Rescuing Chloe
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I found it difficult to
contain my amusement
the first time I saw a
dog wearing a life jacket—a
self-important little terrier
dressed up like an
overstuffed orange
briefcase, complete with
carrying handle. He was
heading down the dock
intent on some as-yetunrevealed
mischief,
although how anyone
could take him seriously
wearing that thing I
couldn’t imagine.
Since then, we have
become happy boat owners
and, like many other
floating couples, usually
have a pair of canine
companions underfoot.
Being childless, Chlöe and
Duffy play significant roles
in our lives. They take us
for walks when we need them, erupt into animated
fury at anything that looks like it needs a good scare
and are inclined to chase pretty much anything that
moves. But they are collies—they have long hair and
little feet with hardly any webbing between their
toes. They take to water like ducks take to chasing
rabbits. Collies do, however, come equipped with effective snorkels—their
long beaks, which can be
handy in watery situations.
HAIRY SHIPMATES
Being on a boat does
cramp a dog’s
independence at times—
certain things really
shouldn’t be done aboard.
In all but the most deserted
of anchorages, the dog
owners can be spotted late
in the evening skulking
about in their tenders,
trying to relocate their
boats in the dark after
taking their furry friends
ashore to answer the call of
nature.
Many an attempt has
been made to avoid this
ritual—we’ve even seen a 4-
foot-square lawn on the
foredeck of a rather
substantial trawler. (I’ll be home in an hour, dear,
I’m just going down to the boat to cut the grass.)
Besides, what can be more satisfying than crawling
into your warm bunk with rest assured since it’s
your better half ’s turn to heave your hairy shipmates
into the dinghy in the morning?
Occasionally, however, these bodily functions are not quite so predictable. Last year in early spring,
my wife, Karin, her mother, the dogs and I were
enjoying a peaceful night on the dock at Newcastle
Island, British Columbia, before the summer crowds
arrived. We had the place almost to ourselves but
had tied up at the end of an outside finger just in
case Duffy the wonderdog decided there was
somebody on another boat needing to be woken up
in the middle of the night. With bellies full and the
wine bottle empty, we settled down for a peaceful
night around 11 p.m. But at 4 a.m., I was shaken
awake by a fully clothed spouse wailing, “Come
quick, my dog is drowning!”
UNEARTHLY CATERWAULING
Now getting me out of bed at 4 a.m. is not easy to
do, but the mixture of panic and forlorn
hopelessness in Karin’s voice did the job. Despite
her desperation, she had the presence of mind to
suggest that I put on some pants as her mother and
I bounced around the cabin trying to remember
where the door was. While this was going on it was
quite evident that Chlöe had not yet sunk into
immortality; her unearthly caterwauling was
probably audible on the Nanaimo waterfront.
Apparently, in the middle of the night, Chlöe had decided she had to go—and had convinced Karin
that she should be the one to go with her. Halfway
to the ramp, Chlöe, who must have been feeling
some urgency, was well out in front and seemed to
know exactly where she was going.
Collies tend to be quite independent, but Chlöe is
particularly so. Her characteristic haughtiness would
be more appropriate if she were a cat. And if she
were a person, she’d be downright annoying. So
Karin followed slowly behind while Chlöe streaked
up the ramp, did her thing with an efficiency best
appreciated at 4 a.m., and returned to the float.
Perhaps the hour—or the relief—scrambled her
little brain a bit, for at some point in this process she
lost her bearings. When she got to the bottom of
the ramp, she turned left instead of right and trotted
right off the end of the float into the water.
Naturally, Karin rushed to the scene, intent on
scooping her beloved pooch from the icy water.
DESPERATE MEASURES
Unfortunately, a waterlogged Chlöe weighs about
the same as a dry Karin. And, with the surface of
the water 1-1/2 feet below the dock, the prognosis
was not too good. After several rescue attempts,
Karin decided that she should encourage Chlöe to swim over to shore by shoving her
in that direction. By habit, the dog
paddled madly back to the closest
thing she figured she could latch
onto—the float.
Undoubtedly, Karin attempted to
explain the consequences of this
poor course of action to the dog,
but to no avail. On Karin’s second
attempt to shove Chlöe toward the
shore (what must have seemed to
Chlöe like attempted drowning),
the dog wised up. She managed to
avoid the devil hands and ducked under the float, at
which point Karin lost sight of her and quickly went
for help.
