This picture was taken yesterday morning, just twenty minutes before the most terrifying experience I’ve ever had in the woods.
Despite the 20-degree weather, Wyatt and I began our hike early yesterday to enjoy the quiet (less people before 8AM). The ground was clear of snow and I decided to run with him. It was beautiful. An hour and a half later, we headed back toward the car.
There’s a large body of water leading to the town’s dam. We’ve gone kayaking on it before. Just four days ago, men were ice fishing. The ice had recently melted, but when Wyatt went down to the bank, I didn’t think much of it. He hasn’t tried to go into he water since summer and he always (well, 99% of the time), comes when I call him. He likes to look at the geese and run along the bank to follow them.
But this time, two beautiful white swans were just out of reach. He started wading in. I called him, using my most stern voice. Nothing. Now he was swimming toward the swan. I still didn’t think he’d go far—I was more concerned the swan would get angry and attack him.
I couldn’t believe how fast he followed the swan to the middle of the reservoir, despite my frantic screaming and tears. I sounded like a lunatic. The water was FREEZING and he’d never even swam before. But suddenly, he was paddling in the middle of the river, and I thought for sure he’d die of hypothermia and I’d have to watch him go under while I stood helpless on the bank.
I called my husband as I ran up the bank closer to my dog, who encouraged me to call 911. They in turn connected me to the fire department and I explained what had happened even as I doubted they could do anything to help me.
By now, Wyatt had traveled near a 1/4 of a mile and was closer to the other side of the river. I prayed aloud, frantic, calling him between pleas that God would somehow protect my stupid dog, still paddling mindlessly after that swan, his little black head a small blob beside the pure white of the two swans.
I reached a far bank, waved my hands and called. Nothing. I ran back the other way and met the fire chief, who spoke to me in a calm, kind way and urged me not to call him because another crew was going to the other side of the reservoir with a boat.
We watched as Wyatt kept up his rebellious swim. How could he have enough energy to even make it back to shore? He was still recovering from Lyme disease. We’d run hard in the woods. Would his little heart suddenly give out from the freezing temperatures? I thought of my youngest son, Noah, and wondered if he’d ever be able to forgive me if I came home without our pup. I cried more, prayed more.
Wyatt’s paddling seemed less vigorous now. He looked toward me, and for the first time since he entered the water, seemed to remember my existence.
“I think we’ve got his attention now,” the fire chief said, directing me to run up the river so I could be closer to him.
I don’t think I’ve run so fast since high school. Tearing through the brush, I reached the wooded bank as I continued calling. Finally, he came closer, not looking well at all, but still swimming slowly. I grabbed his collar, still certain he was going to just collapse. I helped him up the bank where he did indeed collapse on my lap, shivering and shaking up a storm, soaking my clothes through.
The fire chief gave me a blanket for him and a ride back to my car. I thanked him profusely. (How amazing are our first responders?!) We called the vet, who said to watch him but because poodles are water dogs (oh, really???), that he should be fine. I later looked at the call time between when I first called my husband and when I finally got Wyatt out of the water. Twenty minutes.
We got him home and gave him a warm bath. He stopped shivering far sooner than I expected. As I was drying him off with the hairdryer, he tried to eat a sock I’d discarded as I’d coaxed him in the tub (rather, sat in the tub with him fully clothed). He was fine! While he’d took at least a month off my life, he hadn’t a care in the world. Just an everyday swan chase in the freezing reservoir.
Sometimes I kick myself for loving a dog this much. A dog who doesn’t care a flip for my emotions and most likely doesn’t understand them. But then he comes and puts a paw on my lap, asking for a cuddle. (Despite his 55 pounds, he still likes to sit in my lap.) And I know. All the grief, all the work of feeding and cleaning and taking care of him…all the stress he caused me by chasing after a bird, it’s all worth it.