thus making it more likely they’d crash on shore. The pirates would then kill the passengers and take their stuff. Charming. The Kill Devil Hills story is only slightly better.)

They also had a beach at Jockey’s Ridge, but it was on the Roanoke Sound side and, therefore, calm, clear and as warm as bathwater. Lovely for the kiddies. Ben and Julia had a great time in the sand. I dug up a ghost crab at one point, which amused the bathers. Oh, tra la!

We went back a few times and, on one occasion, at least, Julia remembered to bring her camera.

We didn’t get a lot of puppies, just a family of three and a crazy old guy in a kayak.

The family of three included Apollo

Berkley

and Chloe

They passed without incident.

What happened next we saw coming from a few miles off. A kayaker with a dog on his bow. The dog was Miss B, but I’m afraid I don’t remember what sort of dog she was. Miss B’s owner came close to shore so that we could wade out and say hello.

Miss B was a sweet little thing that shook a bit as we got near.

Her owner was a colorful fellow from Virginia who liked to paddle up and down the Sound at any opportunity. He had a full Virginian drawl and loved to tell stories about his paddling adventures and his dogs.

He had a funny story about Miss B’s predecessor…we’ll call him “Mr. A,” since we never exactly caught his name.

The story wasn’t funny in a “ha ha” sort of way.

Not even funny in that weird sort of way that suggests the universe is guided by inscrutable rules of irony and coincidence.

No, I’m talking funny in that “for God’s sake, man, why the @&$*! hell would you tell us this story in front of children, are you mad?” sort of way.

It seems that Mr. A was a delightful little pooch who loved to run and jump and play. He had a precious little bark and, oh, how the children loved him. Anyway…one day, Mr A. was playing on the steps outside the back of the house and fell off the steps, strangling himself on his own leash and collar.

Oh…it would be one thing if that story took but a paragraph to tell. But Miss B’s owner had a fuller version of the story that lasted ten excruciatingly awkward minutes. Of course the first minute or so, you had no idea which direction he was going with the tale. It was fine, and we Lesters are natural, polite listeners. Genny paddled about in his pop-pop’s arms as I held Julia so that she could take pictures.

No, It wasn’t until about halfway through — well past any point would could nicely extricate ourselves — that it sunk in that this story wasn’t going to have a happy ending and that you were going to have to answer questions about Mr. A’s demise on the car ride back to the rental house.

No wonder Miss B looked so nervous, if that was her owner’s favorite pup-related anecdote.

Good times.