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This is a story about a dog — and an island. The dog’s name is Louie, and the island’s name is Balboa.

Louie lives on Balboa Island, has done that since he was a pup. He is a big, black, beautiful standard poodle that belongs to a very good friend of ours — Claudia Roxburgh. But this story isn’t about Claudia. It’s about Louie the poodle, and a friend of Claudia’s named Tim Hamilton.

It’s really a story about a day that Louie would like to forget. Of course, when you’re a stylish poodle that lives in a beautiful home on Balboa Island, it’s pretty hard to have a bad day. But as Louie found out, it’s not impossible.

Louie is vaguely aware that he is not a person but would be quite surprised to find out that he is a dog. He has no idea how to slobber and pant and fall in love with cushions and do all the other inappropriate things that dogs pride themselves on.

Looking stylish is what Louie knows how to do, and he does it well. Louie is big, about as big as you can be and still carry a standard poodle ID card. Does Louie intimidate people? Please.

If some tough, mean-looking dog from Anaheim or Santa Ana stood in Louie’s way and said, “Yo, fluffy…you want a piece of this?” Louie would say, “What? Oh, no thanks, we’re going to Park Avenue Café for lunch. Don’t want to ruin my appetite. Have you tried their French dip? It’s to die for.”

To sum up, life is hard and sometimes cruel and yes it is a jungle out there — but all of that is lost on Louie.

On a beautiful fall morning not long ago, Tim Hamilton, the friend, and Louie, the poodle, start out on a walk around Balboa Island, something that both dogs and their humans in the Land of Newport enjoy.

Tim and Louie make an attractive pair. Tim is a tall expatriate from the UK with one of those great British accents that make a cab driver from the West End sound smarter than an astrophysicist from MIT.

They’re walking at a brisk pace, aside from the usual stops so people can fawn over Louie. Some more walking, then Tim hears a dog barking in the distance, more yapping than barking really. He doesn’t see the dog, but from the yip-yap sound, it must be a small one. Just then a hyperactive pug, which is redundant, comes running toward Louie.

The pug’s owner is far behind, with one of those retractable leashes, which the pug is unreeling like a marlin making a run for open water. The pug skids to a stop a few feet from Louie, yapping and snarling and hopping up and down like a toy helicopter.

Louie is stunned. Not scared, not stressed, just stunned. He assumes the pug is one of those, what are they — dogs — but he has no idea what the problem is or what to do. Tim pulls Louie close and tries to move past the pug, but the pug and his leash start to surround them. Tim avoids the line, but Louie’s long legs get tangled in it.

With the pug’s owner approaching but still not reeling in the pug for some reason, Tim grabs the line and tries to free Louie, but the pug starts running small circles around Louie, pulling the line tighter and tighter, until Louie goes down with a thud, looking much like a calf that has just been flipped and hog-tied in 1.3 seconds. The only thing missing is a cowboy to throw up his arms and shout “Time!”

Louie is yelping and squealing and shrieking and rolling from side to side trying to get free. While Tim is trying to hold the pug at bay and untie Louie — who by now is down to rasping and wheezing and is convinced he’s going to die — the pug’s owner finally arrives and, incredibly, starts railing at Tim about “…keeping your dog under control!”

The pug owner uses some really bad words, which Tim returns in spades, including a number of English variants that no one but Tim understands but sound wicked good. Finally, Tim manages to free Louie, who is hyperventilating because he’s never even heard of a street fight let alone been in one.

As everyone moves on, the pug owner hurls one last insult at Tim that is as loopy as the entire encounter and calls him a “…damned Pearl Harbor coward.”

If there is anyone nearby who understands the link between a Brit who wasn’t even born in 1941 and the attack on Pearl Harbor, no one raises their hand, least of all Louie, who is still totally flustered and just wants to go home and get into bed and never leave the house again, ever.

And that, pretty much, is Louie and Tim’s excellent adventure on Balboa Island. For a pampered pooch living la vida Newport, most days, life is but a dream.

But now and then, every so often, just once in a while…it’s a bitch. Not to worry, Louie. You’ll get over it. It just takes time. I gotta go.

PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Sundays. He may be reached at ptrb4@aol.com.