Burr Butt Brat
Drake and I took the flyrod and went after some early season bluegills we thought would be in the canals this time of year. Actually, we’re about 3 weeks late because the ice just left the lake about 5 days ago. This is by far the latest I’ve seen ice on the lake by a good 3 weeks anyway. It’s been the coldest, longest winter I can remember. Bring back global warming.
Well, it was cold, windy, and blustery on the canal. I always fall for that, you know. Step out of the house, sheltered from the wind, in full sun, and it feels like about 70 degrees. No need for a heavy jacket, a light one will do. Right. Get on the canal and it feels like 40 with wind. Downright cold.
Anyway every one of three casts would make some distance and we got to fish some. A small bluegill here, another there, but it gets old quick when you’re not dressed right.
I turned my attention to watch Drake. I wish I had watched him more carefully from the get go. Just like last year (see last year’s post about this time) he went in the blackest, stinkiest muck he could find and had waded up to his neck. My Golden Retriever had morphed into a…well…gray retriever let’s say. And oh, did he stink.
Just when I thought I’d seen everything he started that face on the ground sliding thing. You know what I’m talking about. Then it went into wallowing on his back wagging back and forth trying to really grind the muck in. It was clear he was thoroughly enjoying himself and I wondered what it was like to feel so great, and in some way envied him and wanted to feel that good even for five minutes. So I watched him. Slide on his face, wallow on his back…over and over again, so I went back to casting for a bit.
Then the topper. I looked up just in time to see him slide right into a giant burr bush. Again. He ran around trying to shake them off I guess, but it just made them ball up in that long Golden Retriever hair. He had so many burrs on him, all balled up the size of oranges and soaked thoroughly with the black muck stink crap. He had two on his butt real close together that from a distance looked like two…well…you know.
“That’s my cue”, I said. “Time to quit what I want to do to take care of the mess he’s made doing what he wanted to do”. Fishingus interruptus. I took him back to the car, laid out an old towel on the seat, and got him in. A repeat of last year, I had to roll down the windows because it stunk so bad, and at home made him chase the ball out in the clean lake until he was bone tired. He still smelled a little, but was tolerable.
Back in the house I ruined yet another pair of fly tying scissors getting the burr balls out. He slept great that night, after just another fine day as my dog. He looks like someone gave him a bad haircut, but I don’t care. I’m not kidding, I really don’t.
