Sorry to be silent over the weekend, but we were camping. I’d like to justify my lack of on-line activity by explaining that we hiked uphill ten miles with our sleeping bags, a two-man pup tent, freeze-dried rations, and fishing poles for survival, but the sad fact is that we took the motor home to a lake about 20 miles from home and forgot the cable hookup for the t.v. and laptop. The way I was raised, that is NOT camping.
But camping the old fashioned way is no longer an option for me. The problem is the two-man pup tent. Whoever named the dang thing a “pup” tent didn’t have whippets. In fact, I’m pretty darn certain that Tara and Nike take up enough bed space between them that they wouldn’t fit in the “pup” tent.
We had a great time though. We even borrowed a friend’s boat and toodled around the lake for a bit. (Note to self, need to purchase PWC for summer lake adventures). The lake cruise was a delightful way to spend a 90 degree Saturday. Until the motor quit.
Now, granted, we were only about 15 yards from the dock when the motor quit. And we had an oar. That we couldn’t get unhooked. Since I have been working out with Helga for three weeks now, and I am the fearless saver of lives in bat attacks, I selflessly volunteer myself up to dive off the bow and swim, towing said boat, to the dock.
Firstly, I don’t dive. Period. I do not go head first anywhere I can’t see where I’m going. That’s just plain dumb. Like eating mushrooms, it’s just one of those things you cannot convince me is a good idea. Mushrooms are poisonous, and diving head first without looking where you are going has got to be unhealthy. I’m a careful weigher of risk, and these are just two things that my cerebral actuary says “nope”, “nada”, “not going there”.
So, in reality, I gingerly slid feet first off the bow clinging to the bowline. I got the boat turned around and swam to the dock, arriving not quite half-drowned. While I cling to the dock gasping for air, Saint Rob, in the boat, points out a slight problem. The boat moors on the other side of the dock and there are too many other boats in the way for him to tow it by walking on the dock. So bowline in teeth, I strike out again around the dock, trying not to get run over by the boat, shoved under the dock, and also trying not to run the boat into any of the other boats bobbing cheerfully in their moorings.
We did finally make it in. I have a bruise on my knee from being run over by the boat, but no other real damage. I got my cardio for the day. Helga will be proud.
Next dog is gonna be a Lab. First, they can swim and pull the damn boat. Second, they probably fit in a pup-tent.
But camping the old fashioned way is no longer an option for me. The problem is the two-man pup tent. Whoever named the dang thing a “pup” tent didn’t have whippets. In fact, I’m pretty darn certain that Tara and Nike take up enough bed space between them that they wouldn’t fit in the “pup” tent.
We had a great time though. We even borrowed a friend’s boat and toodled around the lake for a bit. (Note to self, need to purchase PWC for summer lake adventures). The lake cruise was a delightful way to spend a 90 degree Saturday. Until the motor quit.
Now, granted, we were only about 15 yards from the dock when the motor quit. And we had an oar. That we couldn’t get unhooked. Since I have been working out with Helga for three weeks now, and I am the fearless saver of lives in bat attacks, I selflessly volunteer myself up to dive off the bow and swim, towing said boat, to the dock.
Firstly, I don’t dive. Period. I do not go head first anywhere I can’t see where I’m going. That’s just plain dumb. Like eating mushrooms, it’s just one of those things you cannot convince me is a good idea. Mushrooms are poisonous, and diving head first without looking where you are going has got to be unhealthy. I’m a careful weigher of risk, and these are just two things that my cerebral actuary says “nope”, “nada”, “not going there”.
So, in reality, I gingerly slid feet first off the bow clinging to the bowline. I got the boat turned around and swam to the dock, arriving not quite half-drowned. While I cling to the dock gasping for air, Saint Rob, in the boat, points out a slight problem. The boat moors on the other side of the dock and there are too many other boats in the way for him to tow it by walking on the dock. So bowline in teeth, I strike out again around the dock, trying not to get run over by the boat, shoved under the dock, and also trying not to run the boat into any of the other boats bobbing cheerfully in their moorings.
We did finally make it in. I have a bruise on my knee from being run over by the boat, but no other real damage. I got my cardio for the day. Helga will be proud.
Next dog is gonna be a Lab. First, they can swim and pull the damn boat. Second, they probably fit in a pup-tent.
3 comments:
You ‘got me’ with the title and kept me with the ‘tale’ …(the pup tent brought back mem’ries though I don’t ‘camp’ that way any longer myself either). I'm impressed with the 'rescue' and highly recommend ‘labs’ … not only are they great swimmers, they ‘cuddle’ well too ;--)
Hugs and blessings,
Pulling the boat in your teeth! One of your best!...but don't ever consider going over to the dark side...if you want a large, smelly dog that saves boats, go with a Newfy.
Whippets forever,
Whimsy
fyi....
(2 u, love me....)
not in a boat,
not in a moat,
not on a train,
not in the rain, not
for a stick that he was sent,
a lab won't fit in a tent.
-signed sincerely,
a lab's mom aka simply sandy
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