A Beached Dog

The old, mangy mutt walked up from the beach.  Pausing a few feet in front of my bench, he looked up at me with a watery gazed look as he eyed the slice of pizza in my hand. Turning away, he dug at the ground with a few strokes of his paw, uncovering the cool sand beneath the shaded surface. Then, with the powerful yet still graceful motion of a dancer, he slumped down upon his chest, resting his speckled face on his outstretched paw.  Oreo-colored spots on a white body.  I took another bite and, while chewing, tore off the end of my slice and tossed it before his chin.  It was a bit too far away, so he pulled himself over to satisfy his intrigue, but surprisingly, failed to satisfy the hunger I was sure that he had.  After a few sniffs, he resigned his tired head back onto his paw; his only movements for the rest of my lunch were to dig up new cool patches to rest his haunches.  Some kind of a beach bum.