Words Are Optional: by Rob Helton
n Eastern North Carolina the humidity is high, mosquitoes are lethal and brackish water ways are as common to the coastal terrain as cacti are to the desert.
There is something tranquil – almost tranquilizing – about a canoe quietly cutting through the dark surface of those ancient canals, nothing breaking the silence but the rhythm of me paddling and Molly panting. Molly is my dog, not my wife. For heaven to be heaven it will have to include a canoe, fishy water, a really good fly rod and Molly.
Half Lab and half Golden Retriever, she came to live with our family a little over thirteen years ago. Doesn’t seem that long, but it is. And thirteen years is enough time to build a pretty solid friendship. There is something easy and unforced about the relationship between a man and his dog. There’s no need to fill up empty space with words just because the space is empty. After thirteen years worth of fishing trips, words are optional for me and Molly.
So there we are, canoeing toward a good spot to catch a bass. The paddle still keeps time but Molly’s breathing has slowed and deepened, a sure sign that she’s asleep. Of course the snoring is a dead giveaway. On this trip we paddle down Slocum Creek to a spot where tree branches hang out over the water. These are the kinds of places anglers look for. We’re like undercover cops who can spot a place where a drug dealer might live. We know where the bass hang out.
I don’t like to brag (actually I do but you’re supposed to say you don’t) but I was making some of the prettiest casts you’ve ever seen. The timing was perfect, the distance was perfect, and the placement was perfect. One of those perfect casts landed perfectly underneath those branches. Suddenly the surface of the water exploded as a truly huge large mouth bass gobbled up the popping bug (an artificial frog made of cork and feathers). I set the hook and the fight was on!
All this commotion was, I suppose, unsettling for Molly. Still drowsy from her nap, I guess she temporarily forgot where she was. After all, she is almost 90 in dog years. At any rate, in her confusion or contrariness or some other unknown mental state, she jumped out of the canoe. Now, as anyone relatively familiar with a canoe will tell you, it is hard to maintain your balance standing in one while reeling in a huge bass and compensating for the instability created by an eighty pound dog abandoning ship. In fact, it’s down right impossible! Molly left the canoe on one side and I left on the other.
It’s odd how things can be so funny in retrospect but not funny at all in real time. Long after Molly leaves this world I’m sure I will remember that day fondly. People will laugh out loud at dinner parties when I tell the story, but that day I wasn’t laughing. Molly calmly paddled to the shore while I frantically attempted to gather fishing gear, canoe paddles and assorted accessories without drowning or becoming lunch for the gators.
At the end of the day, Molly and I arrived home soaking wet, smelling like backwater, missing a lot of essential gear and what would have undoubtedly been a trophy bass.
I’m not really sure if the story has a moral or even a compelling reason to tell it. I do know that somehow, over time, our pets (even cats) become our closest friends. And why shouldn’t they? They keep our secrets. They complain very little. They seldom disagree with our decisions. And even when they get you wet, they do it gracefully.
By Rob Helton
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