It’s that ‘swim’ time of year again. Bryn needs more exercise than I was providing of late, as my garden requires tons of work and there’s only me... It rained periodically last week, or was too cold and windy to do much. We took long, interesting walks together but still, it wasn’t enough. On one foray to the beach, though, she began showing signs of renewed interest in water. Joe and I threw sticks the length of the sand, but after three full gallops, two pounces and one return, she lost interest and resumed pacing the shoreline, looking out to sea. Swimming was great exercise, but could she really want to go out there now? We tossed her blue water bone about two feet into the lake, but she whined, removed her wet paws, and threw us an incredulous glance. No, Boss. No way... Too cold!!
I had to wade in, shuddering, to retrieve the bone.
Our dog was torn by indecision. O.K., We’d push it. We’d give her a day to think more about water, and then....
The next day we pulled on our wet suits –never an easy task- and marched down to the beach again. The weather was much warmer- 89 degrees. (Up from the sixties the day before.) Joe waded in first, howling as the cold seeped into his suit, but he quickly acclimated. Ah, how bad could it be on this season’s first hot day, thought I. So, do what you usually do, girl; go in fast, go under faster and get it over with.... Gulp.
I’d struggled with that darn suit: stretching thick rubber over thin skin is exhausting. Not to go in after those contortions was unthinkable. And what would Bryn do when she saw us playing in chest-deep water? Curiosity overcame extreme reticence. Determined not to be a wuss I waded in quickly, gritting my teeth. My God. The shock elicited a small moan. As incredulous as Bryn I stumbled to shore again, my ankles numb, but Joe, having adjusted, paddled around happily out there. “Chicken!” He yelled...
Uh-oh: Red Flag! I eat chickens: I am not one.
Back in I went, quickly, deeper and deeper, gasping.
It was arctic!
Here’s the thing, though: if one can hold on just a bit, the water actually becomes bearable.
So I held on, teeth chattering, and suddenly, it was fine. Bryn, toes in the water, was at once intrigued and upset. I paddled further out, dangled her favorite floaty blue bone in front of Joe, and hurled it across the water. “Get it, Joe!”
Bryn was affronted. Her Bone! Her toy! Hers! She made a big circle in the sand at top speed and then plunged straight into the icy lake, focused on Her bone. She’d fetch it. She paddled so fast her front end rose like a speedboat’s prow, while he made paddling splashes, pretending to swim toward its bobbing shape. She redoubled her speed. Snap! GOT IT! With a triumphant glance she spun around and beelined the beach. Dog-paddling, we high-fived. She’d taken the plunge and done well, remembering all (but one) of the swimming rules she’d learned last summer!
Cough! Coughcough! Gag! Cough! Oops. Next time, don’t drink and swim, Bryn remembered, ruefully. She hacked and gagged loudly a few more times- and was done for the season. Lesson (re)learned.
Wisely, we made no teasing comments. Instead, I swam back to shore, ran onto the beach, grabbed up the bone she’d dumped and threw myself back into the water. With a mini-mighty swing I flung it way out again about 25 feet in front of bobbing Joe, adding the irritating command: “Get it, Joe!”
What?? Splash! She charged back in, swam out at full throttle, grabbed it smoothly, and, with frequent glances back at Joe just to make sure she was swimming faster than he, returned to the beach, dumped the bone on the warm sand, shook off water and grinned.
Not once did she cough.
This happy nonsense went on for forty-five minutes. Twice she paddled far out to join us, just for the companionship, bone forgotten. We took care to avoid her pumping paws, to which are attached sharp claws. We’d been slashed more than once, having forgotten this simple rule.
Something under the water caught her eye. She spun around, noting a shadow on the sandy bottom. What?? She poked her head completely under water and peered around, to see what it was down there. Ah- an anchor, roped to the big boat nearby. Nothing interesting...Eventually Joe waded back onto the sand and tossed the bone far down the sugar beach a couple of times. She loved beach pursuits just as well. Each soaring leap and vigorous pounce onto her rubber prey caused the sand to scatter about. Life was good!
Here was a dog, I mused, that had had to be carefully taught to trust her power over water last year, and yeah, tricked into enjoying it, too. (Finally despairing over her consistent refusals to enter the lake. Joe and I had paddled out to deeper water to play ‘Master and Dog.’ The plan: We’d ignore her completely. He’d toss the bone, I’d bark eagerly and fetch it. This appalling state of affairs had been too much for Bryn. She’d taken the plunge straightaway, howling in indignation. SHE was the dog; WE were the masters: We needed to grasp who gets what, so the world made sense!)
This year it seemed she hadn’t forgotten that experience.
With twinkling eyes and a dopey grin, sandy tongue lolling, she eagerly waited for Joe to toss her bone way out into the blue depths, -without us in the water, for heaven’s sake. (Who could have predicted that?)
Eventually, when Bryn tired of water and sand-fetching (and when her coat had all but dried in the heat) I reintroduced another game. Kneeling, I began to dig a really deep hole very close to the waterline. Wet sand flew between my knees as I muttered, “Diggedy-dig!” over and over.
Oh, boy! With a happy yip she joined me. Digging holes here is allowed! I’d forgotten, Boss...
Water gradually seeped in, making the task much harder. (Which was the point. I wanted her to be thoroughly pooped. Soaked sand is tough to shift and would certainly siphon off the last of her youthful energy.) She jammed her muzzle- and finally her whole head and front paws- deep into the wet glop, then withdrew to blow sand from her long nose- dig and blow, dig and blow, over and over, while I egged her on... At last, when we’d tunneled nearly to China, she stopped, snorting and panting. Her eyelids drooped, I noted with satisfaction. And- our excavation was rapidly filling up again with sand.
And- Bryn was truly drained.
That hour at the beach, running, swimming and digging had worn her out more than a full day of vigorous play at the Traverse City Happy Tails Doggie Daycare Center. Even our bike trips weren’t as effective. Now her claws scraped the pavement as we tramped back to the car. She barely had the energy to hop in.
That night she snorted and yipped, paws twitching. I heard a faint, triumphant moan. Her teeth clicked together smartly: her tail whacked the side of her dog nest. Hah! Dream-bone retrieved! (Before Joe could fetch it first, of course!) With two extra semi-webbed feet, she’d always have the upper hand- er, paw! And so there!
I heard my husband chuckle, even as he slept.
No doubt about it: Bryn has graduated into a confident, fully-fledged swimmer.
