Words: Steve Duda 2017-06-26 18:00:26
I turned off the phone and stared out the window. It was 39 degrees. It had been raining for 17 days straight in Seattle. It was 11 a.m. and I wanted to erase the day. I’d just put Gibby, my semi-feral golden retriever of a dozen years, down after a sudden illness.
I thought about the note. Gibby had certainly had a long run with a tight crew, but she was far from a hell of a fishing dog—she had her issues. While she’d once won a fight with a rattler, she lost battles with porcupines (twice), skunks (many, many times), raccoons (three times) and ticks (way too many to number). One evening, after a tromp through the eastern Washington desert, I picked more than 100 bloodsuckers from her hide. She loved the attention and thought the whole thing amusing.
But regardless, she’d always try to wade out with me to get in on the fishing. If it was cold, she’d shiver and curl up in the reeds. If it was hot, she’d lap river water, burp, find a shallow spot and lie down. No matter what, she’d always keep an eye on the fly as it drifted down the river. She knew what was supposed to happen and when it did, she’d gamely come by my side to inspect and congratulate, smiling up at me like we were both in on the same joke.
She wasn’t always careful. More times than I could count, I watched her bob down the river, swept downstream lord only knows how far. On her way back up, she’d find something dead to roll in. She liked walking on the train tracks that ran through her favorite canyon and when we walked together she’d let me know when a train was coming or a rattler was around.
I’ll admit it. Gibby was overly friendly. Other dogs thought she was too forward. Other fisherman thought she was poorly mannered. She was an aggressive licker and she loved to bark for the sake of barking. She would balance on the bow of my raft and howl at other anglers until they lost patience—all of this was probably my fault but we both thought it was hilarious. She once ate an entire box of steelhead flies and seemed eager to do it again.
She was a lousy bird hunter. She just didn’t get it and, I think, she preferred a day on the river. It was more leisurely, more free and she had fewer responsibilities. She loved bullshitting around campfires. She was smart enough to knock over a beer to get to the good stuff inside. She won a few unsanctioned all-breed dog races. She was warm on freezing nights and was never shy about talking to pretty women at the boat launch.
But when I think about Gibby now, the fishing part seems like a small slice of a huge memory pie. What is important is that part about the long run with a tight crew. Loyalty. Friendship. A shared life. Now that a furry portion of it is gone, that crew means even more to me. Go give your dog a hug and the next time you see them, tell that crew you love them. Then go fishing.
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