“That’s it, you stupid mutt! You’re on your own. I don’t care if you get lost. Go find some other human to put up with your shit!” I hunch forward, hands on my knees and gasping, trying to get air into my lungs. I watch Coco running along the beach chasing the same seagull that she spotted the moment we stepped onto the sand this morning.

Our morning walks on the beach would be so much better if there were no birds. I mean, can’t the gulls wait for me to take my walk and then come out for their morning fly-by on the way to find their breakfast for the day?

I don’t sleep much, so as the sun starts to rise, I find that the most peaceful time of the day to walk. Clear out my night thoughts and try to let the new day flow into my body. It gets my creativity started. Routine has become my savior from my haunting memories.

Coco’s barking snaps me out of my thoughts. Looking up, I see her stopped and focusing out into the waves. The early-morning surfers are out getting their fix from the saltwater before they head off for their day jobs. I see the same ones every day, and the ones that are addicted are usually back in the afternoon. Obviously, they can’t get enough. I understand that type of addiction.

I often wonder who they are and where they come from. Are they teachers, bankers, scientists? Or the guy who stocks the shelves at the supermarket?

That’s my problem. My head has a story for everyone I see in the world. I blame my dad. He had the wildest imagination, and I obviously inherited it. Every night when he put me to bed, instead of reading me a story, he would make one up. Sometimes it matched the pictures of the book I picked, but most of the time we didn’t even bother with a book. Mom would complain every night when I would be giggling loudly or shouting out to the imaginary dragon that I was riding to fly higher in the clouds. I can still hear her words in my head.

“Rhett, you are supposed to be putting her to sleep, that’s why they are called bedtime stories!” Her voice would waft down the hallway from the kitchen where she would be cleaning up from dinner. She tried to sound angry, but all there was in her voice was love. For me and even more for my dad. They were perfect for each other.