We leave Newport and make our way back down the coast toward Depoe Bay, stopping by the Whale Watching Center on the edge of town. The wind’s kicked up, and the saltair stings, but the view is unbelievable, like something out of a documentary. Dozens of tourists are crowded around the railings, cameras in hand, searching for movement in the water.
While we’re there, I meet Lilibeth, a game warden with long, gray-streaked waves pulled back into a loose ponytail. She pulls me aside, her eyes crinkling kindly.
“We host daily info sessions for tourists and school groups,” she says. “Locals too. You’ve got a presence about you—they’d love to learn from someone who actually studies these creatures.”
I nod, genuinely touched. “I’d be happy to help out when I can. Anything to get people excited about protecting our waters.”
She claps me on the shoulder like we’ve known each other for years. “That’s the spirit.”
Once we’re back at the office, the clouds are rolling in again, the wind carrying its signature Oregon chill. George and Gavin invite me to the local winery for a celebratory drink. Apparently, it’s tradition to initiate new team members with a glass of something aged in oak barrels, but today I have other plans.
“Rain check?” I ask as I grab my bag. “I’ve got a date with a lease agreement.”
They let out mock groans but wave me off with smiles as I head out.
Linda’s office is just across town, and by the time I get there, she already has everything lined up neatly on her desk. The contract. The check instructions. A manila folder with printed photos of the house, like it’s some sort of adoption file. I skim, ask a few questions, and sign on the dotted line.
“Keys will be ready Wednesday,” she says, handing me a receipt. “Just stop by on your lunch break.”
I thank her and practically float out of the office.
I head straight back to the hotel, still buzzing from everything that just happened. As soon as I walk in, Neptune perks up,having waited for this moment all day. I trade my work clothes for leggings and an oversized hoodie, clip on his leash, and we’re out the door.
This time, we’re heading to the beach.
Neptune leaps into the truck, already knowing we’re headed somewhere good. His whole body wiggles with excitement the second we pull into the small gravel lot by the bluff. I barely have the truck in park before he’s pressing his face to the window, tongue lolling, tail slapping the seat. I clip on his leash and grab the tennis ball launcher I picked up at the grocery store last weekend. He’s practically dragging me down the narrow path that leads to the sand, his ears perked and nose twitching, cataloging every new scent.
That’s the beauty of this place—how quiet and untouched it feels. We pass a few people on our way down: a couple walking hand-in-hand, an older man sitting on a driftwood log with a sketchbook in his lap. But mostly, it’s just us, the sea, the sky, and the soft hush of waves lapping at the shore.
Once we’re far enough down the beach, I unclip his leash.
“Go on, Neps,” I tell him.
He bolts. Full throttle, ears back, paws kicking up wet sand as he makes a beeline for the water. He doesn’t even hesitate, just runs right in, letting the cold surf wash over his legs. I laugh as he turns around with a huge doggy grin, water dripping from his fur, eyes bright.
“You’re insane,” I call out, but I’m grinning too.
I whistle and launch the tennis ball with the flinger. He chases it immediately, splashing through the waves like some kind of sea beast. Within seconds, he’s back with the ball in his mouth, tail wagging furiously, looking at me, expecting me to do it again.
And I do. Again, and again, and again.
He doesn’t tire.
As I throw and he retrieves, my thoughts drift. This dog… he’s either a genius or someone spent serious time training him. He follows every command like he’s been doing it for years. Gentle when he takes the ball, responsive to the slightest whistle, never straying too far.
So why leave him?
Why would someone put that much love and effort into a dog—into Neptune—and then abandon him outside a shelter with nothing but a torn leash? Not even a name.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get the answer, but I do know this: I’m glad he foundme.
Neptune bounds back, triumphant, ball clenched in his mouth, tail whipping the air. He drops it at my feet, tongue lolling, clearly exhausted—but still buzzing with energy like we’ve just arrived.
“Okay, one more,” I laugh, picking it up. “But then we’re done, I’m starting to get hungry”.
I wind my arm back and launch the ball,
and immediately realize I’ve aimed it straight toward a man walking down the beach.
