Altona Dog Beach was, by Sunday afternoon, operating at what regulars describe as "full capacity," with dogs of every conceivable size, breed, and temperament converging on the sand in pursuit of the same three or four activities, undertaken with total, uncoordinated enthusiasm.
A labrador entered the water at a dead sprint and did not stop until roughly chest-deep, at which point it turned around, seemingly satisfied, and made its way straight back out. A whippet, visibly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of available space, ran the full length of the beach twice before collapsing dramatically in the shade of a stranger's beach umbrella, uninvited but entirely welcomed.
Several owners stood in loose clusters near the shoreline, holding leads that were, by design, not attached to anything, watching their dogs interact with other dogs in ways that ranged from immediate best-friendship to brief, dignified mutual sniffing to complete indifference. One golden retriever appeared to be greeting every single dog on the beach individually, working its way down the shoreline with the thoroughness of someone working a room.
A small dog of indeterminate breed had taken it upon itself to bark, continuously, at the waves, each one arriving as a fresh and personal betrayal. It showed no sign of tiring of this. Nearby, a cavoodle stood perfectly still at the water's edge, front paws just touching the wet sand, unwilling to commit further, watching the ocean with what could only be described as suspicion.
Owners, for their part, spent much of the afternoon in a loose rotation of throwing balls, refilling water bowls, and calling names that were, more often than not, entirely ignored. "He knows his name," one owner said, watching her dog run in the opposite direction. "He just doesn't think it applies right now."
By late afternoon, the beach had thinned slightly, sand-covered dogs loaded, protesting, into cars, and the tide came in over paw prints that covered, without any real pattern, the entire stretch of sand.