Last night I had two options. Cut up some Freeman’s maple I have laying in the back yard or take Tippet on his first river trip. I chose the latter because the wood has been there for a month and it’s not going anywhere. But like the old mailman John Prine said, summer’s end is around the bend.
Now, a smart man would have found someone else to go with me to run the boat while I handled the pup, but I’ve never been what teachers would call the brightest crayon in the pencil box. Maybe there’s a confidence earned from over a decade with Finn in the boat and all the mistakes I made. There were many but also all those good times out shined them and memories are rose colored glasses, mind. What I didn’t account for is that I’m used to an old dog. Puppyhood for the late great Finnegan Michael was 2014 and though my brain says that was last week, my calendar tells me my nostalgia filter is in overdrive.
I trailered the boat, grabbed Tip, and headed down to the river. I figured the worst that could happen was failure. I’m okay with that. Failure is where you learn. I tend to learn a lot. Sitting there in the truck, looking at this puppy who is blocking my view as I’m getting ready to back down the boat launch I realized that I was going through the motions and needed to pause and savor this time. That this go around I could try my best to get it right. This time I wouldn’t be so expecting of perfection in a dog when I have no clue what perfection looks like myself.
I launched the boat and parked the truck. Tipper and I slow walked down the ramp, his nose in overdrive with the myriad of smells surrounding him and my anxiety slowly building. What if he wouldn’t get in the boat? What if I was rushing this? It’s not even been a week with me. We barely know each other. What if I screw this all up and he hates the boat? What if he hates being near water? What if he gets lose from me and runs towards the road and gets hit by a car? What if he falls out of the boat and drowns? What if I can’t stop any of that and it all happens? What if. What if. What if. Anxiety can be turtles all the way down if you let it be. The outcomes I create in my mind are never what the actual outcome is and thank God for that. I let him sniff the goose poop while I reviewed my plans for the night, trying to quiet my brain. If I’m honest with myself, I had no real plans for the evening. If I started the jet motor and he didn’t try to escape the boat, I’d consider it a win. If we got on plane and ran upstream and he didn’t dive overboard, that’s a win. If he tolerated everything going on, and there was a lot, without showing signs of distress; success.
I motored upstream on the Wabash, slowly at first and over a few minutes, opened the throttle turned wide all the while watching him for any reaction. I kept a steady supply of his favorite training treats ready at all times to distract and also to teach him that good tasting treats are part of being in the boat.
After I noticed him getting curious as the boat moved and showing signs of more comfortability, I turned the Hog downstream and headed for the confluence to run up the Tippecanoe. The Wabash is a totally different river in this area from the Tippe. It’s slower and sandy bottomed whereas the Tippe is tighter, usually shallower, and has much more in the way of rocks that can end your day if you’re not careful running a boat on it. Thankfully two decades of being on this water, I know it like the back of my eyelids. We ran up river for a bit until I decided we should relax and float so he could get his sea legs. With the water up from recent rains, there was a little bit of boat traffic last night so he got to experience a few wakes. Tip was really into the bald eagles screeching their freedom calls as they flew over the water towards their big nest near an island. I pulled anchor and ran up to the head of that island and beached the boat. I jumped out and set him gently into two inch deep water and gave him enough lead to explore some of the island. Apprehensive at first, the little guy went into full overload in the what should I smell next department. I can’t imagine what it’s like for a dog to go from a farm in Kentucky to a rescue to a foster to some strange tattooed fly fishing guy tossing you into a boat and making you explore the world. Maybe that’s what alien abductions are like, without the weird butt stuff.
We spent the evening on the island and he was having a ball. The only time I had to say “drop it” is when he would pick up empty shells from the potamilus capax aka the fat pocketbook mussel. When I say this dog flummoxes me, it’s never in a bad way. It’s just confusing to see a puppy with his demeanor and his brains. Others have noticed it too, so it’s not just me. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a pup and definitely has his moments but he just seems like an old soul. As dusk started to fall, I helped Tippet into the boat and we floated back downstream. I picked up a rod and tossed a popper for a bit. Not once did he get in the way or mess with the fly line at my feet. He just watched me, the fly rod, the river, and everything we were floating past. I couldn’t believe it. This dog is just different. No training I’m aware of besides basic commands and he’s acting like he’d been riding in boats and being around all the moving parts of a fly rod for years. I wasn’t paying attention to the popper as I watched him from the corner of my eye. He was interested in everything I was doing but from a distance that seemed oddly respectful. I missed several smallies on a dead drifted popper but could have cared less. I did end up catching a little guy and Tippet got to sniff a fish for the first time in his life. As I let the fish slip from my hand to its watery domain, my heart was overjoyed. I couldn’t help but smile and think maybe old Finn was looking out over that far away rainbow bridge and nodding at the new guy who someday might be able to step into those big shoes he left behind.
Running back to the launch, the motor trimmed up, the river flying by on either side, Tippet moved towards the front of the boat just like his predecessor always did. His nose to the air, the mayflies sandblasting us, and me smiling the entire way, starting to feel like things were starting to get right again with my little world.
I trailered the boat and we made the short drive home. Tippet fell asleep watching me and honestly I feel like I won the lottery by taking a chance on a rescue when I wasn’t ready. He’s currently on the floor behind me doing what puppies do best, sleeping after running around like a madman.
Life’s a garden. Dig it.
