Fisher Dog

One evening in 1997, the late Victor Howard snapped this picture of Sneakers and myself in the pool
at the CARP bridge. As we approached he leaned over the railing and said in reference to Sneakers,
“You are a lucky man to have such a fine fishing partner.” Thank you Victor.

One would think that in my house the word “fishing” might be bandied about rather casually by friends and family. Nay…I almost always have to caution visitors not to use the word if Sneakers, my 14-year old 13” border-beagle cross, is within hearing. Otherwise, our attempt at conversation will be interrupted by the most baleful moans, groans, whines and generally intrusive behavior. Why? Unfortunately, he associates the word with “Wanna go fishing?” an invitation he has heard from me all his life.

I have no one to blame but myself. From the time he was a puppy, Sneakers accompanied me on most fishing outings. It wasn’t long before he became almost as much a part of my fishing gear as the gear itself. He has spent literally hundreds of hours on stream, walked many more hundreds of miles on the return trips and even, on occasion, has joined me for a relaxing après angling brew at a friendly roadhouse (alas, fast disappearing).

Dave Wolf, writing in the June 7, 2006 issue of the Potter-Leader Enterprise, catalogues a whole host of admonitions about the ownership of a dog. All of which are more or less true, by the way, but where are the positive stories? Let’s not forget that the lowly Canis familiaris is the only species of the animals that voluntarily became domesticated to us and dogs have been with us a long, long time. One might as well say that young men and women shouldn’t even think about marriage, as it is fraught with too many problems. Well, I think both institutions will survive just fine.

To be sure, Sneakers is a hunting breed, so working a stream in his world is no different than working through a briar patch. It’s just a lot wetter, which, like most dogs, is also just fine. Hunting is hunting, and fly fishing is as much about hunting as anything else. To Sneakers I’m sure the rod is no different than the shotgun – it’s simply what the pack leader carries along on his treks.

Was it difficult to “train” the dog for an afternoon on stream. Not really. Hunting breeds by their nature normally respond to the pack leader discipline and in Sneaker’s case, his border genes contribute greatly to staying close at hand. I never had to worry about him wandering far or chasing deer or otherwise becoming a nuisance.

Well, what about the water, asks a little boy or girl: “Wouldn’t the puppy drown?” Ah yes, the water. The honest answer, little one, is yes, he could have, for like some youngsters who venture too far, or go where they shouldn’t, or swim without a lifeguard, yes, and I had to rescue him on a couple of occasion during spring run off.

Most dogs are quick learners, even dogs with legs only about 6 inches long. Today he can navigate a swift stretch of rapids, swim a deep pool, and find the best places to cross. And when he does his body surfing to cross rapids he always starts above me so that we usually meet together on the opposite side. Quite a fine bit of triangulation and vector analysis, if I do say so. Occasionally I’ll follow his lead in negotiating unknown water. If the fishing is slow and the water is right, he’ll simply start a leisurely swim about, just for the kicks of it.

Fishing the lower Allegheny one afternoon found myself working one side of a broad, deep run, with Sneakers scenting whatever along the 10-foot high dirt bank on the opposite side of the river. Suddenly the bank gave way under his feet and he was thrown into the deep water. We were both startled, and he a little panicked because the bank was too steep to clamber out (an obvious first reaction). With some mild encouragement, I simply called him and he swam easily to my side. With an “all in a days work” look at me, we proceeded upstream.

Indeed, as it developed, staying close at hand turned out to be a mixed blessing. As he learned what we were up to, it became more and more apparent that he had decided that HE would get the fish! He would stick his head underwater, find the fish, and get it! After being admonished a few times for this behavior which merely spooked a number of nice trout, he adopted a stratagem which at first I couldn’t figure out.

Long answer to #1: We were on Wingerter Run, home to legions of small wild brook trout, in some pretty good back country. Previously on other streams I had flipped a chub or other trash fish to Sneakers and didn’t pay much attention to the outcome. They seemed to be eaten, but I couldn’t be sure. Today I decided to throw him a barely legal-sized brookie (7”) and watch. I threw, checked my second hand, and looked up just in time to see it disappear down his throat. About 7 seconds. Same experiment in subsequent outings with other, larger stocked fish – same result, slightly longer consumption times. Smallmouth bass – a little longer (the spines require a some careful chewing).

Long answer to #2: It’s a quiet afternoon on the Oswayo; the pool is shaded, smooth and deep. I’m fussing with something, perhaps changing the fly. Sneakers is seated besides me. He whimpers, points, and wags his tail. I look. Across the pool, in the shade, a good-sized trout rises. Nice ending here – we got him. And home he went into the pan. Sneakers gets the liver and the heart. Always!

Long (hopefully, amusing) answer to #3: On another excursion to Wingerter Run sometime in the early 90’s we came out at dusk the long way, i.e., followed the stream out rather than cut up and over to the road. This route brings you to a large beaver dam. At it, on the other side, were three recumbent spin or bait fishermen, waiting for the big one. As usual I checked for risers and sure enough, the surface was pocked with many circles indicating rising fish. Why not, we were in no hurry.

With Sneakers at my side I cast and a really nice-sized brook trout took. Sneakers decides to get the fish himself, jumps into the water and grabs the fish. In the ensuing melee of getting both dog and fish onto the bank, the fly pops out of the fish and the hook embeds itself into the dog’s ear, deeply! The leader and fly line are a tangled mess, the dog is howling, I’m yelling as I try to wrestle the dog down so I can get the hook out, the fish is flopping. It’s dusk, and getting darker by the minute.

Were this to happen today I bet that one of those other fishermen would be on his cell phone calling 911 with a complaint about a fisherman mistreating and abusing his dog, that sirens would sound, and cruisers roll. Tabloid Headline: “Sore-Loser Fisherman Beats Dog For Fish.”

Yes, Mr. Wolf, I suppose life without Sneakers would be much, much simpler, and neat and clean, and less complicated, and less expensive, and on and on. But where is the joy, where is the fun, where is the unspoken fathomless satisfaction of having a partner who never complains, is always ready to go, who knows when you are thinking fish and fishing, even, I dare say, before you do. Victor Howard was right – I am a lucky man.

Is this just so much baloney? Find out yourself. Two excellent sources are the Tree Of Life Web Project and a book by Mary Elizabeth Thurston, "The Lost History of the Canine Race." Thurston discusses the unique circumstances that prevailed when dogs became part of our life.