Barrel Rolls

Yesterday, I took Friscodog to a little park near Lake Travis, called Cypress Park. It’s a feeder into the lake, a little creek that opens into two concentric ponds, then drains into a brook a hundred yards or so to the big lake.

The outer pond is shallow, maybe knee-deep to Frisco, but the inner one is about at my chest-level. I began by throwing Frisco’s racquetball over into the shallow waters, and he seemed happy to chase it for a while. He was still angling to the right, and he had some trouble tracking down the ball; he sometimes stabbed at it four or five or six times before getting to it, but there wasn’t any basic challenge involved.

Frisco was clearly not satisfied with this lack of challenge, and he let me know it. After a few throws, he stood next to the deeper pool and throatily huffed to throw it where he could swim for it.

When I got Frisco, I was living with Darlene, whom I still think of as his Mom. She wasn’t a dog person, but I’d always wanted to have a golden retriever. So we came to an accord: we could get a dog, but we would obedience-train him to her standards of appropriate behavior. It was the best decision I ever acquiesced in, because Frisco has always known to obey the rules. This is why he has always gotten in places he wasn't really supposed to be -- and it's why, when he really balks at me, I know it's important to him. I guess it's like that with humans, too: good manners allow good communication.

So when he insisted upon having me throw into the deep waters, it didn’t matter that I thought this was a bad idea. knows I can't say no to an ailing dog. I told him it wasn’t wise, but when he wouldn’t accept my refusal, I threw the ball where he wanted me to.

He lurched in after his ball, but his equilibrium was completely shot. He couldn’t keep after his ball, couldn’t swim, couldn’t tell up from down. He got completely confused, and did quick barrel rolls in the muddy water, desperately clawing at the water and gasping for air. He disappeared under the water, shot to the surface, rolled over again and disappeared under churning water.

I emptied my pockets and plowed in after him.

I sank immediately into thick, black muck, years of deposits from the entering creek. I was knee deep in goop and chest deep in water by the time I reached him and hauled him to the surface, still struggling and making uncoordinated swimming movements. He wouldn't breathe, at first, and his good eye was wild and panicky, but I forced him to my chest and insisted that he be still.

I could feel his heart pounding against my arms, his breath fast and shallow. I held him to me for a few moments, supporting him on my knee as I sank deeper into the mud. I worried that I might sink in too deep to keep him above water, but thankfully I did not.

Once he had calmed a little, he started looking over my shoulder, his head swiveling to find his lost ball. He actually tried a little, feebly, to break loose and find it. The little creep had almost drowned himself, made me dive neck deep into muddy-disgusting water, and all he could think about was a little green rubber ball. I wanted to be mad at his lack of gratitude, but of course I couldn’t. I stood deep in gritty silt, hugging my dog and blubbering like a fool.

I made him indulge my emotions for a bit, then I walked him slowly to shore. I laid him down among the protective roots of a huge oak, then I went back out into the water. Finally accepting that he’d been upset by the experience, he stayed on the bank while I swam out to bring in the ball for him. Quite a reversal of roles, Frisco waiting on shore while I swam out to chase his racquetball.

I swam back with it, and he stood carefully to accept it from me. He followed obediently as I walked back to the shallow pond. He kept me there for another half hour, as the sun disappeared behind the West Texas hills, playing a much gentler game of fetch in waters where he did not have to swim. I suspect that his refusal to quit was his way of re-asserting himself after his harrowing event. Dogs, too, have machismo.

I brought him home, a thoroughly happy dog who made it inside almost without assistance. I slept in the living room that night, so he could be next to me.

He slept intensely, and when I woke him for breakfast this morning he was still slightly damp and smelly from the pond. He still hasn’t admitted any kind of defeat -- but when I tried to get him to move for the magical front door to go back to the park, he refused to budge. He still won’t tell me, but I think he’d had enough activity for a couple of happy days. So goes the progress of Operation Soft Landing.

RG

PS, Frisco's vet bills have put quite a strain on my limited finances, despite help from many of his friends. If you would like to contribute to Friscodog’s vet bills, you may do so at PayPal.