This is The Dog on the freebie beach in Sardinia. Yep. The Dog digging again. We escaped there for 10 days of R & R... I was accused of being nervous, hysterical and a poor dinner guest. I agreed so, I grabbed The Dog and we took the next boat. I should have taken a peek at a calendar though. We arrived smacked at the beginning of the August Vacations. Big mistake. You don't want to be around Italians... any & all Italians... furious for Fun & Frolic on their own professed shores. Yes, because, these actual shores belong to The Sardinia Region... a semi-quasi-sort-of republic. Seems logical. There is a sizeable body of water separating the island from the Italian peninsula. This half-baked distinction means the Sardinians get to keep some of their own tax monies, unlike the rest of Italy. Their Euros have to go to Rome. Must be why the Italians invade every August. Revenge.
But, enough...
There was a second reason for going to France... Sweden... or even to little tiny Switzerland, for cryin' out loud... over sailing to Sardinia. The Dog dug up sleeping yellow jackets. Yep. August is just about the time those critters wake-up & pester the world. The Dog & I had to beat a very hasty retreat to the car and high-tail it for home.
That was fine. The Dog resumed Nap #43 on the cool marble floor of the apartment and I watched Shakespeare in Love... what a bunch of icky Hollywood dribble called acting. But then, what does Gwenyth know how to do otherwise? She doesn't even look good in Ralph Lauren... while sipping an excellent Sardinian Vermentino.
And, we never went back to the beach again. Gads.
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