by Nick Trout
“Oh, God,” she thought, “I wonder if this is going to be a rescue or a recovery.”
Around this time Whitney appeared. She was at home, on break from college, and Kathy had called her while she waited for the emergency services. Whitney arrived in tears, carrying a large blanket, anticipating the need to have something in which to wrap Meg’s body.
“Let me get my binoculars from the truck,” said the captain, while Kathy and Whitney hugged, consoled one another, and thought about what they would say to Emily, still at school and blissfully ignorant of the unfolding drama.
He returned by way of his crew, who were completing their final preparations before launch, all manner of equipment finding its way inside the craft, including, Kathy noted, something long and hook-shaped, like a fishing gaff.
“They’re almost done. We’re treating this like any other genuine drowning emergency. Besides it’s good practice.” And then, bringing his binoculars up to his eyes, he said, “Let’s have one last look.”
Kathy and Whitney strained to see something on the horizon, willing a distant whitecap to turn yellow, but there was nothing out there.
A full minute passed, and then, “I think I see the swans.”
Still, there was nothing definitive to the naked eye.
Thirty more seconds.
“Yeah, there they are.” And finally the crest of a wave maintained its whiteness, a smudge split into two that acquired shape and turned into tiny bobbing birds.
“We’re all set” came the cry from one of the men in wet suits, a tank of compressed air on his back as he waded into the water, spitting into his face mask. His buddy was about to launch the Zodiac.
“Just a second,” said the captain, working the focus between his hands.
The second passed, no one looking at the water, everyone looking toward the captain. And then, his expression deadpan, slowly shaking his head he said, “She hasn’t got a brain in her head, has she?”
“What?” said Kathy, trying to follow his line of sight and still unable to see anything meaningful.
“Trust a Labrador.” He was laughing now. “Here she comes and she’s still trying to catch those damn swans.” He handed over the binoculars and turned to his men. “It’s okay, fellas, we won’t be needing you.”
It took Kathy a while to work the magnification, but eventually she had Meg in her sights—the two swans up front, cruising back toward the shoreline and looking mighty pissed off by the relentless canine in tow, Meg smiling away, still convinced she was about to catch them.
Five minutes later and Meg was within shouting range, but to Kathy’s horror, Meg remained just as oblivious to her calls as she had when she first set off.
By now, the captain and his entire team were on the shore with Kathy and Whitney, whooping it up like a crowd at the finish line, waving and shouting, trying to get Meg to look their way. For one frightening moment, it seemed as though they would have to make a water rescue after all as the two swans veered off and headed back out toward the island with Meg, once more, eager to follow. Seeing this, fearing this, the crowd picked up the intensity of its screams and somehow got through to Meg. Maybe she thought everyone had come out to see how well she swam, that she had acquired an appreciative fan club, because finally, after being out in the water for over half an hour, she made an abrupt change in course, clambering in to shore before collapsing on the bank, exhausted.
Whitney wrapped her up in the towel, Meg panting away, eyes darting everywhere as if asking her entourage, “Did you see me? Did you see me?”
“I wonder if she took a break on the island or kept on going around the corner,” said Whitney.
“All I know,” said the captain, “is it’s a good job those swans decided to come back this way. Otherwise I think she’d still be out there.”
Kathy thanked him and his team, promising to drop by with some cookies, and after a while, a stiff wooden puppet dog that used to be a Labrador plodded her way back home.
Like any kid would, Emily enjoyed the tale, relishing her mother’s fear, knowing there was a happy ending and another fine reason to love up her dog, another memorable childhood story, this one beginning with “Do you remember that time Meg chased after some swans?” My involvement came in the aftermath of the adventure, Meg “Phelps” succumbing to an ailment common among dogs that swim excessively in cold water.
“Dad, I think Meggy’s broken her tail.”
Emily’s assessment was perfectly reasonable, the busy beefy otter tail suddenly painful and apparently paralyzed, hanging off her back end like a limp windsock on a still day.
I checked her over, and finding no fractures let her history help me make the diagnosis.
“It’s not broken, sweetie. She’s got something called ‘swimmer’s tail’ or ‘limber tail’ or ‘cold tail’ or ‘dead tail’ or, the best name of all, ‘broken wag’! The muscles to the base of her tail are not used to working so hard, acting like her rudder in the water. They’re swollen and sore, but they’ll get better in the next few days and I’ll give her something to get rid of the pain and inflammation. She’ll be swimming again in no time.”
Emily didn’t look happy.
“But no more swans, right?”
I wondered about this, thinking about how to keep this dog away from water. It would be like an act of cruelty for a Labrador, a “no-water torture.” Then again, knowing Meg, I was sure she would get right back in the saddle, if not chasing swans, then ducks, geese, bass fisherman, Jet Skis, anything or anyone who would potentially play with her in the water.
As it turned out, I need not have worried. I don’t know what transpired between dog and swan out in the wilds of that roiling lake, what threats were made and what oaths were sworn, but Meg has never chased a single water bird since.
14.
The Gift of Second Chances
Meanwhile, in a country far, far away, an old man finally broke the magic spell that had left him bereft of canine company for almost two full years.
