I was walking my Cutter and my Tug out along the little marina that’s right near our new house in newnowheresville island.
It’s not really a marina, just a handful of slips deeded to the handful of building lots not waterfront in our little teeny tiny nowheresville community.
So we’re walking and me and Cutter and Tug are enjoying the waterfront and I’m waiting for them to poop so I can go home and take a shower when, for whatever tiny dog brain reason, Tug tugs us all out onto one of the tiny finger piers separating the handful of slips and stands grinning stupidly down into a little jon boat half full of water.
It’s a boat, he says happily looking at it.
Cutter follows him onto the finger pier and I’m thinking, oh boy, that’s all I need, TWO dogs piling into a half-sunk dinghy. So I gently pull back on Tug’s leash and instead of turning towards me, he backs up a step.
Which makes Cutter back up a step.
Right off the finger pier and into the water.
He surfaces, his paws wildly slap-smashing the water, and screams at me.
HALP, he yelps, his eyes bulging with fear and surprise. HALP, he screams.
I’M DROWNING, he yells. HALP, GODDAMMIT, he shrieks, his paws churning and slapping at the water.
I reel Cutter in with his leash and pull him halfway up on the finger pier. His forepaws clutch fiercely and he pants at me.
Thanks Boss, he says, please don’t let me drown out there, he says, looking all drowned-rat-like.
Relax, I say. You’re a Lab, just relax and swim, I say.You can do it, I say. And I gently pry his clutching paws from the deck boards.
Noooooo, he screams.
He splashes back in and comes up spitting and sputtering. HALP, he yells. HALP me, he shrieks piteously, splashing and crashing.
I sigh and give up on hoping that Cutter will learn how to swim and “walk” him back to the main portion of the dock where there are cross-ties and stuff for him to hold onto.
Cutter clutches at the wood with a death grip and pants.
Please, he says.
Help me boss, he says.
I don’t want a watery grave, he says. Don’t let me die here, he says, panting hysterically.
I’ll be nice to Tug, he pleads. Just help me, he sobs, desperately hanging on.
So I grab his collar with one hand and reach down into the water to grab a handful of fur and butt and toss Cutter up onto the dock.
He stands and shakes the water off of him and glares at me.
Tell me again why you moved us here?, he says.
Tug rushes up to him and bumps him and says grinningly, are you really gonna be nice to me now?
Cutter shifts his glare from me to Tug and lifts his leg and pees out into the water, his stream arching and yellow.
Fucking marina, he says.
I have the exact opposite with my dog…he likes to run and jump and play in the stinkiest canal water he can find. I’m sure he wonders why he has to get the dreaded bath every time he has what he must think is the best day ever.