White Trash at Flat Rock

A dog of leisure

The continuing story of Dolly and Bubba – next episode March 7

“Ken,” I gasped. “He can’t swim!”

“I  know.”

We looked at each other. We looked at Peter. We looked at the dark, empty space where the black dog used to be. His face was just visible, a white blaze floating beneath the surface.

After what seemed an eternity, but in fact about the time it took us to say all this, Bubba popped his head out of the water and skedaddled to the safety of dry land.

“Oh, my,” Peter said. “That was scary.” 

“Bubba, are you alright?” I asked. Some dogs like to be addressed in complete sentences. Given Ken’s general formality, Bubba was probably used to being addressed like this.

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Ken reassured everyone particularly himself. “Come here, Bubba.”

“Oh, here. Here’s a treat.’

“DOLLY! Don’t jump.” Quickly things were back to normal although we now had new things to talk about.

“I don’t think pit bulls can swim.” Ken said. He postulated even further. “They don’t have enough fur to hold air and help them with buoyancy.”

“They can too swim. I saw them on youtube,” I responded. “Maybe some just don’t like to.”

The next day was Dolly’s big test. I took her up to the reservoir alone when no one else would be around to distract the social animal she had become.

I casually lured her down to the beach. Once there, I took off my sandals and walked into the water to just over my ankles. As nonchalantly as possible I called Dolly.

“Dolly, come here. Good girl, come on.”

Dolly, cookie! Cookie!”

Nope, no fooling that one. It was a nice spring day to go for a wade fortunately. I wandered around about a foot from the shore, scoping out rocks, holes and yucky spots I wouldn’t want to step in. Once I figured she had forgotten I called her, I went back to dry land. 

Dolly can be a trusting soul, and she bounded over to see what I was up to now. It was safe; I was no longer in the dog devouring water.

“Dolly, come on,” I pleaded. I tried reason. “I just want to see if you can swim. You don’t have to stay in.”

My pleas fell on deaf, or just uncomprehending, ears. Never one to be thwarted, I reached down and grabbed the ingrate by the collar. 

I harangued her a little just so she’d know who’s the boss. “You’re coming with me. Like it or not. I really don’t care.”

Walking cautiously because of the small rocks underfoot, I dragged her to the waterline. The front paws went out to brace against further forward motion.

Although she’s remarkably strong pound for pound, she’s no match for me and I accomplished my mission. By the time I hauled her to knee deep water she was in over her head. Recalling my childhood swimming lessons, I put a hand under her belly and swam her around me.

I released her and she was off like a shot, running to the land like trident-bristling Poseidon himself was after her. But I was happy; she could swim enough so she wouldn’t sink like her buddy.

Little did I know the dangers we were facing weren’t coming from anything nature could throw at us.

Dog life vests are available  like the ones here. http://www.kooldawgtees.com/fido_float_extreme_dog_life_vest.html