My daughter and I live in the Berkshire Mountains of Western Massachusetts with our five-year-old lab/retriever, Lucky. Lucky was more than a member of the household. He was family: gentle, sociable, intelligent, and my daughter’s best friend and companion.
Our home is located on a dirt road that ends at the shore of a lake. Our house is surrounded by summer homes and we enjoy peace and quiet during most of each year. It was three years ago this April I took Lucky for his regular morning walk, and the day was typical for early April in the Berkshires: cold, overcast, and with a temperature hovering around 25 degrees. Spring comes late in the Berkshires. The last remaining patches of snow lie protected in the shade of houses and trees. All that remains of the lake ice is a thin sheet of glass. As was our custom on morning walks, I brought along a two-way radio, leaving the other for my daughter back at the house so we could communicate during the five-minute walk.
Lucky walked alongside me toward a stretch of woods near the shore. I heard, but took little notice of, two large Canada Geese standing along what would be the shore a few weeks from now but that was still hidden under a thin layer of ice and a crust of snow. Lucky had always been intimidated by the geese – loud, aggressive birds – and his habit had been to safely watch them from a distance. This time, though, things went differently. Lucky suddenly bolted after the geese, which took off, flying low and slow over the thinning ice and out over the lake. I yelled for him to stop and as he approached the shore and lake ice I screamed for him at the top of my lungs, as if his life depended on it. But his instinct to chase was strong and he was unaware of the danger in his pursuit. He raced across the beach, then onto the ice, and out over the lake at full speed.
My heart raced, and then sank, as I could only watch, waiting for that moment when Lucky would break through the ice and plunge into the water, out of reach. About 150 feet out, the ice gave way beneath his feet and he disappeared under the surface of the water. After a few moments, his head popped back up. He threw his front paws upon the ice and scraped against it, trying to lift himself up and out of the water. He struggled for a minute or two, then stopped and fixed his gaze upon me, and waited.
I stood there, stunned in disbelief and horror. Only moments before, we were on just another morning walk. Now, all I could see of Lucky was his head and front paws, his eyes fixed intently upon mine, waiting for me to pull him out of the ice-cold water. I considered the choices. I could stand there for the next 20 minutes in order to “be with him” until he slipped back into, and under, the water for the final time, or I could turn away and return to the house, with Lucky’s eyes fastened upon my back. Both seemed incomprehensible and unacceptable, yet fate seemed to be forcing those cruel choices upon me. I couldn’t explain to Lucky why I would not come for him, and I wouldn’t know what to say to my daughter when I returned to the house alone.
My body shook with fear, sadness overwhelmed me, yet my mind continued to race for a solution. I noticed that a nearby stream had sliced a thin channel of water into the lake, but even if I could swim along it, 50 feet of ice would still separate me from where Lucky had fallen through. I knew the futility, and danger, of jumping in, but I had to at least go through the motions of rescue if only to show my loyalty to Lucky, and wanting him to witness my efforts during what would be his final moments of life. I plunged into the frigid water, still wearing my winter coat, and began swimming out into the lake.
The shock to my body contracted my muscles and forced the air out of my lungs, which could not fully relax and expand again. I only managed to take in small sips of air. My shoes slipped off my feet and sank to the bottom of the lake. The weight of the winter coat began to drag me under, so I removed it while treading water and tossed it onto the ice next to me. I shivered violently from both cold and fear. I shot occasional glances toward Lucky to see if his head remained above water, dreading that moment when I would turn to see only the hole where he had fallen through, and nothing more. But he remained above water, with his eyes fastened upon mine. Ten minutes had passed since he had fallen through. I was exhausted from managing only shallow breaths and I began to lose feeling from the neck down. Quickly losing sensation and sinking deeper into the water, an image suddenly flashed before me of my daughter staying at a friend’s home until her mother came to get her because I had drowned on this day with Lucky. I turned back toward shore.
