Fetch!

After work, I like to sit at the end of my dock on Perkins Creek and watch the late afternoon sun shift over the water. Today was lightly overcast, so the waters were like moiré silk with the light gray ripples pushing green reflections to and fro before settling back into a cool mirror. Some days the creek is filled with so many sparkling stars that I can barely keep my eyes open. On those days, I can turn my vision toward my own shore and watch the brilliant reflections dancing along the marsh grass and along the pilings under a neighboring dock.

Most spectacular are the sunsets squeezed between the tree tops and the storm clouds, burning fiery reds and golds across the width of the creek and the undergirding of the purple clouds. On those evenings, you can almost HEAR the sun setting with the great rumble of a timpani.

Today was soft and peaceful. The little boy with the red hat sat perched at the end of the dock across the way, as he has since before we moved here. For a long time, a little fishing rod, just right for a 3-year-old, rested between his knees, stabilized in his little hands. It must have floated away in one of those flood tides which periodically submerge him right up to the top of his hat. Obviously, he is made of painted concrete of some sort as he has never drowned nor been dislodged.

I am not allowed this time to myself. Perkins expects her reward for being so patient all day at the Gallery, where she must greet everyone who comes in. I try to warn them to beware of my attack dog. Her expected reward is to escape the car in the driveway and gallop the length of the yard down to the creek. And she expects me to join her there – for “the game.”

Before quitting “the game” and climbing back up the semi-steep slope to the house, I had a few contemplative moments for those observations. The moments were brief between demands to fetch. This is a game that has been redefined by (Lady) Perkins, my dog with the same name as HER creek.

Have I told you anything about her? Oh, here she comes, now, proudly and full of hope carrying a wet log half her size up into the yard from her domain at the water’s edge. I call her my puppy, but in fact, Perkins is eight years old, now.

It’s sad, but Cloyde had never been allowed to have a “real” pet, an indoor dog, either while growing up or in his first marriage. I don’t know about his late mother, but his father has never been a “pet-friendly” kind of a person, and over the years Cloyde had told me plenty of stories to prove this.

I, on the other hand, grew up in a family whose periods without a pet were, in fact, times of mourning when one had died and we were preparing to move (again) and so it was not a good time to adopt, OR we were waiting for just the right “replacement” to be found. We had no doghouse because there was never a night when a pet was expected to sleep outdoors.

Cats are good pets, especially if they are “dog-like” as is a Siamese cat, but there is nothing like a dog for unconditional love. Still, they are inherently higher maintenance than a cat, so you’d better be darn sure you can meet their demands before you go out and invite one home.

Cloyde had always wanted a Golden Retriever, or a Lab, or a Chesapeake Bay retriever, any of which he wanted to take sailing with us on extended trips (which we never took). He was a dear and loving man, but he was always ready to take on more than he needed to handle, which meant that extra work fell on me. So, I laid some ground rules for dog ownership.

First, any dog or cat brought into the house was going to live and sleep in the house as any member of the family would. It would likely take ownership of the furniture and probably share the bed with us. Second, it would have to be of a size and stature that it would neither impede movement of the boat’s tiller nor clear the coffee table with its tail. Thus were his original choices eliminated.

Then, he discovered and fell in love with the Boykin Spaniel. It was large enough (about 35 pounds) that he wouldn’t refer to it as a cat or a rat. It had a docked tail, was custom designed for the water (duck hunting), was intelligent and full of happy energy.

Perkins, however, is not a duck dog. She is a stick dog.

Her game is “Fetch.” Yes, she CAN play it in the yard, but keeping her out of the water is a major task. I am to gather sticks, branches, and discontinued framing corners from work, and carry them out to the end of the dock. From there, one at a time, I throw them into the water. God forbid I should throw one that doesn’t float because Perkins will wear herself out swimming in circles and diving trying to find it.

You’ve seen those videos of dogs flying off of docks to catch or retrieve that favorite toy, I’m sure. Not Perkins. She will NOT jump off the dock, not even off the step-down when the tide is high and it is submerged. Nope!

By the way, she also will not ride in the canoe with me. She chooses to jump out and wait on the dock for me to come back, no matter how long I am gone and out of sight.

When I throw a stick, Perkins runs back to the shore and plunges in from there, swimming so fast and hard that she creates a wake that spreads all across the broad creek.

Does she bring the stick back to me? No! She runs it up the embankment and scatters all of her sticks around the yard! When I’ve run out of sticks to throw, she barks and stomps her foot by the shoreline, demanding that I trudge up the hill and “fetch” the sticks so I can throw them back into the water!

Who is the trainer and who is the trainee?

And when the game is over and it is time for Perkins to come in for dinner, there is still a time-consuming obstacle. She smells like marsh muck because she is FULL of marsh muck. And since the proof that she is not spoiled is that she allows me to sleep in HER bed (and I don’t want to sleep in a marsh-mucky-bed, nor have it tracked all over my house), I must clean her up!

One, I can either hose her off in the yard and hope she doesn’t try to dry herself by rolling in the grass and dirt while I dispose of the hose. Or two, I must shuttle her immediately into the shower where she and I share shampoo and conditioner. But we are not finished until I mop down the walls and floor because she bounds out of the shower and shakes all over everything before I can wrap her in the towel.

Perkins is a profoundly loving legacy from my sweet departed husband. Although I have always been secure in his love for me, he absolutely adored his Perkins. “She makes me smile and laugh every single day!” he would often tell me.

Love is messy.

Fetch!