The annual New Hampshire trip wouldn’t be the same without a good old-fashioned adventure– or two. Our beloved river, a tried-and-true source of refreshment, proved no exception.

As though he’d sniffed out the aroma of sizzling bacon, Luke lifted his nose and bulldozed forward. If he were getting ready for a date, I swear he’d be a hairy bachelor wearing a robust cologne called River.

The bitches are wild for my River vibe.

I tugged him back, nearly losing my footing.

“Luke!”

A dog’s instinct to run free is powerful – especially when it involves a body of water.

“Go easy.”

For a firm two seconds, he went easy.

Then the scent of a different cologne wafted through the air: Childhood Flower. The fragrance left me nostalgic. Less enchanting, a black fly circled my sweaty brow. I swatted at it, flicked the tiny corpse from my hand, and sighed. A creature the size of a freckle should not be allowed to cause massive distress. But it could be worse, I told myself.

I was about to eat my words.

We reached the shoreline.

Luke froze. I could see he was overwhelmed by a breathtaking realization: the picture he’d carried in his mind while we hiked matched this one. Deep creases formed across his boxy head. The river shimmered beneath the sunlight, reflections dancing across its surface like a flock of birds.

Luke sat surprisingly still, overcome by a sense of peace. I followed his meditative stare. The two of us seemed entranced by the river’s aura. We inhaled mountain-fresh air that tasted of freedom and goodness. My hand rested on the clip of his harness.

Dog’s territory.

Quietly, and under the river’s spell, I set him free.

What could go wrong?

Luke bathed in the drink of a cold-water river refreshment. He drenched himself in a sea of bubbles. Unrestricted, he reminded me of a toddler licking a dripping ice cream cone. He paddled. He whimpered. He resumed the bizarre habit of biting at the bubbles he created.

All was well.

But would it end well?

My son’s hand floated to his forehead.

“Mum. I knew this would happen.”

What had happened?

Within a minute, Luke was still paddling happily, but something had changed. He wasn’t swimming in place anymore. The current had quietly claimed him. Every stroke carried him farther downstream and, judging by the blissful look on his face, he hadn’t noticed a thing.

Pardon the cliché, but Luke was flowing like a river—with the oblivion of a dog paddler. A victim of a dog’s mantra to live in the moment, he adapted easily to the invisible current. Ironically enough, he was going with the flow—my favorite lesson.

“Don’t panic.”

I faced my son and his fiancée with the feeble confidence of a bug-bitten Dog Mom propped against a stick lest she slip down the eighty-degree riverbank incline.

“I’ll go in.”

My future daughter-in-law, an athlete and caregiver at heart, stepped up as well.

“I’ll grab him. I don’t mind.”

She removed her sandals, a posh pair of Birkenstocks that had no place here.

My son, Ben, twice our size in both bulk and attitude, commanded the two of us like Moses.

“Stay here. I’m going in.”

I faced Allison and grimaced.

“What about the bloodsuckers?”

Ben took off his T-shirt, handed me his phone and wallet, and issued a firm warning.

“Do NOT drop this in the river.”

The pain of hearing a Verizon employee state the obvious—your phone’s brain is wet and it’s going to cost eight hundred dollars—was legitimate. I wrapped the phone in his T-shirt and stumbled forward. The threat of losing our dog downriver was one thing. Now we also had to fight physics to stay upright and save our phones.

Allison, a natural problem solver, came up with an ingenious plan.

“Pappas!”

Standing ten feet behind us, she shouted in Luke’s favorite language and hurled giant stones into the water near him like oversized dog toys.

Luke perked up, pitching his ears like little tents so that his head and neck rose above the water.

What’s that sound? A giant toy?

He began swimming back toward us.

“He’s coming back! Keep up the great work, Ally!”

My heart lifted.

“Come on, Pappas!”

He swam against the current, taking two paddles forward and one paddle back. Would he be able to keep chasing the rocks toward shore?

Perhaps.

But not with a brotherly linebacker charging after him.

Elbows lifted, Ben shuffled through the water, gaining ground until he was about twenty yards behind Luke. Spooked, Luke resumed his downstream swim, paddling even faster.

A game of Keep Away had emerged.

You’re not holding me down, Brosie.

Luke charged ahead, but Ben stayed the course. He had to move twice as fast against the current to reach him. Finally, Luke was within grabbing distance. Ben bear-hugged the paddling dog, who squirmed and resisted like a seal caught in a net, then power-lifted his soaking-wet eighty-five-pound body above the water.

The feat was admittedly Herculean, even from a distance.

Finally, Ben carried Luke to the stony bank on the opposite side of the river, restrained him for a few seconds, and then guided him back to us. He shook wildly, looked up at me and smiled. The river wouldn’t be the same without another adventure. 

Stay tuned for more Living with Luke stories.

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