A Cautionary Tale Jeffrey Reel

A Cautionary Tale

Jeffrey Reel - Hartland, VT

My daughter and I lived in the Berkshire Mountains of Western Massachusetts with our five-year-old lab/retriever, Lucky. Lucky was more than a member of the household. He was family: gentle, sociable, intelligent, and my daughter’s best friend and companion. It was just the three of us, finding comfort in each other’s presence. Lucky was a stabilizing presence.

Our home was located on a dirt road that ended at the shore of a lake. Our house was surrounded by summer homes and we enjoyed peace and solitude during most of each year. It was on an April morning when I took Lucky for his regular morning walk, and the day was typical for early April in the Berkshires: cold, overcast, and with a temperature hovering around 25 degrees. Spring comes late in the Berkshires. The last remaining patches of snow take refuge in the shade of houses and trees. All that remains of the lake ice is a thin sheet of glass. As was our custom on morning walks, I brought along a two-way radio, leaving the other for my daughter back at the house so we could communicate during the five-minute stroll.

Lucky walked alongside me toward a stretch of woods near the shore. I heard, but took little notice of, two large Canada Geese standing along what would be the shore a few weeks from now but that was still hidden under a thin sliver of ice and a crust of snow. Lucky had always been intimidated by the geese – loud, aggressive birds – and his habit had been to safely watch them from a distance. This time, though, things took a sudden turn. Lucky suddenly bolted after the geese, which took off, flying low and slow over the thinning ice and out over the lake. I yelled for him to stop and, as he approached the shore and lake ice, I screamed for him at the top of my lungs, as if his life depended on it. But his instinct to chase was strong and he was unaware of the danger in his pursuit. He raced across the beach, then

onto the ice, and out over the lake at full speed. My heart raced and then sank, as I could only watch, waiting for that moment when Lucky would break through the ice and plunge into the water, well out of reach. About 150 feet out, the ice gave way beneath him and he disappeared under the surface of the water. After a few moments, his head popped back up. He threw his front paws up on the ice and scraped against it, trying to lift himself up and out of the water. He struggled for a minute or two, then stopped and simply rested his gaze upon me, and waited.

I stood there, stunned in disbelief and horror. Only moments before we were on just another morning walk. Now, all I could see of Lucky was his head and front paws, his eyes fixed intently upon mine, waiting for me to pull him out of the icecold water. I considered the choices. I could stand there for the next 20 minutes in order to “be with him” until he slipped back into, and under, the water for the final time, or I could turn away and return to the house, with Lucky’s eyes fastened upon my back. Both seemed incomprehensible and unacceptable, yet fate seemed to be forcing those cruel choices upon me. I couldn’t explain to Lucky why I would not come for him, and I wouldn’t know what to say to my daughter when I returned to the house without him.

My body shook with fear, sadness overwhelmed me, yet my mind continued to race for a miracle. I noticed that a nearby stream had sliced a thin channel of water into the lake, but even if I could swim along it, 50 feet of ice would still separate me from where Lucky had fallen through. I knew the futility, and danger, of jumping in, but I had to at least go through the motions of rescue if only to show my loyalty, and wanting Lucky to witness my efforts during what would be his final moments of life. I plunged into the frigid water, still wearing my winter coat, and began swimming out into the lake. The shock to my body contracted my muscles and forced the air out of my lungs, which could not fully relax and expand again. I could only manage to take in small sips of air. My shoes slipped off my feet and sank to the bottom of the lake. The weight of the winter coat began to drag me under, so I removed it while treading water and tossed it onto the ice next to me. I shivered violently from both cold and fear. I shot occasional glances toward Lucky to see if his head remained above water, dreading that moment when I would turn to see only the hole where he had fallen through, and nothing more. But he remained above water, his eyes fastened upon mine. Ten minutes had passed since he had fallen through. I was exhausted from managing only shallow breaths and I began to lose feeling from the neck down. Quickly losSpring 2022 ing sensation and sinking deeper into the water, an image suddenly flashed before me of my daughter staying at a friend’s home until her mother could fly in from Japan to get her because I had drowned on this day with Lucky. I turned back toward shore.

Dripping wet and shivering from the cold, I emerged from the stream and sloshed to the nearest summer home, which was shuttered for the winter. A large aluminum rowboat, still covered with snow, lay overturned on the lawn. I flipped it over, searched for oars, and, finding none, began dragging the boat toward the open channel. Once in the boat, I leaned out over the bow and began paddling with both hands. I was exhausted, no longer able to feel my hands or arms, and continued yelling to Lucky if only to keep his attention. I finally got as close as I could to him by water, but we were still separated by 50 feet of ice. I leaned further out over the bow and began smashing through the ice with my fists, cutting open both hands and wrists. There was nothing left in me but fear for Lucky’s life and a faint glimmer of hope that I might now reach him in time. I kept up a running monologue with him as if it would buy us time. At least 20 minutes had passed. I continued breaking through the ice until finally reaching him. Lucky tried, but could not climb up and in over the boat, which sat too high above the water. There was panic in his eyes as he tried to swim back out through the channel I had created with the boat, but he had grown so cold that he had lost all coordination, and his legs splayed in all directions. He would go under and then struggle again to the surface. I wrapped my arms around him to pull him up out of the water but he was too heavy to lift in that fashion. In what I believed to be our last opportunity, I grabbed the nape of his neck and the skin along his back and yanked him straight up out of the water – 80 pounds of wet dog – and dropped him into the

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boat. We both lay there, unable to move, shaking with a cold that had penetrated to our bones.

After a few minutes had passed, I lifted myself up and looked back toward shore. My daughter stood there, her two-way radio in her hand. She had missed the entire episode, although the last words she had apparently heard me say over the radio were “Oh my God” as Lucky first began to race out over the ice after the geese. I tried paddling the boat to shore but could not, so I slipped back into the water, wrapped the rope that had been threaded in the bow around me, and towed the boat back to shore. Reaching land, Lucky was too scared to abandon the boat, so I gently tipped it over until he slid out. Soaked to the bone, and shoeless, I walked back to the house with my daughter and pup.

Unable to feel or use my hands and arms, I could not remove my clothing. I stepped into the shower, turned on the faucet with my forearms, sank down into the basin of the tub, and allowed warm water to wash over me until I had exhausted its supply. But I couldn’t stop shaking (and wouldn’t for another two weeks). When I looked up, my daughter was standing next to the tub, holding bandages for my hands and wrists.

Every fall and spring since then, as the ice first formed, and then melted upon the lake, I kept the dogs well away from shore (we had later taken in a shelter dog). In the winter, I admit to being overly cautious by waiting until the holes have been drilled for fishing and the ice clearly supports the weight of the snowmobiles that race out over the lake. In the spring, I wait until the ice has receded away from shore to the point where the dogs are unable to reach it. But like clockwork every spring, a pair of fat Canada Geese could always be seen standing on the thin sheet of lake ice close to shore. My imagination played tricks with me as I fancy them trying, yet one more time, to lure their adversary onto the ice and to his watery grave.

Lucky at Home

I seriously question my actions over and over, wondering if I could, or even should, again risk so much to save the life of our companion. Things could easily have turned out differently on that April day. Lives are too easily lost in frigid waters, as stories in local papers give testimony to each winter. If errors in judgment are to be made (we are, after all, human), I suggest erring on the side of caution. Thinning ice and dogs should never meet.

“A Cautionary Tail” for sure – a leash can be your best friend’s friend!

This true tale is offered to you in that spirit.