By Amy Palumbo-LeClaire

The New Hampshire motto, “Live Free or Die” couldn’t have been more relevant this past August. Luke’s annual trip (of two) to the White Mountains, NH was full of all that he loved about the great outdoors. There was so much to see and smell and hear. He especially loved sleeping at the foot of our bedside in a charming cottage that smelled of wood and honey. Who would have guessed that the tide of our trip would turn?  

We took Luke to the Basin, a sought-out New Hampshire destination full of lavish attractions. The experience was both primal and positive for Luke. Rugged trails frosted with sticks and stones whet his palette, though his mind remained doggishly one-track. “THERE’S WATER DOWN THERE!! I’M NOT KIDDING YOU!” There was no denying the scent of glistening streams down below. Even if we could manage to deter Luke, how would we sleep at night knowing that we pulled him away from one of mother earth’s natural wonders? We tightened our bootstraps and trucked downhill. 

Shades of green and gold shimmered like a desert of shiny pennies in the natural pool before us. Rays of sunlight beamed down on the water’s surface. Ripples of light danced. We were in heaven, it seemed. Luke shot a glance at the water then—sold—pulled us forward like a drug-sniffing canine. “Luke. Easy!” He was euphoric, high on the prospect of immersing himself in one of New Hampshire’s greatest treasures, the wondrous basin. He stretched. He sniffed. He darted this way and that, barking at rushes of water. “I’m not afraid of you! I’ve fought the hose water rush for one-point-five years now!” 

Luke may have been fearless, but we were not. My husband’s knees knocked to the cry of Luke’s water passion. What if he was swallowed up and taken down stream? I worried that me might tear an ACL, given so many slippery rocks. “What a beautiful dog!” We buried our fears in the comfort of fellow hikers—that and Luke’s research. 

My dog proved a careful observer. He crouched down low. He sniffed out what did and didn’t make sense, even for an expert swimmer. He noted the intensity and force of water explosions at certain sections. His big head creased in awareness. He backed off. He tested the waters with a tentative paw. Luke was determined to make informed choices. Survival was in his genes. He may not be the fittest, but he was certainly the fluffiest. Moreover, this pedigree descended from a long line of thinkers. He looked up at us for a verdict. “You’re being such a good boy, Luke.” We unhitched him and allowed him to swim in the baby pool on the opposite side of the falls. 

“Look at the doggie learning to swim, honey!” Every Dog Mom has experienced that moment—when her dog’s behavior falls somewhere between being cute and bizarre. “He’s making his own fun with the bubbles!” Indeed, he was. “It’s his thing.” I responded, while an oblivious Luke paddled like an unathletic seal. He flapped at the water to create bubbles, then chased them down with a biting mouth.  Perhaps we should have cut our losses and settled on one dynamic swim for Luke. 

New Hampshire, ever outdoorsy, held more water opportunity. 

The Bretton Woods River had been a historic hideaway spot, a nook in the back end of the woods with flat rocks situated between two natural pools. The expansive landscape offered a perfect means to sit on a towel, sunbathe, or, in the case of this Friday, take your dog to a water park. Our private beach had apparently gained notoriety. 

“This is Luke,” I hollered down from the high incline leading to the beach. “He’s friendly, but occasionally shows same-sex aggression.” My voice became the echo of a mickey mouse game. Owners tightened their grips on dog leashes and gossiped about Luke. Oblivious, he puffed his mane out like Mufasa of the Lion King and stood like a statue on a high ledge. Big dogs pinned their ears back. Small dogs closed their tiny, barky mouths.  

“Let’s go.” 

We bumbled clumsily down the trail leading to the natural beach. Elena, a happy-go-lucky silver lab, mouthed a tennis ball and greeted me with a full body shake and shower. “Sorry about that,” her owner apologized. “No worries! I was hot anyway,” I lied. Dog People have learned from their dogs to not sweat the small stuff.  Elena eyed Luke adoringly, but he ignored the opposite sex. In fact, he ignored every sex on the dog beach. 

“I haven’t swum in twenty-four hours.” Unleashed, the stud melted into the water and paddled gracefully. Then, something changed. As though wanting to separate himself from the hype of the Doggie Dive, he began to paddle further down the river. We all raised a brow. “Where’s Luke headed?” The scene falls on me now like a 35-millimeter slide shot of my childhood. “Remember the time when we visited the river and Luke….”  

The current takes him by surprise. I can see him whimper upon discovering that the water resists his paddle. He’s learned that he’s not able to freely swim back in the direction he came from. He’s suddenly nervous. Dogs need to sense exactly how to return home. At the same time, he boasts a side of himself that is hugely strong. His big head bobs over the water while his paws and full body operate like a small motor. My pup, a playful swimmer, is literally traveling upstream. He cannot go with the flow, lest he be taken by the river’s current. I’ve been navigating these rivers for over forty years. I’ve got to lure Luke away from panic. I climb onto an island of smooth stones and stand perpendicular to him.  “C’mon, Luke. Swim this way.” I can tell that he’s working towards me, but it’s not easy. A woman stands above us at the cliff bordering the river. Her fingers rest on her chest. “We are all praying for him.”

The moment is both redundant and significant. I’ve been here before. I’ve done this before. “You can do it, Luke.” By this time, I’m side-stroking my way in the direction he needs to follow. His wet bear cub face bobs above the water. He’s paddling against the current with his chunky paws until, finally, something clicks. “I gotta go get Momma.”

Luke makes his way out of the flow. 

“Yayyyyy, Luke!! The entire Dog Park had been watching an episode of The Day Luke Got Stuck in a Current. Dogs sat still and stared. Smokers paused between puffs. Elena dropped her ball. One dog lover stood ankle deep at the shore with a bag of Doritos. “Can I give him one?” 

My mind’s eye traces over the casual manner by which Luke munched the chip, shook off the incident, and went back in the water with better understanding of how the river works. He even found a boulder to climb upon to regroup if needed. 

My dog would rather die than live without freedom. I couldn’t agree with him more.

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