“ROSIE! ROOOSIEEEEE!!!! Come back HERE!!!!”
The wet ball of soaking white and black fur barreled toward
us. Squealing, I shifted off my towel as Ian ineffectually said, “C’mere doggie….”
Rosie tumbled
over my suit and swim shirt I’d laid out on the gravel to dry. She ground to a
halt, pivoted, and then dropped the wet tennis ball at Ian’s feet. “Good girl!”
he said, retrieving the slimy toy and tossing it back into the river.
Rosie
plunged in. Doggie paddling furiously into the middle of the green gold water.
Biting the ball, she paddled back. This time to her owner. “Sorry ‘bout that,”
she called to us, picking up the ball and tossing it back into the water.
“She’s an
excellent swimmer!” I called back.
“Oh, yeah.
I could stand here all day, throwing the ball back into the water, her retrieving
it, then I’d toss it back again. She has endless energy!”
Rosie was back with the ball, dropping it again for another toss as her owner approached us, throwing the ball back into the river.
The Russian
River was gloriously peaceful until Rosie showed up. Its greeny golden surface
smooth and serene. When I’d gone in earlier, the initial plunge had been
chilly, but not too bad. I swam out into the center of the river, startled at
the filmy plant life that caught at my sleeves. Then turning on my back,
stroking down the center. No one in the water with me. Except the ducks. They
shared their river with me. Paddling, quacking, and searching. There was so much
space. I didn’t have to split a lane with anyone. The sky was blue with wispy
clouds floating overhead as turkey vultures, their black wings spread, circled
overhead on the lookout for dinner.
Cigarette
in hand, Rosie’s owner stood a few feet away from us. “You like comin’ here at
Duck O’clock, too?”
“Duck O’clock?” I grinned. “Yeah,
it’s marvelous. I just got out of the river a little while ago and it was so
beautiful.”
“Yeah…” She
took a puff of her cigarette. “I haven’t been swimmin’ in the river for months.
Too warm for me….”
I nodded.
Too warm? The water temp was definitely chilly. I guessed in the high 60s. I
stayed in for about 20 to 25 minutes, but then I got too cold. Had to climb out.
It was hard for me to imagine the water being too warm to swim in.
“I got a
little cold,” I told her now.
“Yeah,
well, most people round here don’t take to cold water. It’s almost cool enough
for me. But I tell you, a few weeks ago, it was like a swamp.” She curled her lip
in distaste either from the thought of the swamp or the smoke from the cigarette.
Rosie was
back swimming in the river. “What kind of dog is Rosie?” I asked.
“Oh, some Pitbull
mix.”
“She acts
like a puppy,” Ian said.
“Oh, yeah.
She’s a puppy alright. She’ll probably be a puppy all her life.”
Rosie shook herself as she dropped the ball at the woman’s feet. The water spraying into a sprinkler of rainbows in the evening light.
“OH! THERE
YOU ARE!” The woman strode away from us toward another dog who had just
appeared from behind the parked vintage Airstream silver trailer. “I tol you
not to run off like that! BAD DOG!”
She grabbed
the dog, pulling a collar over its head and then tugging with the leash to make
her point.
The dog
submitted, sheepish. She knew she was a bad dog but I still felt sorry for her.
I’m sure she wanted to run free like Rosie, swimming, fetching, hiding.
A cool
breeze swept up the beach as the sun ducked behind the line of redwoods
surrounding us. “Time to go?” Ian asked.
“Yeah, I
guess,” I said, thinking how I didn’t want to leave this magical river with its
greeny golden embrace and sweet quacking ducks.
Gathering
our stuff, I watched the woman stroll on down the beach, continuing to throw the ball
into the river for Rosie.
“Bye!” I
called out to her.
“You take care
now!” she answered.
We trudged
up the slight incline, the beach now shrouded in shadow as the last of the
sunlight sank behind the trees.
 |
| Duck O'clock photo by Ian Lambton |
No comments:
Post a Comment