Fiddich and I were left alone yesterday.  Sally had taken Megan with her to the post office.  She was ‘standing in’ for the regular postmistress that day.  The two ‘shes’ wouldn’t be back til the end of the day.

It was cold and clear and inviting and so I went outside for awhile.  Sal likes it that the dogs play fetch every day and so I went out to do that. “C’mon, Fid.  Let’s play fetch!”

Fetch is crazy.

First of all, I don’t believe in fetch.  I think the whole concept is overblown. I don’t believe fetch is necessary nor important.  For me or for the dog. It’s just dopey.

If you have a dog that is stuck in an apartment or even a backyard, then, maybe a little fetch is in order.  I’ll grant you that.  Dogs need to move and run.  I get that.  But, if you have a dog whose backyard is the great outdoors, unfenced, unrestricted and virtually infinite (if he does a little swimming which, call me crazy, Portugese Water dogs should be able to handle!) then he or she is the captain of their own ship, so to speak.  They can go anywhere, do anything and they don’t need me or a ball with which to do it.

But, you know…………Sal likes it………………and, well, it was a nice day………….and the dog seems………………never mind!  I went to play fetch!

As I described, we live in the forest and, if you look at the picture, we live on a rocky peninsula jutting out from the larger forest.  We play fetch on the peninsula mostly.  It is over 15 acres.  Plenty of room.  Elevation changes.  Bushes.  Trees.  Gullys.  Buildings.  Mud.  A perfect place for a dog.

I throw the ball.  Fid brings it back.  It’s a simple concept made just a bit more challenging by the topography but that is what constitutes the spice of life for a dog. 

“Go for it, big boy!”

And off he goes sniffing and charging around.  Nine times out of ten, he brings me the ball.  It is the tenth time about which I am writing.

Upon that occasion when Fid fails to find the flying and hidden riddle of the far flung ball, an impasse and a dilemma is created.  For me, anyway.  We can’t play fetch without the ball and I do not have a better nose for it than does my companion.  Can I even recall in which direction I last threw it?

I must find the ball.  It is an expensive, unchewable, specially-constructed ball-with-ears (don’t ask) that Sally values even more highly than do the dogs.  It is her favourite ball.  So, I go looking. The longer it takes, the more desperate I get.  The more desperate I get, the happier seems Fid.

I think he knows that this is the tenth time.  It is my turn.

“Go for it, big boy!”

I'm waiting...

While I am ferreting my way around, sniffing and charging through the bush, Fid oftens just sits primly and watches.  I admit that he looks pretty happy.  And I am looking for the ball.  He is just waiting.  Maybe grinning.  Ocassionally he looks like he might offer a bit of encouragement but he rarely does.  He never helps.

Ten percent of the time, I am fetching for him.  This never feels right to me.  Ya know?

“So why not quit?  Go in and have some tea?  It’s only a ball!”

Well, I confess to feeling not just a little pressure.  Sally likes me to play fetch with the dogs but she doesn’t want it to end badly.  Not having the ball at the ‘end of the day’ is ending badly.  Should that be the case, I am in way more trouble than I would have been if I hadn’t gone for a fetch in the first place.  I start to panic.  I can’t think clearly.  I am getting hot.  I start to pant.

I sniff for water.

I am telling you that I think fetch is crazy and when the roles get reversed, it is even crazier.  Thank God, we found the damn ball!

And yes, once I found it and calmed down, I threw it for him again a few times  (adds an element of danger) but I stopped short of losing it again.  The ball is still ours.  We live to fetch another day.