One of Molly's favourite things is to see in the distance a splosh of water.
It can be the sea, a river, a stream, a puddle, or flood water,or even I would suggest a jacuzzi although no-one I know has one.
This is a picture of her standing with a stick in flood water.
When any flash of distant water glimmers in her eye she off at the rate of knots.
This is the ONLY time I throw sticks for her.
We live near a river and the only time I let her gallop off into the distance is when we take a particular footpath. The river is at least a very big field away and I can't see her when she reaches the end by the water. But she knows it is there. And boy does she know.
She is through the kissing gate and she is off. Molly is ten now and she still moves like a five year old.
Moll patiently waits in the long grass right by the side of the river. She is waiting for me to throw her a stick or two or three.
I can't see her at all until I get quite close. And I have to catch her up looking for suitable sticks on the ground all the time.
Its a popular footpath and often she rushes passed unsuspecting walkers. If they are dog people they turn around to see if there is a "person" with her. If they are not they don't seem to turn a hair. Mostly, though people do look back and I wave in acknowledgement that the black bullet that whizzed passed them is in fact "my dog".
I get to the river and she is quivering with excitement. The first stick is ready to go.
Moll launches herself off the bank and into the water. She is so brave with and in water. But no so brave with other things. She hates gun shots. When she hears shooting she halts, tail between her legs, and will refuse to go on. She has often turned tail and run for home. That's another story.
We have to have at least three sticks. And she loves it. Swimming is her favourite thing to do.
Even when the river is in full flood she goes in. Then I do have to choose where to throw the stick because she has to be able to go with the flow and yet have somewhere to climb out that is not too steep.
When the river is rushing along and I see her confidently swimming away I am reminded that dogs are BRILLIANT SWIMMERS and powerful ones too. Much better than we humans are.
It reminds me that we should never try to rescue dogs if they fall into a river. Dogs will come out and we won't.
I say that but if I had a little dog, or a dog caught up with a collar on a branch, and stuck in mid stream and are drowning just because they are caught, and can't move. My resolve would crack. I would go in.
But if the dog is just swimming and being swept down by the current DON'T stand and call the dog. You should run along the bank following the current and call your dog so he can swim not AGAINST the current but by using the current to swim towards you who hopefully can run and get downstream where the dog will find it easier to reach.
When I was a small child my father had a loyal and faithful Springer Spaniel who was a bit loopy but loveable. Billy Boy loved my father and went with him everywhere he could. We had a boat mooring on the local Estuary and a beach hut on the beach. My father and some mates went off sailing one fine day. Someone threw a stone and it was a stupid thing to do. The dog went off (he loved water too) after the splash of the stone and swam out towards the buoy mooring. The buoy obviously smelt of my father and Bill grabbed the buoy rope with his teeth and wouldn't let go.
For the first ten minutes we children found it really a giggle. Stupid dog. But after a lot of calling he still wouldn't come back. It was a fast tide and it was obvious after thirty minutes or so the dog was tiring and yet he still wouldn't let go of that buoy.
My poor mother. She had to launch a small rowing boat rescue leaving we five children on the beach. She rowed out on her own and grabbed the dog by his collar and tried really hard to get him to let go of the buoy and to get him into the rowing boat. All on her own. She simply couldn't do it.
Back she came. Then another ten or so minutes passed whilst she found a willing passerby to row her out. This time she took a large piece of cooked chicken with her.
By this time the poor dog exhausted but he still wouldn't let go.
My mother had to prise his jaws off the buoy - then thrust the chicken into his mouth - and then whilst he grabbed hold of the food rather than the buoy man-handle the wet dog into the boat.
She was furious. No one admitted to throwing that stone. And no one ever again threw a stone into the sea when there was a dog on the beach.
Moll loves the sea too. I still have that beach hut. And she loves it there as much as Billy Boy.
