I went for a walk with my mother yesterday. She is 98 years and 11 months old but happily powers up modest hills and assorted terrain unaided by walking frame or stick. Anyway, we were walking along a bushy path next to the Yarra River and decided to enjoy a bit of sunshine and a rest on a bench seat. Shortly after, a boisterous young bull terrier bounded up followed soon after by his master. Just as he said now don’t you roll on that grass, the dog proceeded to do so. Ther grass was longish and sloped down towards the river. Next thing Mum and I saw was his arse in the air as the dog slid headfirst into the river. It was a sheer drop of some 3 or so feet so the dog couldn’t get back up. Instead, he was propped head just above water sort of underneath the edge.
What to do ?
Its the start of winter so stripping off was not an attractive option. So, after some discussion, the master lay on his belly while I hung on to his ankles to stop him from sliding in, all the while hoping that I didn’t follow him into the drink and the grass was lush and slippery. Eventually, the 2-year-old bull terrier – Apollo was his name – was grabbed by the collar and hauled up, and I hauled his master back from the brink of the drink and all was right with the world.
Effusive thanks were given and we resumed our walk.
Made Mum’s day.
My brothers mutt is one of those dogs who, if he sees water needs to get in it immediately. A few times he’s leapt into canals or rivers where he has no way of getting out unaided. Several other times he has had to be lured either up- or downstream to places where he can get out by himself.
We had a terrier who freaked out at thunder and lightning and cracker nights. He’d jump up and actually run along the fence barking at it. Quite entertaining.
Less entertaining was his other habit of running up and down under the house biting at the telephone cables. On numerous occasions, we had “the man” out to repair.
I should have added that the cable muncher’s name was Sparky.
Excellent!
I hope I’m like your mother when I’m knocking on a hundred. How’s her hearing? Does she enjoy listening to music? My own mum is going deaf at aged 82. Not being able to listen to music would kill me.
Quite deaf – the guy in the next room complains about the volume at which she has the TV on. Much the same as me at home though mine is self-inflicted.
Memory shot with some degree of dementia but reckon she will march over the line to 100 with arms aloft.
In the last couple of years of my Mum’s innings, I used to drive south to pay a visit from time to time. She’d be sat in her favouite armchair, three feet from the front bay window, probably doing the day’s crossword or stitching up some item of clothing that needed repair. The bay windows were huge double-glazed units that cost the earth, and are guaranteed to keep the cold out and isolate those inside from noisy neighbours’ comings and goings. Despite this, as soon as I switched off my car’s engine, and without even getting out of the vehicle, the distant but unmistakable mutterings of BBC News 24 could be heard filtering out through the brickwork from the big Sony in front of which Mum was esconced, oblivious and deaf.
When we eventually cleared the house, we had to throw the telly away – she’d ruined the speakers running them continuously at 11 for at least 3 years.
You are a lucky guy, and well done on the rescue. Last year I helped save a man and his son who were drifting away on a untethered kind of pier in a small lake. Wasn’t life endangering but I helped keep them dry.
Great job hauling the guy and his dog back to terra drier.
A few years ago my mate Jez and I were enjoying a summer lunchtime pint or two and playing darts in a nice local in Exeter. A bloke came in with a Great Dane in tow, which promptly flopped itself down in front of the bar, sending bar stools rattling in two directions. We carried on playing.
The dart board was in a dark corner, illuminated by a little spotlight in the ceiling above the oche. The power to the spotlight ran along the front of the bar, clipped to the skirting board. You know where this is going, I’d guess.
Sure enough, with Jez only a double from a win, there was a loud bang, an even louder yelp from the Great Dane, which shot across the bar in fear and alarm, and the spotlight went out. 240 volts in the UK. Some dog, some short circuit. Maybe he should have been called Sparky too.
Thanks Foxy. I was recounting for the humour. I did have a flash of a thought that if I let go I could see this bloke slide in headfirst just like the dog.
When I first me my wife she had a Bernese Mountain dog and a Clumber Spaniel. We went for a walk in the local water park – it was February, the lakes were frozen solid. The Clumber saw some ducks on the lake and hurtled towards them. As she approached they predictably flew off. She was quite heavy and sure enough the ice cracked beneath her weight. She was left holding on by her front paws. My wife not thinking, suggested she was going in. I was having none of it and called the fire brigade. They were quickly on the scene. One fireman tied a rope around his waist that his colleague held onto. He crawled across the ice to the Clumber, all the time we prayed that the ice remained frozen where he was. It seemed to be fine until he got to the dog. He pulled her out and she quickly ran to the side. As he pulled her out the ice cracked further and he was fully submerged. His colleague pulled him out by the rope. He was in the water for maybe no more than 2 minutes. By the time he reached the side he was barely conscious. A salutary lesson was learned.
The dog had probably been in the water 15-20 minutes yet within a few minutes was right as rain.
That is interesting re dog resilience in the freezing water.v the frozen fireman.
Were you charged a fee for this rescue mission?
No fee charged but we took a gift and a thank you letter to the fire team.
They went above and beyond the call of duty and to be honest we were more than a little embarrassed.
You’ll know this geography, @steveT, all this bloody dog rescuing. Picture back to 2004, maybe 5 or 6, the snowy and icy winter. Darwin Park. Walking with my then wife and 2 small dogs. Off lead. Ducks on frozen lagoon (as they are extravagantly entitled). Dogs on ice, running to the tiny thaw where the ducks bob. Splash! Too steep to climb. I look at wife, she at me. O shit.
Up to the waist, breaking the ice as I lurch over. Dogs hooked up by scruffs, Home. They were fine in 15 minutes. It took me longer and my phone, right hand pocket, never. Good idea? Hell, no.