Dripping wet and shivering from the cold, I emerged from the stream and sloshed to the nearest summer home, which was shuttered for the winter. A large aluminum rowboat, still covered with snow, lay overturned on the lawn. I flipped it over, searched for oars and, finding none, began dragging the boat toward the open channel. Once in the boat, I leaned out over the bow and began paddling with both hands. I was exhausted, no longer able to feel my hands or arms, and continued yelling to Lucky if only to keep his attention. I finally got as close as I could to him by water, but we were still separated by 50 feet of ice. I leaned further out over the bow and began smashing through the ice with my fists, cutting open both hands and wrists and staining the ice with blood.
There was nothing left in me but fear for Lucky’s life and a faint glimmer of hope that I might now reach him in time. I kept up a running monologue with him as if it would buy us time. At least 20 minutes had passed. I continued breaking through the ice until finally reaching him. Lucky tried, but could not climb up and in over the boat, which sat too high above the water. There was panic in his eyes as he tried to swim away from the boat and back out through the channel I had opened, but he had grown so cold that he had lost all coordination, and his legs splayed in all directions as he tried to swim. He would go under and then struggle again to the surface. I wrapped my arms around him to pull him up out of the water but he was too heavy to lift in that fashion. In what I believed to be our last opportunity, I grabbed the nape of his neck and the skin along his back and yanked him straight up out of the water – 90 pounds of wet dog – and dropped him into the boat. We both lay there, unable to move, shaking with a cold that had penetrated to our bones.
After a few minutes had passed, I lifted myself up and looked back toward shore. My daughter stood there, her two-way radio in her hand. She had missed the entire episode, although the last words she had apparently heard me say over the radio were “Oh my God” as Lucky first began to race out over the ice after the geese. I tried paddling the boat to shore but couldn’t, so I slipped back into the water, wrapped the rope that had been threaded in the bow around me, and towed the boat back to shore. Reaching land, Lucky was too scared to abandon the boat, so I gently tipped it over until he slid out. Soaked to the bone, and shoeless, I walked back to the house with my daughter and Lucky.
Unable to feel or use my hands and arms, I could not remove my clothing. I stepped into the shower, turned on the faucet with my forearms, sank down into the basin of the tub, and allowed warm water to wash over me until I had exhausted its supply. But I couldn’t stop shaking (and wouldn’t for another two weeks). When I looked up, my daughter was standing next to the tub, holding bandages for my hands and wrists.
Every fall and spring since then, as the ice first forms, and then melts, upon the lake, I keep the dogs well away from shore (we have since taken in a shelter dog). In the winter, I admit to being overly cautious by waiting until the holes have been drilled for fishing and the ice clearly supports the weight of the snowmobiles that race out over the lake. In the spring, I wait until the ice has receded away from shore to the point where the dogs are unable to reach it on foot. But like clockwork every spring, a pair of fat Canada Geese can always be seen standing on the thin sheet of lake ice close to shore. My imagination plays tricks with me as I fancy them trying, yet one more time, to lure their adversary onto the ice and to his watery grave.
I seriously question my actions over and over, wondering if I could, or even should, again risk so much to save the life of our companion. Things could easily have turned out different on that April day. Lives are too easily lost in frigid waters, as stories in local papers give testimony to each winter. If errors in judgment are to be made (we are, after all, human), I suggest erring on the side of caution. Thinning ice and dogs should never meet.
“A Cautionary Tail” for sure – a leash can be your best friend’s friend! This true tail is offered to you in that spirit.
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Jeffrey Reel, is a member of BarkMagazine.com and we couldn't be more pleased with this Woof-terful tail. Jeff can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .
Jeff lives with his daughter, Mica (featured in the article photo along with the now famous Lucky at a rest stop halfway up Rattlesnake Mountain in the Adirondacks of New York State) and they live in the western Massachusetts town of Becket.
Jeff works as the Sustainability Coordinator at the Omega Institute for Holistic Studies, in Rhinebeck, New York, and has written/spoken commentary on Northeast Public Radio the past 12 years.
Congratulations Jeff!
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