Swimming season

I'm a perfectionist dog. Today was the first real day of the swimming season. A few weeks ago, Dad put up the pool. He had been agitating for it for a while, but Mom advised him to hold off until it was warm enough for me to enjoy it. When the weatherman gave the all-clear signal, Dad and Mom labored over the pool for hours. They repaired the holes made by mice (guys, you're going to have to find a better place to store the pool than the mice-infested shed), and Dad painstakingly smoothed out the pool so there were no creases in the bottom. Then they filled it up. It was botched. The pool wasn't centered over the earthworks platform Dad built last year. Or more accurately, it was slightly oval, causing it to hang over the east edge of the earthworks. This caused the pool to tilt dangerously, so it could not be filled very high. I got in one or twice and tried to enjoy myself, but I couldn't even porpoise, let alone really swim. Fortunately, I was saved by a week of bad weather. Otherwise, I would have been forced to come up with daily excuses for not getting in, and I hate that. Dad, I appreciate the effort, but please get it right next time. I had to have Mom empty the pool, move it a few inches west, and refill it. (The water made the pool so heavy that even a powerful dog such as myself could not have moved it.) But I'm a forgiving dog, and the pool was filled in time for today's 90-degree weather. I'll tell you, I really enjoyed that refreshing water after the long walk. I swam and swam and yipped and yipped. I hope I impressed those two Australian Shepherds who moved in next door yesterday. I'd like to see them swim the way I can. Dad, when you were a kid and used to put up pools with Grandpa, you used surveying equipment worth the cost of a new car. Now you are using sticks, fishing line, a $5 level, and gut instinct. C'mon, let's do it right next time.