An untimely rescue....

Clark's River has it's inconspicuous beginnings in a series of small creeks near Murray, Kentucky, growing larger as it wends its way toward joining the Tennessee River just west of Paducah, Kentucky.

I flyfish (using poppers primarily) on Clark's River as often as possible, but nearly daily during the spring and early summers. Generally, I wade down the middle of the river, since the trees so overhang the water that casting from the bank can be very problematic...and I'm no fan of roll casting. I can pretty much depend upon taking lots of bream, and for every 10 or 12 bream, I'll latch onto a 2 to 3 pound bass or so.

So it was this past early summer, that I was wading a new section of the river, and having a pretty good time of it. Fact is, my ratio of bass to bream was making major improvements that day, with a good sized bass for every 4 or 5 bream.

Off in the distance, I could hear traffic on the highway, but the flowing of the water and an occasional bird was about all I had to keep me company as I fished my way along. Suddenly, I had that little shiver along my spine that caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. For I could feel eyes upon me. And it seemed to grow even quieter.

Letting my casting arm rest a moment, I looked around me carefully, and in short order I had located the source of the feeling. For trapped in an undercut bank, in a little cul de sac about ten feet long and a couple of feet deep, on the other side of the river, was a beautiful but haggard looking English Bull dog. The dog had the run of the cul de sac, which stood about 2 feet above the water, and looking closely, I could see no possible way the dog could escape, unless he gave himself up to the water, a thing he seemed reluctant to do. At first I couldn't figure out how the dog had managed to find his way into the cul de sac, but decided he must have started a fall into the river, and managed to cast himself into the undercut.

Well, the dog looked at me, never moving, and I moved on along about my fishing business. But I like dogs, so I hadn't gone a hundred yards until I decided I must investigate this matter a little further and, if possible, try to rescue the little feller.

So I headed back on down, and standing across the river from the dog, I unloaded. Off came the fishing vest (I wear shorts, T-shirt, tennis shoes and fishing vest when wading during warmer weather), the gun (.357 magnum revolver loaded with .38 caliber snake shot), cell phone and so forth, and waded right in.

The river grew deeper quickly, and it wasn't long until I was in water up to my arm pits. The current was strong enough that keeping my feet planted on bottom was becoming increasingly harder, and if the bottom didn't level out within the next step or so, I'd have to turn around and head back to the bank on my side of the river. But the bottom did level out, and I was able to reach the dog's accidental prison. The open front of the undercut was threaded with tree roots and fallen branches, and I had to reach back pretty far in order to close in on the dog.

Of course, all this time, I'd been talking to the dog. I talk to dogs as if they were people (and if someone says I talked to them 'like a dog' it's probably true, but you can rest assured I meant no offense). So when I could reach no further, I urged the dog to come forward into my arms. He did, and clutching him to my face, to keep him out of the water, I headed back to shore.

Well sir, his name, according to the collar around his neck, was Fritz. And we had a pretty rough slog back to my car, what with me carrying the dog, my fishing rod and so forth, having to wade back through the same water I'd waded on the way up. However, when we got to my car (I had never set him down, and soon he stopped shivering and accepted the fact I was helping him), I set Fritz down and told him to get into my car. Which he did immediately, looking as if he knew I was helping him. His collar also had a phone number on it, so I wasted no time in making the call.

Fritz's owner answered the phone, and seemed genuinely pleased to hear I'd found the little rascal. I got an address, and within five minutes or so, I returned Fritz to his owner's arms. The owner was sincerely appreciative and tried to pay me for the deed, which I steadfastly refused. Fact is, the owner, a man about sixty years of age, was crying when I pulled out of the drive. A single man, living alone, he had only Fritz to keep him company. Fritz had been missing three days, and they'd been a hard three days for his owner.

I drove away with a certain amount of satisfaction, and considered the entire day well spent and profitable. It's not often you can rescue something so important to someone else....

Unfortunately, I checked back in with the man three or four weeks later, and I was shocked and sorry to hear Fritz had died just three days after his rescue. I wasn't able to clearly understand the cause of death, but I'm pretty sure the three terrible days and nights he spent in that damp undercut bank contributed to it.

As I drove away this time, leaving the man crying yet again, I felt that, yes, saving the dog had been a good thing, but I'd give a great deal had Fritz lived longer, validating the mutual trust and effort both he and I put in getting him rescued and home again.

And yep, I'd do it again....

Sahagan