Salty Dog Society

From May through Labor Day, at the ungodly hour of 6:00 AM on Sunday mornings—when normal people are safely unconscious—Ridley, Bogey, and I (their coffee-dependent human companion) stagger across the beach in full sea turtle patrol gear. We’re on the hunt for turtle tracks, operating less like dedicated conservationists and more like a tiny, sleep-deprived, caffeine-addicted detective squad.

Ridley’s approach: Unhinged, pure joy. He’s the one who screams “GOOD MORNING!” at the seagulls, convinced they’re cheering him on. His motto is “Seize the day, and by seize, I mean before the sun has officially considered rising.”

Bogey’s approach: Pure, distilled contempt. He shuffles 10 feet back, adopting the gait of a Victorian ghost mourning the loss of a reasonable bedtime. He’s actively composing a strongly-worded letter to the Department of Wildlife Management about their appalling lack of consideration for a dog’s sleep schedule.

Ridley treats every dune like he’s personally interviewing it for evidence, while Bogey glares at the pristine sand as if it’s an accomplice to the crime of being awake.

But I’ll admit it: despite the bipolar energy of my two companions—one acting like a cruise director and the other like a lawyer filing for divorce from the morning—there’s an undeniable magic to the pre-dawn beach. It’s quiet, the light is stunning, the air is perfect, and we are, after all, helping save the sea turtles.

Though I’m pretty sure Bogey views the turtles as demanding, ungrateful freeloaders who should learn to use an alarm clock.

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