Beach maniac - The Proofs

I'm addicted, Every-Pup-Outhere.

The beach is my thing.

Here's all the proofs you need of this emotional fact, plus all the explanation to my motivation.

1. Once I get there, I get faster than Lucky Luke, faster than the wind, faster than Carla's slow camera. And it's my job to get in the water, you see. I have to dive, fall down, rise again, shake my ears... it's kind of my beach-job-description. Just don't ask me why, I haven't come up with an intelectual answer yet. :o)

2. I'm needed at the beach. I have to take care of all those surfers who need a, let's say, beach-traffic-coordinator. That's me, Pipa-the-Baywatcher (*Baywatch soundtrack*).

3. I basically need to dig holes (I've already told you about my hope to find a treasure, like a giant bone or a box of white napkins or socks) and I need to scrach my back properly. Everybody knows that the only place in the world where a happy dog can scrach his back is at the beach, 'cause of those... mmm.... medical-psichological-philosophal properties of the fresh sand (cof cof cof).

4. I need to make friends. Lot's of friends.

Do you every-pup understand this addiction? I bet you do. I really bet you do. ;º