Flight Risk
The sun had just begun to dip toward the horizon when Jacques made his move. Dog Beach stretched endlessly before us, a wild expanse of sand and surf, and he—my 70-pound freight train of a puppy—was tearing through it like he’d just discovered what legs were for. Pure, unfiltered joy radiated from him as he splashed through the ankle-high waves, a colt on the run, oblivious to the universe.
And then it happened.
Jacques, sweet Jacques, spotted the sea. Not just the edge of it, not the friendly shoreline—the sea. The endless, churning monster of a Pacific Ocean that on this day was flexing its muscles with a rip current nasty enough to pull under Poseidon himself. Before I could even process the danger, he was heading for it, legs pumping, tongue lolling out, that goddamned defiant glint in his eyes. He wasn’t running to the sea; he was running through it, straight toward oblivion.
“Jacques!” I screamed, my voice shredded with panic. The other dogs stopped, glanced at me, and then returned to their own pursuits. But Jacques? No. He had locked in on his mission, and I was suddenly cast as the lunatic dog owner—sprinting after him, arms flailing, the beach’s resident madman. It didn’t help my case that Del Mar’s glistening temple of beachside perfection—a haven of perky dog owners wrapped in Vuori, Patagonia and Lululemon—was suddenly hosting a lunatic in a fresh mohawk, a faded Slayer hoodie, and cargo shorts that looked like they’d lost a fight with a weed whacker.
By the time I reached him, he was near the waterline. One more stride and he’d be in the rip current, a white speck in the vast blue. Fueled by equal parts fear and fury, I caught him, cornered him, dragged him back. He looked at me, panting, smiling that smug, puppy smile as if to say, “What’s the problem?”
That’s when it hit me. Jacques wasn’t just a puppy; he was a loose cannon. A chaos agent with no regard for rules or, apparently, his own mortality. The beach had turned into a high-stakes battlefield, and I had no control. The thought of losing him—of watching him disappear into the surf—was too much. Something had to change.
So, Jacques is now one week into his three-week boot camp with an elite dog trainer. It’s the kind of operation where they don’t just train your dog; they help them find the confidence and freedom that come with solid recall. It makes off-leash walks not just possible, but enjoyable. Jacques needs it, and frankly, so do I. The house feels empty without him, sure, but it’s a necessary void—a temporary absence to guarantee a permanent solution. When he comes back, he’ll be ready. Ready to run, ready to play, and most importantly, ready to come back when I call.
Dog Beach will be waiting. And so will I.