Doggie Paddle

It’s no secret that there are two things in life I am scared of: Scurvy and birds.

The first, I have been assured, is an irrational fear since no one has come down with scurvy since the 1800’s. After years of convincing, I was almost a believer.

Almost.
That is until I visited my mom at a workshop convention last week which happened to be hosted next door to my office building. She attended the conference to present a research poster. Out of the 50-some posters presented at this conference, who should happen to be assigned next to her?

The doctor who has discovered that scurvy does, in fact, still exist and has been found recently among the geries (geriatric adults… that is).

Fear re-instated.

My second fear is far from irrational.

I hate birds.  

And I can tell from their beady little eyes that they sense the dislike and therefore hate me too. I’m always convinced they’re aiming to fly right into me with their bird scurvy and other communicable diseases.

Keeping the latter fear in mind, you can imagine the surprise of my main squeeze when instead of soaking up the sun on his boat last weekend, I began helping him clean the vessel after it had been the targeted victim of bird bowel graffiti. (If that’s not love folks, I don’t know what is)

It just didn’t seem right to sit back and enjoy the warmth while he was forced to scrub away. So through gags and curses at the flighted species, I joined in.

On this particular afternoon, like many, there was an additional passenger on the boat. We have been trying to get Gatsby comfortable on the water and have been taking him out on the boat with us since this past winter. Though less scared of the idea than he initially was, Gatsby’s favorite perch remains to be the captain’s seat, safe and sound. 
 


His first boat ride back in January. Complete with a skeptical look.

Gats seemed to be a little more adventurous than usual on this particular day, roaming back and forth on the boat and peering over the sides into the water. Maybe the sun was influencing us both to do things out of character…

While Matt was rinsing off the front of the boat (that’s the bow, to all you nautical people), and I was busily distracted scrubbing green gunk out of the carpet in the back (erm, stern), Gatsby thought it was high time to make a splash of his own.

Literally.

The vertically challenged dog had decided he had had quite enough of all this cleaning (I don’t blame him) and simply needed to go for a dip.

That, or he fell in looking into the water…  this detail is still up for discussion.

Rewind a couple months... Matt and I have had an ongoing discussion about Gatsby learning to swim. He's insisted we just put him in the water off the boat, but the conversation usually ends with my insisting he get a life jacket first (those little landlocked legs can only work so hard), or Matt go in with him.

Life jackets... for the truly serious swimmers

Naturally, after I screeched with shock from Gatsby's big dive, I yelled for Matt to go in after Gatsby.

Apparently the thought did not cross my mind that since I was closer to him, I should jump in and save Gats. The water is still way too cold.

Matt rushed to the back of the boat just as Gatsby’s head was the only thing left above water.

Then magically, as all dogs instinctively know how to do, Gatsby began to swim. Color me shocked, that body of his is actually buoyant!


No time to take pictures, though I imagine he looked something like this.

 Once Gatsby found his sea legs, it was all either of us could do to get him back on the boat. He swam a couple laps around the boat until he decided that was plenty of exercise for one day. When he was good and ready he came within arm's reach to pull him in. After his dry off dance (those of you with dog know exactly what I'm talking about), he spent the rest of the afternoon, keeping warm in the sun.

I guess I had nothing to be worried about in the first place with Gatsby's first water encounter. 

Good thing too. Two fears are more than enough to keep me occupied.