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! Jack and I are on the lam. We wanted to see how much flooding there was over the weekend and when we arrived, we found both trails closed – due to flooding. Jack was the first to cross the barrier, and he quickly trotted off toward the river.

“Hey, Bubba. Come back here. You can’t go there, the sign says it’s closed.” I called out, adding “Hey, wait up.”

“Silly Mummy,” he replied, “Dog’s can’t read.”

First, that’s an outright lie. Most dogs read very well, and many are multi-lingual, but they don’t want people to know because they’re afraid someone will make it a job for them to do.

Secondly, he wasn’t waiting up for me. By the time I’d adjusted my scarf to protect my camera from the mizzle, Jack was already in the water and out far enough to be in the current, which frightened me, so I called him to come to shore.

“Don’t worry Mummy, the water isn’t too fast for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, You’re super-dog. Now come here,” but as I got closer to the river, I saw that Jack’s assessment of this situation was accurate. The current wasn’t very energetic, and the banks were only mildly flooded. We’d seen much worse earlier in the month, after the first January thaw. I told Jack he could stay in for a few minutes and stood at the edge of the water, watching him swim upstream and away, then relax and float back downstream for a bit. His sister taught him this “surfing” method at the beach, but Jack doesn’t have the drive that Lucy did, and he soon tires of the upstream work part of the equation, and sure enough, he came into shore after only a few minutes.

“I don’t know how you can swim in such cold water. I don’t know why you’d want to either.” I told him.

“Mummy, it’s invigorating and much healthier for you than that heated therapy pool that you use.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Bubbs. That river water doesn’t look too clean to me.” I said as he shook the water out of his coat and onto mine.

He harumphed and padded off down the path farther away from the car. I almost called him back but decided that the mizzle wasn’t that bad, and the fish police weren’t too likely to be waiting for us back at the car, and I was right on both counts. The walk may have even been a bit sweeter than usual because of the rebelliousness of crossing that barrier, to which I say,

“Take that Mr. Conservation Officer. I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster.”