“Her name’s Sasha,” said my father, during one of our Sunday morning phone calls, the announcement taking me completely by surprise, and in the pause before he could continue I was all over this snippet of information. Dad had said “her name,” i.e., a bitch and not a male dog. Admittedly this had been my suggestion during one of our previous clandestine discussions, when I caught Dad alone, Mum away at one of her spinning classes (referring to the lost art of spinning wool and nothing to do with spandex and stationary bicycles), unable to overhear. Of course I have nothing against male dogs, and I realized this was sensitive territory, but I felt as though my father had been, for want of a better word, overpowered by two strong alphas in Whiskey and Patch. He had struggled to rein them in, yet with Bess, things had been different. Tactfully, I homed in on the special connection that exists between fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, the undeniable magic between opposite sexes. Secretly, I believed a female was my father’s best bet for having a dog he could handle.
The name “Sasha” hit me like a mental hiccup. My brain jumped to “Russia” and I figured that before I knew it, Dad was going to announce he was the proud owner of either a Samoyed or a Borzoi.
“Like you said, we went through a rescue group.”
Though it was the right thing to do, my suggestion was also rooted in my own guilt for not following through when it came to Meg.
“Sasha and her brother needed a new home.”
Oh, no, I thought. Here we go again. A new dynamic duo to strike fear into Yorkshire’s sheep population and the local veterinary community.
“The owner was an officer in the military and was posted overseas. For some reason she was unable to take the dogs with her.”
The word military flashed in brilliant green neon, smacking of order, discipline, good manners, and solid basic training. Then again, what if Sasha was a former attack dog?
I could stand it no more.
“So what is she?”
It was my father’s turn to fall silent for a second, before replying, “She’s a Labrador. A black one.” And then, “You’re not pleased?”
In fact I was more than pleased. For the first time in my life, my father had chosen a dog in which my input had guided his decision in a very specific direction. He had crossed off every box: female (smaller, easier to handle as she grows older); mature (avoid the difficult puppy years); rescue (do your part to find a permanent home for a good animal who needs one). In my professional opinion, the old man in a flat cap and Wellington boots, hiking Herriot’s countryside, had finally done good.
“Not at all,” I said. “I think she sounds perfect.”
It would be a while before I met her and by then Sasha was experiencing her first significant health problem.
I had been invited to lecture in England, the venue conveniently located for me to make a detour into the Dales for a few days. For a little over three years I had been regaled with tales of Sasha’s accomplishments and impeccable manners, but to be honest, based on previous experiences I was skeptical. I had heard it all before. My father’s track record did not exactly fill me with confidence. I fully expected to be set upon by a morbidly obese black blimp who never tired of barking, jumping up, and helping herself to my dinner as I ate.
In fact, the encounter was like stepping into a parallel universe in which everything is a mirror image of what you expect. For starters, Sasha was a perfect weight, her body slender, toned, and shiny. She greeted me with enthusiasm and civility, and I noticed how her tail beat twice as fast as her legs moved, the movement calculated and precise as though she were thinking about her performance, giving me a measured amount of attention. Then she let slip the retriever in her, insisting on bringing me her favorite green frog, showing it off, seeking my approval.
“Wow,” I said to my father, who was glowing with pride. “All the rumors and hype were true. She’s wonderful.”
The cottage in which my parents live is small—a “two-up-two-down” with one tight full bathroom upstairs. Throw in a few more bodies and it can quickly feel cramped, with barely enough chairs to go around. Now, as if for the first time, I noticed how by far the largest space in their sitting room was taken up by a blanket and bed for Sasha—positioned so as to be the center of attention.
When my mother beckoned us to the kitchen for dinner I reckoned all their carefully rehearsed pretense would come undone.
“Lay on your bed,” said my father, addressing Sasha. His tone was casual, conversational, no hand gestures, and I didn’t even bother to look, anticipating the familiar nudge from a wet nose looking for handouts as soon as I sat down at the table.
Mum and Dad joined me, their actions, their conversation, their expressions all unnervingly ordinary.
“Wait a minute,” I said. I got up and walked back into the sitting room. I half expected the door to be closed, the lower third of the door panel scarred by scratch marks. Either that or Sasha had been shackled in place.
The black Lab curled on her bed looked up at me as though she had been warned this might happen, anticipating my double take.
I returned to the dinner table.
“Something’s not right here. Dad’s finally got a dog that does as she is told?”
Both my parents abandoned their illusory indifference and let loose with uninhibited grins.
“Your father has been working incredibly hard with Sasha, isn’t that right, Duncan? He’s finally got the time to devote to all the necessary training and it’s really paying off.”
Dad began shaking his head.
“Now then,” he said. “Sasha just happens to be particularly smart and eager to learn. If you want to join me for a walk tomorrow, son, I’ll show you what I mean.”
The following morning, I asked if I could borrow a pair of my father’s Wellington boots, his unrivaled collection over the years akin to that of Imelda Marcos, if not as diverse. He handed over a royal blue pair and said, “They should fit you,” and then added, “It’s been a while.”
