feet first, Eva would have been unlikely to hit her head on a rock or a log. Still, I felt uncomfortable.
“Eric checked,” Mrs. Abbott said. “Before you got here.”
But Eva was fine. Instead of bobbing up immediately, she’d swum some distance underwater. Her head now appeared about twenty feet out from the dock. “Bingo!” she called sharply. She was treading water. The surface around her bubbled.
The big yellow Lab continued to stand where he was. In case he headed in, spotted Rowdy, and started trouble, I gathered up Rowdy’s lead, edged away from the lake, and prepared to bolt for my cabin. But Bingo just kept standing there.
“Bingo!” Eva yelled hoarsely.
The dog continued to do nothing at all.
I could make excuses for what Eva did next. She’d listened to Judge Phyllis Abbott and Judge Eric Grimaldi admire Rowdy. Bingo had been right nearby, and no one had said a word about him. When Eva had ridiculed Rowdy, Mrs. Abbott had defended him, and, in so doing, she’d given Eva a sharp correction. More excuses? It must be hideously painful to go through life looking exactly like a bulldog, unless, of course, you happen to be one, in which case, it’s delightful. But Eva wasn’t a bulldog. And Bingo had let her down, or that’s how she must have felt. Pride in a dog doesn’t have to be justified to be genuine. Eva had bragged about Bingo. She’d wanted him to show off. Treading water harder than ever, she forced her shoulders to break the surface and again shouted the dog’s name.
Bingo remained where he was.
Desperate to rouse him, I suppose, Eva kicked wildly, splashed, flailed her arms, and cried, “Bingo, help! Help! I’m drowning! Bingo, come save me!” With that, Eva disappeared beneath the surface. Her feet thrashed and vanished. A waving hand rose and sank. Planted on the dock with his tail drifting hack and forth, Bingo regarded the performance with complaisant curiosity.
As I saw it, Eva wasn’t playing. Play is joyous. Eva was grim. Eva wasn’t practicing water rescue, either. She was lying to her dog. Maybe Bingo thought so, too. Maybe not. In either case, the impression the dog created was unmistakable. Several people commented. I noticed it myself. Bingo looked oddly content to watch Eva go under.
I HATE TO SEE anyone lose face, even someone cursed with a countenance like Eva Spitteler’s. To avoid the inevitable sight, I took Rowdy to our cabin, crated him with a chew toy, and, on returning to the pebble beach, headed directly into the lake. My entry was slow. Pebble is a bit of a euphemism, but I’ve avoided the blunt (or more accurately, the sharp) truth for fear of discouraging tourism. The beach consisted of toe-stubbing rocks and sole-jabbing stones. Wincing with every step, I made my way into the lake until the water came up almost to my waist. At that point, the prospect of the cold lake assaulting my bony rib cage seemed better than the present pain in the soles of my feet. I filled my lungs, plunged, and swam along the bottom. Snorkeling in turquoise waters among coral reefs might spoil me, but on a dog writer’s income, I’ll continue to love a yellow-green underwater haze seen through unmasked eyes. I even like the familiar shock of passing through the frigid springs that feed a Maine lake. Greater Boston suffers from a summer climate so tropical that displaced Haitians complain about the inescapable heat and humidity- Submerged in the lake, my body felt like an overcharged heat-storage unit mercifully draining itself cell by cell. When the need for air forced me up, I faced the trees on the far shore. As on countless previous occasions, I tried to float. As always, I ended up having to kick my feet and wave my hands to keep from sinking. I used to be irrationally ashamed of my body’s rocklike refusal to hover effortlessly at the surface. Then a diver told me that my condition was so ordinary that it even had a name: negative buoyancy. Since I learned
“Eric checked,” Mrs. Abbott said. “Before you got here.”
But Eva was fine. Instead of bobbing up immediately, she’d swum some distance underwater. Her head now appeared about twenty feet out from the dock. “Bingo!” she called sharply. She was treading water. The surface around her bubbled.
The big yellow Lab continued to stand where he was. In case he headed in, spotted Rowdy, and started trouble, I gathered up Rowdy’s lead, edged away from the lake, and prepared to bolt for my cabin. But Bingo just kept standing there.
“Bingo!” Eva yelled hoarsely.
The dog continued to do nothing at all.
I could make excuses for what Eva did next. She’d listened to Judge Phyllis Abbott and Judge Eric Grimaldi admire Rowdy. Bingo had been right nearby, and no one had said a word about him. When Eva had ridiculed Rowdy, Mrs. Abbott had defended him, and, in so doing, she’d given Eva a sharp correction. More excuses? It must be hideously painful to go through life looking exactly like a bulldog, unless, of course, you happen to be one, in which case, it’s delightful. But Eva wasn’t a bulldog. And Bingo had let her down, or that’s how she must have felt. Pride in a dog doesn’t have to be justified to be genuine. Eva had bragged about Bingo. She’d wanted him to show off. Treading water harder than ever, she forced her shoulders to break the surface and again shouted the dog’s name.
Bingo remained where he was.
Desperate to rouse him, I suppose, Eva kicked wildly, splashed, flailed her arms, and cried, “Bingo, help! Help! I’m drowning! Bingo, come save me!” With that, Eva disappeared beneath the surface. Her feet thrashed and vanished. A waving hand rose and sank. Planted on the dock with his tail drifting hack and forth, Bingo regarded the performance with complaisant curiosity.
As I saw it, Eva wasn’t playing. Play is joyous. Eva was grim. Eva wasn’t practicing water rescue, either. She was lying to her dog. Maybe Bingo thought so, too. Maybe not. In either case, the impression the dog created was unmistakable. Several people commented. I noticed it myself. Bingo looked oddly content to watch Eva go under.
I HATE TO SEE anyone lose face, even someone cursed with a countenance like Eva Spitteler’s. To avoid the inevitable sight, I took Rowdy to our cabin, crated him with a chew toy, and, on returning to the pebble beach, headed directly into the lake. My entry was slow. Pebble is a bit of a euphemism, but I’ve avoided the blunt (or more accurately, the sharp) truth for fear of discouraging tourism. The beach consisted of toe-stubbing rocks and sole-jabbing stones. Wincing with every step, I made my way into the lake until the water came up almost to my waist. At that point, the prospect of the cold lake assaulting my bony rib cage seemed better than the present pain in the soles of my feet. I filled my lungs, plunged, and swam along the bottom. Snorkeling in turquoise waters among coral reefs might spoil me, but on a dog writer’s income, I’ll continue to love a yellow-green underwater haze seen through unmasked eyes. I even like the familiar shock of passing through the frigid springs that feed a Maine lake. Greater Boston suffers from a summer climate so tropical that displaced Haitians complain about the inescapable heat and humidity- Submerged in the lake, my body felt like an overcharged heat-storage unit mercifully draining itself cell by cell. When the need for air forced me up, I faced the trees on the far shore. As on countless previous occasions, I tried to float. As always, I ended up having to kick my feet and wave my hands to keep from sinking. I used to be irrationally ashamed of my body’s rocklike refusal to hover effortlessly at the surface. Then a diver told me that my condition was so ordinary that it even had a name: negative buoyancy. Since I learned
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