So there we were, standing on the dock in the
dark listening to the desperate howling of a
terrified member of the family somewhere beneath
our feet.
Fortunately Duffy the wonderdog is rather
uncoordinated. Being a purebred sheltie, his brain
belongs in a 30-pound dog, but he weighs almost
twice that. (In fact, he’s bigger than the full-sized
model.) I say this is fortunate because it means the
poor lad is not capable of getting off the boat
unassisted, a fact that was a blessing on this
occasion. He dutifully, and uncharacteristically
quietly, held the fort while we charged off to rescue
his partner in crime.
A COLD SWIM
It was obvious someone else was going to have to
get wet. I would gladly have forfeited the
opportunity for gallantry had either of the ladies
appeared eager to join the dog in the water, but,
alas, they didn’t want to deny me the chance for a
good story, so in I went. It was cold. Particularly so
when compared with the warm bed I had so
recently vacated.
The design of the float was common: timbers
running along its length, joined by boards across the
top and bottom, and the whole affair sat atop the
standard-issue foam flotation blocks. With this
construction, it was difficult to imagine how the dog
could be under the dock, but not totally submerged.
The only place I could see anything was at the
end of the float, eyeballs at water
level, where I could look down the
length of the dock between the
upper and lower boards. That is, if I
had a flashlight, which, in our
panic, we had neglected to bring.
While Karin charged off toward the
boat to rectify this oversight, my
mother-in-law and I tried to
console the howling dog with the
warmest words of comfort we
could muster. But the howling
carried on unabated.
A SOLITARY PAW
In astoundingly short order, the
flashlight bearer returned
triumphant. I shone the light down
the length of the dock in search of the source of the
god-awful racket. At first, nothing. Then I saw the
reason our genuine attempts at verbal consolation
had had no effect—Chlöe couldn’t hear us because
her ears (along with most of the rest of her) were
completely under water. All I could see was the
forward end of her formidable beak, and close
alongside it, the solitary paw with which she was
clinging to the dock.
Somehow, she had managed to get up between
the flotation blocks and had located what was surely
the only hole under the entire dock large enough to
wedge her nose up through. But the hole was 15 or
20 feet away, and interfering docks prevented me
from making my way down the side of this one.
Now what?
I like the dog. All in all we get along pretty well. But she was beginning to make
life difficult. Swimming
underwater—cold water—in the
dark with no idea what I might
run into along the way didn’t
appeal to me much. Especially
considering that the aim was to
persuade a terrified animal to
give up the only thing keeping
her alive so that I could drag
her underwater with me.
Maybe I was too young when I
saw Jaws; suffice it to say I
didn’t like the odds. And I was
relieved to hear that Karin
didn’t either. I guess the idea of
losing us both was too much.
Trying to choose between one
and the other would likely be
hard enough.
I tried to estimate how far down the dock Chlöe’s
nose was. The ladies then pulled me out of the
water. I dripped down the dock and got back into
the water at what we hoped was about the right
spot. I sunk under the water and—while hanging
onto the dock with one hand—reached under with
the other as far as I could and…hair! On the first
attempt! As soon as I got hold of her flailing
forearm, the howling mercifully ceased. I told the
attentive ladies what I was going to do, then, with a
firm tug, pulled the dog down under the water and back up beside me. Karin and
her mom promptly fetched her
from my grip and lifted her to
the surface of the dock.
IS THERE ENOUGH
COGNAC?
We have had Chlöe since she
was a few weeks old, over 10
years now. Even when she was
a rambunctious puppy, I don’t
think I ever saw her quite so
happy to be alive. While the
women in my life hugged each
other and celebrated the fact
that they were all going to
remain among the living for a
while longer, I looked longingly
at the edge of the dock above
me. I knew that my scrawny,
cold-soaked arms had about as much chance of
dragging me up onto the dock as they did of breaststroking
me the 20 miles between here and home. I
wondered whether I had enough cognac on the
boat to ever be warm again.
In the end, Karin and her mom did decide to pull
me out, and there was enough cognac after all. We
marveled at the fact that the commotion hadn’t
roused all of Nanaimo. And I don’t snicker anymore
when I see a dog sporting an orange handle.
I admire the owner’s preparedness.
Reprinted with permission. Copyright 2003 © Dominion Enterprises (888.487.2953) www.passagemaker.com
You are reading the text-only copy of this article. To access the article as it appeared in PassageMaker Magazine, please log in to purchase and download the PDF version of this article.