The statement came out as fact, not accusation, with no trace of bitterness, but it struck me all the same. The calculation was painfully easy, two lonely points in time, a glaring void between the dates, and I realized more than a decade had passed since our last walk together with our dogs.
Put it down to jet lag or sleep deprivation from a restless night on a top bunk in their spare bedroom, but right then, as we were about to set out, seeing my father so fundamentally content and his dog thrilled to be joining us, I felt the weight of my neglect settle in. Worst of all, it took this particular moment, in all its simplicity, for me to even begin to get it. It hit me like a knockout punch, whereas before, safely and selfishly lost in my own world, I had barely felt a tap. My pursuits had cost my parents dearly. Their son, their daughter, their grandchildren were all so far away. Time spent with family shouldn’t be the stuff of big dreams, and here was a man savoring the moment, when what we were about to share was so natural and such a basic component of who he was.
“Ready?” asked Dad as Sasha reared up on both front legs before he opened the front door.
“Sure,” I said with a smile, knowing the very least I could do was to keep the guilt to myself, to take it with me, wanting it there as a reminder to take nothing for granted, to open my eyes, to be receptive and find a way to make things right.
From the get-go the dynamic between man and dog was different from any of my previous experiences. Dad and I walked side by side and, at his side, walking to heel, was Sasha. Without a doubt, for me, this wholly uncharacteristic demonstration of exemplary canine conduct was conspicuous, but I kept the observation to myself as we headed through the village, passed the Fox and Hounds, the village green, and the corner store and turned up a narrow lane between rows of stone farm laborers’ cottages when we started our ascent into the high fields.
Father was cracking a pace, the old walking stick our metronome, encouraging me to keep time despite the steepness of the slope we had to climb.
“You rarely see a vehicle up here, except the occasional farmer on an ATV.”
I nodded and stood there for a moment, hands on hips, catching my breath, pretending to take in the incredible scenery, vast open fields stretching to every horizon, black lines of stone walls like an enormous jigsaw, finished and perfect. Best of all I noted that my father was not the least bit breathless.
“Just a little further and then we’re going to cut across that field yonder.”
“Dad, who on earth says ‘yonder’?”
“Now then, son, if you’re in Yorkshire, you’d best learn to speak the language.”
I smiled and shook my head, thinking, “He’s still trapped in an episode of All Creatures.” But as I looked around, and took in this precious slice of England, his heaven and a place he never takes for granted, I thought, “Why not?”
It was only after I scaled the railings of the metal gate, a grossly uncoordinated maneuver, and stood facing the acres of lush grass that I realized our predicament.
Sheep! Dozens of them, ewes and lambs in clusters and woolly constellations in all directions.
Dad appeared to be completely unfazed, whereas I flashed back to memories of Bess and a farmer’s shotgun. I noticed Sasha, still at heel but seemingly on high alert, her eyes bright and a little too jumpy for my liking.
“You sure you want to go through? There’s not a way around this field?”
Dad scaled the gate with ease and proficiency as Sasha negotiated the gap.
“We’ll be fine,” he said and left it at that.
If you’ve ever walked through a field of sheep, you’ll appreciate how your path is a bit like the parting of the Red Sea. There will be the occasional standout, chewing the cud or savoring a particularly flavorful blade, but for the most part they scatter like, well, a flock of sheep. In other words, their stop-start movement is the perfect temptation for many a canine.
I had been comforted by the excelle
nt leash control Sasha had demonstrated to this point, but this had to be torture, all those buttery balls of wool eager to play tag. At the very least I expected Dad to have to hold her back, to grimace and strain as he tried to control a panting dog choking against the collar at her neck.
Twenty yards in and I was watching the reaction of the sheep, listening to the bleating message being passed around the field, their game of “telephone”: “Let’s tease the dumb dog who has to live on a chain.”
Then, to my horror, I looked down and over to Sasha and saw something I would never have imagined possible in my lifetime. The three of us were walking across the field, all in a row, like three gunslingers walking into Tombstone, the crowd scattering on all sides, and the dog in our posse was no longer on a leash.
I met my father’s eyes and found delight and even self-assurance, as though I shouldn’t look so surprised.
“I don’t believe it,” I said. “You finally did it. You taught her how to get along with sheep. After all these years, you have a dog that can go for walks and be free.”
We walked a while, in silence—father, son, dog—completely tethered yet totally independent, and for the first time, in all our time together, after all the mistakes I had witnessed as a kid and growing up, I was incredibly proud of the dog owner by my side and what he had accomplished.
“You care to share how you did it?”
Dad turned to me, trying to look affronted.
“No one should ask the magician how he does the—”
And like that, the smoke and mirrors were gone. Something quick and white flickered in my peripheral vision and Sasha vanished in a moment of explosive acceleration, in pursuit, and all I could think was it must be a lamb, perhaps separated from her mother, the canine hunting instinct impossible to suppress. If we were lucky, there would be no farmer around. The lamb, however, was another matter.
But as I watched Sasha sprinting into the distance, I noticed how her path zigzagged, interrupted by a series of cuts back and forth, her target invisible or at least much smaller than the other lambs in the field.