Fishing Dogs
Like most dog owners who fish, I enjoy bringing my dog on the river with me from time to time. Usually, she comes on family trips—floats where fishing and fishing well play second fiddle to other aspirations, like beating summer heat, sharing a river picnic, or witnessing some of the outlandish shenanigans of a summer Saturday flotillas. If not a family trip, Charlie often joins me when I play tour guide to less than fishy friends. Every angler has these people in their circle—the ones that hear stories about rivers and white water and trout and travel and roadside BBQ and Oregon and otters and beavers and no cell service for eight hours and want an experience like that for themselves. I do the best the I can with these trips, trying to both schedule as few as possible while also striving to keep my fishing fanatic’s obsession in check so I can enjoy the company. Charlie helps me do that. So does leaving the good fly rods at home. So does alcohol.
However, I don’t limit Charlie’s river time to non-fishing adventures. She does get to go with me, just the two of us, every now and again. Sometimes these outings happen because I know I will be gone for too long. No dog should be left alone for more than eight hours, let alone a golden retriever who sees me as her emotional support human. Other times she breaks me down with her puppy dog eyes. Like most goldens, she knows how to play for human sympathy. Then there are the trips she wins because of the sheer joy she shows at even the possible prospect of an adventure. She zooms through the house, grabs her leash, and follows me around with it, scolding me as I get my things ready. On more than one occasion, she has simply invited herself by sneaking out of the garage and jumping into the truck of her own accord. She climbs from the back to the passenger seat and refuses to move from her perch. I usually cave quickly, though. As Rene points out, Charlie and I have a special relationship.
When river trips with Charlie do come round, I don’t miss as many fish as I assume, despite my fears and grumblings. I still fish the same runs as I always do, and the only real headaches come at the launch and take out where Charlie becomes a mother hen and a thirsty Willamette Valley Fishing Guides ambassador. No human is safe from her affections. Granted, I do miss out on the solitude when Charlie comes along. Honestly, Velcro would have been a better name for her. But, in a world where solitude can be compromised by human company or dog companionship, I’ll take the dog every time.
Even though she does get to go with me, and even though I do like her company, Charlie is not what I would call an ideal fishing dog. To be honest, in all my years of fishing, I’ve never been owned by what I would call an ideal fishing dog. Charlie and Roscoe and Balooza (all the dogs that have ever owned me) had their long traits and foibles, which, like me, when averaged out, revealed a little more tarnish than shine, which, like me, when taken as a whole, requires a certain refinement (or patience) of taste to appreciate.
Balooza was the worst when it came to fishing. We rescued each other when I was in high school. My mom brought her home from PetSmart where she worked for a brief stint. Someone abandoned Balooza at the Banfield Vet counter. My mom, being the keeper of strays and the fount of compassion she was, took the scared dog home. I am pretty sure Mom didn’t bother asking permission. She probably just walked out the back door with her and probably played dumb when asked about it later.
Balooza was a chocolate and dapple dachshund who, for reasons still unknown, adopted me as her preferred human. In those days, I was more of a camper, smoker, and general misfit than angler. Balooza rarely needed a leash, preferred to sleep burrowed under my covers, and was fiercely attached to me. Unfortunately, her body composition was not meant for bushwhacking adventures in Virginia which are always necessary when seeking new waters to fish. The ocean scared her, so surf fishing was struggle. She became unruly and over-protective whenever I ventured out into water. She barked and nipped and growled and whined until I gave in and returned to her company. Also, she did not really tolerate anyone else coming near me. While that helped me get a few more minutes of sleep when my mother tried to wake me up in the morning for school or work or whatever, it also meant that when I was fishing crowded public waters, being well mannered towards what she deemed an intrusive public was just too much for her to handle. In the end, she was a far better camping than fishing dog. Dachshunds are compact and can be carried around in a backpack—even 45 miles into the Appalachian Trail. Dachshunds that like to burrow in their sleep help keep your feet warm at night if you should ever decide to hike into the mountains for three days in December and forget to bring wool socks. She was, in the end, a good dog if not a good fishing dog. We should all be wary of asking too much of those who love us.
Roscoe takes second place in the rankings of fishing dogs over the years. He came into my life two weeks after Rene and I married. A Chesapeake Bay Retriever, I secretly picked him from a country litter of pups without warning my new bride. We—which really means Rene—was packing up the remnants of my bachelor life at the old pad and I decided to pull the first caper of my married life. I had heard of the litter coming, and I knew the breeder. I also knew that my lover of all things cat wife would be opposed to a puppy because, well, she had never been a dog owner. I figured the safest thing to do was just show up with the little guy. Puppy love is a real thing.
