Weekend Essay

My Dog, the Angler

By John MacDonald, Guest Writer, 10-10-09

	Photo courtesy of Dave MacDonald.

I learned something recently about the life my dog had before he met me. Whoever lost him or left him so that he ended up at the animal shelter must have been a fly fisherman. He likely had a wonderful, proper cast and was a better fisherman than me.

It is the first real information I’ve gathered about Jimmy James, but it’s insight that also has left me sad and baffled. Fishermen, I like to think, are not the kind of folks who abandon their dogs, especially dogs like Jimmy James. And if their dogs get lost, I’d like to think fishermen would search to the far horizon to find them.

Jimmy James was a complete mystery when I brought him home from the Lewis and Clark Humane Society in Helena three months earlier. He was a stray, turned in by a family who had found him wandering their front yard one morning in town. With no ID and no one reporting him missing, the staff named him “James” and put him up for adoption.

Other than telling me he was “a big, sweet boy,” nobody knew a thing about him. Even his breed was a mystery. “Mixed” is what the Humane Society called him. “Ten kinds of mutt” said my vet, adding: “the best kind.”

At 70 pounds, he was a bigger dog than I was after, but his temperament captured me. He is as he was first described; a big sweet boy. He’s about two years old, but can lumber along like a polite old man in no particular hurry to get anywhere. He is content wherever he is. A warm place in the sun and a foot to rest his head on seem to often be all he needs. He loves other dogs, but is most enthralled with my neighbor’s small cat, which he will lick and slobber on and roll around in the grass with for hours. The cat loves it too.

A few weeks ago, I decided to take Jimmy James on our first real fishing trip – an annual four-day excursion with my brother and some friends.  I’ve always had the impression that dogs and fishing didn’t mix. They disturb the water and interfere in good casting. I was prepared to leave Jimmy James in his kennel in the camper if he seemed inclined to be a pain or bother anyone.

But when we stopped at the first hole, Jimmy James took up a position just to my right as if he’d been here, with me, many times before. He put his front feet at water’s edge and sat down. His eyes followed the fly as I started false casting to let line out. The fly finally hit the water and Jimmy James’ eyes settled on it and watched it drift slowly.

He squirmed as I pulled the fly in for another cast. If dogs can have furrowed brows, he did. His head bobbed back and forth as his eyes followed the fly above him. After a few minutes with no fish, Jimmy James’ squirming became more intense. His ears went flat against his head. What started as a heavy sigh rapidly became a high-pitched whining noise.

My fishing partner laughed.

I moved to the next hole. Jimmy James did too, again taking up a position just to my right. Minutes passed and no fish. Jimmy James’ anxiety grew, yet he stayed right with me. He watched every cast. I watched his body language.

I began imagining I could hear him correcting my technique.

“Ten and Two, old man. … Sloppy cast … bad drift, old man … Come on! Mend it. MEND it!”

“He’s intense,” my brother said from a short distance a way. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off that fly.”

“It’s kind of freaky,” I responded, looking down at Jimmy James. “I get the sense he’s judging me.”

I finally hooked a few fish and Jimmy James seemed to share in my triumph. He would stand, wag his tail and alternate looks of pleasure between me and the splashing fish.
“Good job, old man!”

At the end of every day of our trip, Jimmy James would bound back to camp with a level of energy he stifled at the river, running and dodging crazily through the fallen cottonwoods that the beavers had helped bring down. He would have his dinner, then collapse at our feet by the campfire as we recounted the day.

His etiquette on that trip ensured he’s on the invitation list next year.

As I write this, Jimmy James is asleep under my desk, snoring slightly and drooling profusely on my left shoe, waiting for official bed time. He is content.  In the morning, he will wake me up early by rolling onto his back against me and yawning loudly until I scratch his belly and take him for his morning walk.

I have to force myself not to think about the how and the why such a great dog – such a completely perfect companion—ended up at the Humane Society. Besides those hints of a fisherman in his past, he’s shared very little. Maybe that’s for the best.

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