"I love fishing.You put that line in the water and you don’t know what’s on the other end. Your imagination is under there."
- Robert Altman
(image DecorahNews.com)
Pets you get from the humane society come with a mysterious background. You're never quite sure what imprinted on their little brains before you got them. Occasionally something happens and you think, "Aha!" and build a backstory.
We had a big Maine Coon cat named Snickers. He was the most relaxed cat in the pound, and we picked him because he barely reacted to our two little boys bouncing around. When we brought him home he continued his easygoing ways, even laying down to eat. One night we ordered pizza and fat, lazy Snickers went berserk. He was up on the table, in everyone's face, and even tried to steal a slice. We figured his previous life involved college kids, pizza, and having to forage for oneself.
These days, one of my shelter-in-place activities is working on my fly-fishing roll-cast. The backyard has tight quarters, tree branches overhead, and is about the right size for the backwaters around here. I am out working on my casting when the neighbor dog is let out. Her name is Luna, and she's a pound dog. A five or six year old, Husky-like dog with one piercing blue eye. She's quiet too. Barely makes a noise or acknowledges my existence most days.
That all changed with a fly rod in my hand. She's whining, she's jumping, she's running up and down the fence line. It's really sweet. Wilson sometimes wants to chase the fly line, but she seems really interested in my actual casting.
I walk over to the fence to give her a scratch behind the ears.
"Tell me girl," I say, "did your old human fly fish?"
She looks at me, panting, brain working furiously behind those eyes. At this moment, I find myself wishing we could bridge this dog-human communication divide. Delve into the depths of our experiences. Share secrets.
"I mean, like, did he have any keys to his roll cast? I need help."
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