A Day on the Water

I reached across the seat to scratch his 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 if its magic was slipping behind the curtain, about to disappear. Reb and I were just waiting for the wand to wave.

We were still a ways from the ramp when Reb smelled the water. He whined, seaching 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 together across the floating dock, stepping gingerly into the aluminum, olive-drab 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-river, toward the shoals. There was good hunting around the shoals, but we weren’t here to hunt. Not today.

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

“Go on, then!” It was not the time to break trust.

It was more fall than leap, but Reb swam hard for the dummy, safe in the ignorance of neither knowing, nor caring, that he was sick, and near his end. He mouthed the dummy and struggled back, his head low in the water, choking, but he made it. He climbed the makeshift ladder to his stand, and released the dummy to my hand, as he had for the better half of my existence.

“Atta boy!” I wrapped his head in my arms. His tail wagged with joy upon wobbly legs.

“That’s it Reb. That’s the last one.”

Somewhere on the ride back to the dock Reb laid down in the boat. Lost in my thoughts it went unnoticed. And somewhere on the ride Reb took his last breath, but wondering what I would tell Little Jack, I did not 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 he saw his father cry?

“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 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 for another day on the water.

“Wait here, Reb. Stay, boy! I’ll be along shortly.”