A Day on the Water

   Doc Bell said it was time, but Reb's eyes spoke to me as well. "Not yet," they said. I bent to help him to his feet. I shrugged at the Doc, as though to say, "We'll be back." It was one of those times when it is easy to trust your instinct, but difficult to trust your voice.

   With a new wife and child, trips to the river had grown fewer and further between. Free time for myself was difficult to find, much less extra time for my old, graying dog. Reb took it in stride though, seemingly as happy in the yard chasing soccer balls as he was on the boat. I lifted Reb onto a truck seat stained brownish-yellow from years of wet, muddy dog. Some might say the dog had ruined that seat, but little did those people know. Reb curled up on his Chevrolet throne, and was quickly asleep. Doc said his heart was sick, which was why he slept so much. I reckoned Doc was right, but that was a shame, as Reb's heart was the best part of him. It should have been another part that let him down, some lazy, unused part. But then, Reb didn't have a part like that, did he?

   I recalled the day I got him, holding him on my lap in Grampa Jack's old truck, a truck that could very well have sired the one we rode in now. Reb had wriggled, and fought, and gnawed my knuckles that first day while Grampa Jack began his instruction on how to train a retriever, beginning with, "Don't let him gnaw at your knuckles. He's trying to establish dominance. You have to be in control."

  Reb and I broke a lot of the tried-and-true rules. I wanted to please my Grampa, but to please me and Reb things would have to go just a little bit different. Reb would have no kennel, but rather a blanket on the floor beside my bed. The reinforcement he received was all positive, as scolding that pup was beyond me, and I couldn't bear Grampa Jack to do it either. It might have taken longer mine and Reb's way, I don't know, but after that summer he was as ready as a dog could be.

   It was my eighth grade summer. Reb and I spent it learning about each other, working, playing, and training. Reb learned about the water, about boats, guns and waterfowl, while I learned patience, humility, and the brotherhood of the pack. We trained for short periods, three times a day, and Reb learned fast. With Grampa Jack's help Reb was soon marking, taking a line, and retrieving to my hand. Grandpa Jack and I built training blinds, and worked "the wheel". Reb wanted to hunt. It was up to Grampa Jack and I to show him how.

   Our very first time out Reb jumped time and again into the ice-cold water, or stood shivering on his stand in the bitter-sharp air, eagerly awaiting another mark. He was doing great, but I held my pride in, saying nothing. At day's end, when we had trailered the boat and climbed into Grampa's Chevy for the ride home, Reb climbed in between us and laid a big, wet head on Grampa Jack's thigh. "I think you got you a good one, boy!" 

   Thirteen years later I could reply with confidence, "Yea, Grampa... I sure did!" I reached across the seat to scratch Reb's head. It was soft in my palm, his ears like velvet on my fingertips. I put my hand back on the wheel. "Come on, now," I said to myself. "Stay strong. It's just a dog. The world isn't ending."

   But it sure felt like the world was ending, or at least like it would never be the same. A piece of its magic was slipping behind the curtain, about to disappear. We were just waiting for the wand to wave.

   We were still a ways from the ramp when Reb smelled the water. He whined, searching inside himself for a last vestige of excitement. The water scent grew stronger when we pulled into the boat ramp. Despite his sickness, Reb grew restless, pushing his head through the opened window, his tail wagging slowly behind him, beating against my arm, still unsure.

   When I backed the trailer to the water, Reb found his strength, and shouted it through the window to whomever might hear. We walked slowly across the floating dock, stepping gingerly into the olive drab, aluminum boat. He took his accustomed seat between my legs, his eyes eager, if not his body. An autumn mist clung to the water, but the morning air was not cold. There were no other boats in sight. I set the throttle on three-quarters and we plowed a furrow up the river, toward the shoals. There was always good hunting around the shoals, but we weren't here to hunt. Not today.

  The boat slid comfortably into the calm, deeper waters downstream of the shoals. The expected mallards were there, bobbing on the water, their iridescent heads shimmering blue in the sun. Lucky, foolish mallards! Any other day would have ended badly for some of them. Knowing the spot, Reb pulled himself up, and onto his stand. He eyed the foolish ducks through the mist, snuffling the air, awaiting the shot-gun's blast. I reached under the seat for the dummy, and tossed it out into the still water. Reb stood patiently, marking it, waiting. He would stand there for hours, maybe forever, if I didn't release him. I wondered how long he would wait?

   "Go on, then!" Now was not the time to break trust.

   The leap was almost a fall, certainly not dramatic, but Reb swam hard for the dummy, safe in the ignorance of neither knowing, nor caring, that he was sick, and nearing his end. He mouthed the dummy and struggled back, his head low in the water, choking, but he made it, and he climbed the makeshift ladder back onto his stand to shake free of the cold, and wet. Reb released the dummy to my hand as he always had, at least for the better half of my existence.

   "Atta boy!" I wrapped his head in my arms as his tail wagged with joy, despite his wobbling legs.

   "That's it, Reb. That's the last one." Seeming to understand, he climbed back into the boat, taking his seat between my legs.

   Somewhere on the ride back to the dock Reb laid down in the boat, but lost in my memories I didn't notice. And somewhere on the ride back he took his last breath, but wondering what I would tell Little Jack, I failed to notice that either.

   Back in the truck, riding by Doc Bell's, I was thankful for not having to stop. Little Jack would want to help bury Reb... it was his dog, too. I wondered if it would be the first time the boy saw his father cry? I hoped not, not over a dog. I resolved to be strong, for whatever that resolution was worth.

  "We should bring him back here," I thought, "to lay him down. Back to the river. We should put him where his spirit can sniff the water on the wind, where it can see the ducks bob, and hear the geese honk overhead. Someplace where the guns will bang, and the dogs will bark through the morning mist, a good place for a dog, or for a man."

  Someplace where, God willing, our spirits might meet again someday for another day on the water.

   "Wait here, Reb. Stay, boy! I'll be along, shortly."