The Drowning Dog

Stephen Mack, Year 11

I have always had a weak heart. Ever since I was young, I have been easily perturbed by the most unstartling of things and was often prone to bouts of panic. In addition to all of this, I also possessed an incessant stutter for which I was mocked and derided, and despite the patient efforts of a speech therapist, it seemed intent on continuing to plague my existence. In short, my temperament was incurably ill-suited to human society, and it was for this reason that I kept away from the world, shying from school and social gatherings and preferring to spend my time alone in the forest by our house.

It wasn’t a dense forest, but the trees provided sufficient cover for me to play by the river undiscovered. By the time I had finished my first year of school, the forest had very much become a kind of sanctuary and a place of innate fantasy into which I confided all my secrets and inner musings. I knew every tree and every stone and could safely navigate my way through the brush, even on dark nights, through sheer force of memory. There was always a sense of calm and security there, and if I closed my eyes and let my reveries guide me, the forest seemed eternal; the same roots always writhed beneath my feet, the rough caress of the bark felt familiar on soft hands. The creek rippled gently, and birds nested their young in whispered song. This was a place where all was right with the world.

As I grew older, my old corner of the woods ceased to interest me as it once did, and I expanded my territory at a very gradual rate, exploring further downstream where the ground was flat, and the trees weren’t quite so many. About half a mile down, there was a grassy clearing where the stream had become wide enough to skip stones and go fishing, and there was an old wooden bridge I was fascinated by. It was a peculiar sight; a monument of man existing where I believed no-one to have gone before. But it was isolated and dilapidated and otherwise unclaimed, so I soon accepted it as my own: another landmark to fill a mundane world of fantasy.

My fixation on this object only grew, and I became curious about the opposite bank and wanted to explore more of this

Connor Magoutis - Year 10

uninhabited world. I once tried this, only to retreat after a rotting wooden board nearly gave way beneath my feet. I hence deemed the bridge unsuited to crossings.

There was one boy who came to frequent the land across the bridge. He couldn’t have been much older than me, perhaps one or two years. Even for his age, he was quite tall and strong, and although his blond hair and blue eyes indicated a certain innocence, I was always wary of him. His confidence frightened me.

He was always eager to greet me, and twice proposed the audacious suggestion that we play together, but my resolute timidity was my only reply. I cannot tell you why I was compelled to silently spurn him in this manner. In truth, I was always quite lonely and lived as somewhat of a pariah due to my stutter; had I the conviction, perhaps we would have become close friends, and I much happier for it. Nevertheless, I opted to retain the river’s breadth between us, perhaps due to the fear that he too would reject me. Perhaps I was blinded by some form of envy for his easy smile and gentle swagger. He was intensely likeable, and I hated him for it.

His approach was relentless, however, and conceive my horror upon finding him fishing atop that wooden bridge; the same bridge that I was unable to cross. I deemed that place no longer safe and ceased my regular visitations.

It was winter when I plucked up the courage to re-visit the old bridge. It was as intact and undisturbed as it had remained in my memory: a bastion against the blustering, heaving winds from upstream. I had wandered down there on an ominous day. The river had grown wider, with the snowfall on the mountains causing the water to ride further up the banks, and the winds were heavy and cold, the river twisting and convulsing under the bleakness of the season, which certainly did not augur well for the day to come. It was a strange day to be out, but I spotted the blond-haired boy downstream, now in the throes of adolescence and much taller than I remembered him. It was not long before a new interloper approached: a girl walking a small dog emerged from over the hill, and disturbed by this strange and unrecognised presence, I hid further inland.

It was not long before I heard something hit the water and a soft squeal shortly afterwards. I ran back towards the river and the sound. The girl from earlier stood with her hands over her mouth in shock, staring intently at the icy waters. A wooden plank floated in the current.

Briefly examining the bridge, it appeared that the rotting board had finally come loose and fallen into the water. However, something else floundered about in the river. A small creature with golden fur was barely keeping its head above the water, thrashing and flailing its slight forelimbs in a futile effort to swim.

It was the girl’s small dog, no more than a year old, and by no means in possession of the necessary strength to free itself from the current and return to safety. Its large eyes were dominated by dilated black pupils, eyelids squeezing open and shut as it bobbed above and below the water. It gasped for breath each time it broke the water’s surface; a shrill whimper could be heard before the river’s arms dragged it back below. The most painful aspect of the affair was the desperate gasp the creature would make just before it sank below the surface, no doubt swallowing the river water as it did so. I was overcome by a profound sense of hopelessness. That dog would surely be drowned.

The girl from the other side was deeply affected by the torment of her dog, and I felt immense pity towards her, having to watch her beloved pet be torn away, further and further down the river until the little furry head was visible no more. She soon caught sight of me, and with pleading eyes and fervent words, she shouted across the river, her voice breaking from fear and worry. She was almost in tears. ‘Save him! You can save him! Get in the water! Save him!’

Joel Taylor - Year 7

Despite her prayers, I remained paralysed and transfixed by the horror of the scene. I knew I could have done something; the dog was not far, and I was a capable swimmer, but I remained frozen by fear. She stared, her eyes widening and her shouts reaching a crescendo as she realised that I was doing nothing about her poor dog. But I could no longer hear her over my deafening panic and watched her mouth move from the corner of my eye.

A flurry of movement and splash of the current interrupted my trance, as the boy downstream leapt into the water to save the helpless animal. It was a marvellous sight. He had discarded his shirt and trousers in an effort to better traverse the water, leaving bare skin to shoulder the blunt waves and bitter cold. He glided through the water faster than the dog and the current, and in an expert manoeuvre, tucked the puppy beneath one of his arms and swam back with this burden. The girl greeted him on the other side, tears of relief streaking down her cheeks. He smiled, ever charming, despite the wet and cold. The dog coughed up water, but soon recovered as best it could. I assume it survived.

I ran from that place forever that day. The forest had become haunted by the near death of that dog. An unsettling revelation had fallen upon me in that moment. I never tried to save that dog. And he, that other boy, did so without hesitation. Was it a matter of temperament? A key difference between our persons? One boy a hero, the other a coward – both rendered this way through unpitying and uncontrollable fate. Oh, what I would do to have been born like him: able and righteous and worthy. But I knew I would never be able to save the dog. To be like that boy. Hearts are unchanging things, moulded by infancy and forged in childhood. This is a distance that will remain between us forever, and I cursed it on that day, and I curse it still now. The drowning dog was saved by courage; the boy was made deserving by it, and I was cursed without it.