A Swim at the End of the World

Opening Day, but for dogs.

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Hi there. Thanks for stopping by. If you are new here then let me introduce you to Peggy and Steve. You’ve now met the two most important dogs I know. Today we’ll talk about two dogs. Let’s all take a deep breath and direct our focus on a dog for a moment.

It took Peggy about a year to trust a body of water enough to plunge herself into it. Even then, she did it only because her love of a thrown tennis ball outweighed whatever fears she had of the murky depths. Her first swim was in a chilly pond one October in Massachusetts. She emerged from the water with a stunned look and ran around frantically with the spoils of her swim (tennis ball) displaying proudly from her mouth. It was love at first dip. Now, when she sees a body of water, she stands at attention, her ears pinned back and whines from the backseat of the car.

Steve had less choice in the matter. His first swim was two days after we got him at 12 weeks. It was an accident, of course. Peggy waded into the creek for her patented ‘lay down and take a drink’ maneuver (deployed in the heat of the Summer) and Steve, unacquainted with creeks, swan dived in behind her to encounter a harsh reality. But Steve, who you’ll remember is a cowboy and a philosopher at heart, was undeterred. He was swimming in small, quiet ponds within a week.

Despite their tolerance for cold water, swimming goes on hiatus during the winter. It resumes again in early March and Peggy and Steve approach it the same way many Americans approach Major League Baseball’s Opening Day: A rite of Spring and a moment of renewal and optimism. Opening Day is a blank slate. Anything can happen. Same with First Swim.

Peggy and Steve knew it before they saw the beach. As soon as they began the leashed descent down the hilly path, their hairs stood at attention and their spines stiffened. They pulled against their tethers, despite knowing better. Once released they bounded down the sandy mound. Peggy went first with a forceful gallop and Steve gave chase. Both cleared a formidable piece of driftwood with the grace of a 100m hurdler.

Peggy began to prance and bark excitedly to announce it was time for fetch. Steve beckoned to a smooth, soot colored piece of driftwood the size of a baseball bat that lay before him. He looked down at it, put one paw forward, and raised his head, cocked at a quizzical angle. A throw. Preferably now. Peggy seconded the motion with an unruly bark.

The worn driftwood hadn’t yet splashed down into the sea before our heroes took the plunge. They entered the modest, lapping waves fearlessly despite icy temperatures. Heads raised, they paddled furiously toward their prize and with a mighty clamp of the jaw, immediately swung their bodies 180 degrees toward shore. On the way in both pairs of eyes were wild and wide. Triumph mixed with the discomfort of an early Spring chill.

On shore, Steve raced ahead, bucking wildly in odd patterns across the sand — not unlike how somebody looks when they’re walking off a stubbed toe around the room. Peggy, ever the professional, shook her coat immediately sending beads of clear water shimmering into the crisp air.

Steve, as part of a life-long project to needle Peggy, dropped his stick and began an attempt at tug-of-war. Latching on, the two wet beasts waltzed across the sand, kicking up small, smooth stones. Their tails whipped streams of salty water into the sky in a circle. Snarls echoed through the air. With some deft footwork, Peggy wrestled stick from Steve’s maw. They both paused. The air grew still. One wave lapped gently in the background, then another. Then Peggy set off. Steve, as always, gamely gave chase.

Your faithful correspondent,

Charlie