All things considered, Roscoe was a great dog. He lived a long life. Saw Rene and I through deployments, career changes, the first twelve years of our marriage, a move across the country, and the purchase of our first home. What made Roscoe great was his affable nature, and frankly, his average intelligence. Loyal to a fault, and sometimes goofy, he had the calm temperament of big dogs everywhere which, in turn, ruined Rene for all other dogs.
As a fishing dog, though, Roscoe didn’t pass the test. Chessies are the Michael Phelps of the dog world, making Labradors look like they belong in the kiddy pool. Further, Roscoe had a divine work ethic when it came to water and retrieving. Toss anything into the water and he was gonna bring it back. He was so dedicated that he would retrieve giant clam shells thrown into breaking surf. Such drive made him an excellent duck retriever. He was gun broke before he was house trained, swimming before he could navigate stairs, and patient only when waiting for the command to fetch. He would break ice with his chest to get a widgeon. He was such a skilled swimmer that, when completing a retrieve in surf, he would dive under the waves rather than swim over them and he would body surf back to the beach head rather than struggle against the current. He loved the water so much that, regardless of the conditions, if there was water, he was in it. Period. Such attributes led to a short-lived fishing career. The three times I took him, he successfully retrieved my lures on several casts, swam around the boat as I rowed and anchored in fishing spots, and caught one large mouth bass all on his own after diving for it when he saw it sitting on a bed.
The good news is Roscoe never gave me guff when I went fishing without him. He was content to stay home with Rene. They had a special bond developed when he was a puppy and I was deployed. She was his preferred human. I would come home from hours on the water and he’d be snoring on the couch while Rene was baking or crafting or grading papers or doing any of the other million things wives do that husbands never really see, understand, or comprehend. I’d walk in, he’d look up, roll over for a belly rub, and then go right back to sleep. He was a good dog and I mean that goodness in the way of a bond only dogs and their humans can form.
With Roscoe at second, that leaves Charlie in first place. Like I said, she’s a good dog but not a good fishing dog even is she’s the best of lot so far. She lacks the mellow nature central to fishing dogs. While she does sleep at my feet when the boat is on the move, if I shift positions at all, anchor, stand, or start casting, she perks right up and must be in the mix. In other words, she lacks the necessary indifference to my activities all anglers need from a good fishing buddy—whether human or otherwise.
If good fishing (or even river) dogs are so hard to come by, why keep bothering in the first place?
For me, it is a question of the romance of it all. I can think of very few visions more inventively nostalgic than that of a lone angler with their dog casting out into the river in a morning fog, evening hatch, or fall day. The outdoor industry hosts a whole marketing strategy centered on just such romanticism. The image appears everywhere from blankets to pillows to mugs to plates to fucking underwear. And yes, I am, sometimes, a sucker for packaging. And yes, I am sometimes a sucker for marketing, too. Look, we all have our struggles.
Another reason for my continued fishing dog dream has to do with the possibility of training a fishing buddy. Think about it. The human/dog relationship is social and as something social it carries a two way social conditioning and training regimen. We each train the other how to be together. A dog carries the hope that, if we only start them young enough and are consistent enough we will come out on the other side with the ideal fishing partner: one that doesn’t talk; one that always goes where we go; one that is always happy to be with us; one that can give a warning bark for bears; one whose love and companionship can turn even the worst day into something a little better than its worst; one that can never catch more fish than we do; and one that, by the end of the day, smells worse than we do.
Yet, when I think beyond marketing and selfish wants, fishing dogs seem to offer the same deep connection all dogs give to their pack only in a more concentrated manner. For me, fishing with my dogs has always made me more aware of life than if I was to go by myself. The sheer joy on Charlie’s face when she sits up at my feet on the river, the goofball happiness that she shows when sitting in the passenger seat even when she knows she shouldn’t, the absolute abandon of her running when I allow her off leash, these things force me outside of what sometimes becomes an experience of routine. She reminds me of the wonder in our world that, sometimes, becomes too much lived by rote.
Truth is a dog’s wonder and love of life are their gifts to us. Such things are made more potent because they are always given with reckless abandon and seem to fit seamlessly in the spaces of our lives where we need them the most. So, too, because they live such full yet fleeting lives in comparison to our own.
I have been fortunate enough to have three become part of my pack so far. In their ways, they each made (and continue to make) me a better person—smoothing out edges, rounding out corners, reminding me that there is real joy in a stick, a ball, a body of water I have seen hundreds of times because while I may have seen it hundreds of times when they’re there I remember it is the first time I am seeing it this time and that in and of itself is occasion enough for joy.
Truth is all dogs are good dogs and all good dogs are good fishing dogs if only because they remind me of two essential things I go looking for on the water: the bottomless wonder of life and the absurd finitude of its living.
Charlie convincing me she should go fishing, too.
