Throws & Tows

I drop the ball at Dad’s feet and wait patiently for the game to commence.

Fetch. My favourite game. The basic principle behind this popular, traditional doggy pastime is throw ball, retrieve ball.

But it’s the manner in how the ball is retrieved which makes this all so enjoyable, and separates the proletarians from the pros. It’s a game of skill, fitness, agility and intelligence. I excel at Fetch.

I don’t mean to sound bigheaded. But it’s difficult not to when your head resembles your biological dad’s and he is a Bull Terrier.

I practice Fetch every single day, rain or shine. And I eat a strict diet of rabbit, chicken, turkey, beef, game, gravy and biscuits.

And let’s not forget that Fetch is a team sport. I only partner with the best: Mum; skilful in the Short Throw and master of The Bounce, Dad; a talented Long Thrower with a powerful right arm. Together with my speed and dexterity, we make a fantastic team.

But this cold, frosty morning Dad ignores the stick. He has other plans for us both; his favourite game: Towing.

“Lily Sit”.

I obediently oblige. One end of a leash is attached to my collar. Dad grips the other end tightly. I wait for his signal.

“Walkies”.

I bolt, and pulling the leash taut, set off at a fast rate. Dad follows.

The route we take is my responsibility and I keep it varied and interesting.

I lead us through long undergrowth. With delusions of a dog sledding musher, Dad lets out gleeful cries of “hey!” and “Whoa!”

At least he’s happy.

He’s strong too, and I struggle just to keep ahead of him. I try a different tactic and head into a wooded area, weaving in and around the trees. If the leash was any longer he’d be scuppered for sure, but bravely he keeps up.

I pick up a scent of something fowl and follow my nose. Ahead there is a clearing in the woods. I am beginning to get tired but move towards it as fast as I can, keeping up the pace. I glance behind; Dad is still there leash in hand, holding on tight; a less of a man would have conceded by now. I’m very proud.

I reach the clearing. There is a small ridge. The scent I have been following ends just beyond it. I pause momentarily. Dad gasps for breath, but I take off again over the ridge and down the other side. The source of the scent becomes obvious: a duck pond. I hesitate. Do I continue, or do I stop? I consider Mum’s reaction should we both return wet through, dripping smelly pond water across the kitchen floor. I’m tempted, but sensibly, and equally as abruptly, I stop. Dad however throws caution to the wind, drops the leash, falls to his knees and skids right past me into the pond.

I quietly lie down as the ducks flee the area.


His enthusiasm is to be commended, but what is he going to tell Mum?