did she jump?

old no. 38

did she jump?

Did she jump?
Or was she pushed?
That, dear reader, is the question.

There is a reason for this story which is just over a year old. I’ll let you know what that is after I’ve recounted this rather soggy tale (or should that be tail? – sorry, I digress already).

It begins on a rather overcast and distinctly chilly February morning. Not the sort of day that you’d want to fall into the canal.

Watch this space 🙄

Being the responsible pet owner that I am, I decided to take the dogs out for their early doors constitutional.

I wrapped up warmly, and, aware of her advancing years, wrapped terrier Milly in her smart red jacket for the jaunt.

Border Collie, Blue, mad as ever and eager to go, needed no such covering. He leapt the gate as usual, leapt back and repeated the process until he’d obviously built up enough of a sweat to keep himself warm for the duration of the trip.

We set off, up the road, turn right at the end, up to old bridge number 38 and down onto the towpath.

I cried ‘Havoc’ and let loose the dogs of war, much to the consternation of a resident fisherman, a passing mountain biker and the local heron.

Blue, unleashed, shot off up the grass verge at just under the speed of sound – I could tell that because his bark had a certain booming resonance. That seemed to concern the cyclist even more as he wobbled disconcertingly.

Milly was already lagging behind, determined as ever to piddle on every blade of grass.
I walked on, only a few yards (apologies dear reader, I refuse to go metric). Blue sped past in the opposite direction toward Milly.

I strode on.
There was a splash.
Blue hurtled by again.
I turned, expecting to see a duck launched into the cold, grey water.
If only!
It was Milly, frantically dog paddling (well what else would she do?) like crazy alongside the canal bank. Had she stumbled in? Or, more likely, had Blue knocked her overboard?
I tutted.
I raised my eyes to the heavens to show my annoyance.
I retraced my steps toward the elderly, part submerged canine and knelt on the damp grass verge as I reached to retrieve her.
Perhaps sensing that the knees of my trousers were nowhere as wet as she was and seeking to level the playing field, she struck out for the opposite bank like an Olympic swimmer on speed.
What the..!
Decision time.
Run up and over the bridge and through the jungle which infests the other side of the waterway?
Not an option. I wasn’t sure she’d stay afloat that long.
Throw Blue in to rescue her?
I wasn’t sure he could swim.
Jump in myself?
You must be bloody joking!
But I wasn’t sure about that either.
I took a deep breath and took a leap of shear stupidity (I was going to say ‘faith’, but perhaps that’s overdoing it a bit).
Bloody Nora, it was cold!🥶
Blame that on February I suppose.
I was stood in the silt with water up to my midriff.
Milly by now was midstream. I struck out in pursuit, wading purposefully in her wake.
By now up to my chin (and I’m not a short person let me tell you) I lunged, arms outstretched to grab her.
Bad move.
I knocked her under the surface and promptly followed her myself.
Did I mention it was cold! 🥶
Blindly flailing about I managed to grab hold of her coat and pull her up – which sent me under again.
I struggled manfully, holding her aloft, praying that I wouldn’t have to give her mouth to mouth when we got to dry land (she’d had a rather smelly breakfast!)
Inching back, with one last reserve of strength I hurled her ashore, where she stood on the bank and regarded me balefully before shaking herself dry and resuming her routine of sniffing and peeing as if nothing had happened.
Have you ever tried to haul yourself out of the cut in walking boots, waterproof trousers over your jeans, tee shirt, thick woolen jumper, a fleece and heavy waterproof jacket?
No, I didn’t think so!
After what seemed like hours, but was probably a bit less, I collapsed onto the canal side like a beached whale and lay there gasping – yes gasping I tell you – for breath as I tried to take in the enormity of what had just happened.
Needless to say I will not be applying to join the RNLI anytime soon.
Blue seemed mildly annoyed and Milly blissfully oblivious as I soggily lead us home and hurled myself into the shower, praying that I had not somehow contracted cholera, typhus or some other water borne disease.
It was at this point that I realised my phone had been in my trouser pocket during the whole sorry adventure.
Bugger!

And the reason for this rather soggy story?

Unfortunately, a few months ago Milly left us.
Cancer is a real bastard!

I miss her.

On some level I’m sure Blue does too.

What I wouldn’t give to hurl myself into the icy waters of the cut again and to have her treat me with total indifference for my heroic lifesaving attempt.

Sleep well little girl x

Milly white terrier

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About David Robertson

Hi I'm Dave Robertson. I live beside the Staffs & Worcester canal with my wife and a small menagerie. I've just published my third children's book, the first of which was set on a canal boat. My column is called 'Old No 38' because that's the bridge I cross every day... If you would like to learn about my children’s books, here is my Amazon page link