This first blog entry is actually a chapter from my book, Amazing Dog Stories. If you have a good dog story, send it to me. I know I’ll be happy to read it and if we think it’s good after a bit of editing, we’ll include it in this blog. Once I have enough good stories, I’ll publish a new book Amazing Dog Stories II – Stories from More Dog Lovers. So, if you would like your story to be in contention – please send it in.

Chapter One: Swept Away

Before you get a dog, you can’t quite imagine

what living with one might be like.

Afterward, you can’t imagine living any other way.

-Caroline Knapp

Gracie, Yosemite and George II – 2005

 Terryle and I glanced down at the little stream that runs along the street below our house, looked at each other and shook our heads in wonder. It was no longer a little stream. Today, it was an absolute monster. We’d never seen it raging like this before. It was actually scary.

One of the unique aspects of living in our new house in the lovely Ojai Valley was that a stream flowed right alongside our street. Having a river or a stream so close is exceptionally rare for Southern California. There are millions of houses but not much flowing water.

Our three Golden Retrievers loved to swim in our little stream, and every time we walked them down from our hill to the street, they jumped in for a dip. In the summer and fall, the water flow was reduced to a trickle, but our dogs knew every deep spot that created a pool. Strolling along the lovely, tree-lined road to the dead end of our block, the dogs would hustle into the water three or four different times, then race up to rejoin us, dripping wet, ready to do it again.

In the other direction, down half a mile, the creek took a turn toward the ocean and actually crossed our road right before it emptied onto a two-lane highway. That meant that all of us residents had to drive across the stream any time we wanted to go to town or return home. Until the more recent years of severe drought, there was at least a small flow in our stream all year-round. It was fun splashing through the water in the car and lovely seeing the birds and occasional wildlife along the creek shore.

 I liked to look for a pair of birds – an elegantly lanky, long-legged blue heron and a stocky, smaller, scruffy green heron – who were there fishing side-by–side almost every day right where the stream crossed our road and cars drove through. Rain or shine, I could see them there, like it was their job.

 Terryle nicknamed them Sammy and Moe just because they had become so familiar that they couldn’t remain anonymous. The birds were absolutely non-plussed by the occasional passing car. They ignored any and all distractions and just continued looking down into the stream for food. Every once in a while, I would spot one or the other leaning in to snag a fish. That never failed to give me a laugh.

The portion of the stream we needed to cross each day was roughly twenty feet wide. There was a high-water crossing (a place where the road is elevated to facilitate crossing a stream) that we would drive over. Depending on the time of year, there were a few inches to perhaps a foot of water on top of the high water crossing for cars to splash through. It was different than any other streets we knew. Splashing through made it fun.

Neighbors cautioned us, though, that the water could reach a very high flow during a significant rainstorm, and it would be dangerous to cross. The uncharacteristically high water might persist for days, even after the rain stops, due to flow down off the surrounding mountains. For the duration of the event, all of us neighbors would be stuck on the block and couldn’t leave.

Sure enough, there were a few rainstorms our first few years that swelled the creek to a precarious level. Sustained rain would raise the water up and speed the flow to where only the bravest soul would venture across. That was not Terryle or me.  (Neighbors who drove a truck had an advantage, but even they couldn’t get across if the water was too high.)

So, on those occasions of significant rain, we contented ourselves with looking down at the roaring stream from the edge of our hill.

But this was different.

The rain we’d seen in this storm was epic. The deluge lasted for several days and the water level in the stream kept steadily rising. We could hear the roar from our house and see from our hill that the creek was now drastically overflowing its ten to fifteen-foot banks. It flowed hard for another 100 feet wide on the far side of its normal bed and came all the way across our road to our hillside on the close side. It was probably 150 feet wide in total, decimating everything in its path. Where it normally flowed at five or-so miles per hour, it was now churning with white water, loud and out of control, raging at many times its normal speed.

We were watching giant tree branches and whole trees being carried downstream. It was wild! We spotted a refrigerator, a barbecue, wood from construction, a nearly intact garden shed, and all sorts of other debris being swept downstream. Neighbors below us on the street alongside the creek lost all their front yard gardens and decorations. One lost a lovely greenhouse. They were just overwhelmed and swept away. Another unfortunate couple had the elevated stream run right through the bottom floor of their house, and when they inspected the next morning, all the furniture was gone, replaced by mud.

 Miraculously, no one was hurt.

This storm was not fun by any definition, and for days, no one on our street could get out. Even when the rain stopped, the flow continued, coming down from the mountains and raging away. We and our assorted neighbors would trudge through the mud to marvel at how powerfully the stream was roaring over our high-water crossing.

“I wouldn’t want to cross THAT,” someone would always say.

“Guess we won’t be getting out today,” another would add. “Your car wouldn’t make it ten feet before being swept out of sight.”

On one of these days, Terryle and I walked down to see the spectacle and took our three dogs with us. They had no reservations about plowing through mud, deep puddles or hopping over rocks and debris. Truth is, they liked that the best.

At this time, we had Gracie Allen (the mother of our one and only litter), who was eight years old, and two of her puppies, Yosemite and George Burns II, who were not quite five. We didn’t have them on leashes, since there would be no cars to worry about on the road this day. They would never attack a neighbor, although running up to greet them, covered in mud, was way less welcomed than usual.

Gracie Allen (dog edition) was a unique and impressive character. She loved chasing the ball, seemed utterly fearless and was a great swimmer in freshwater or ocean waves. She had wowed us as a young puppy, swimming across a shallow river we were crossing while we were hiking with friends. It was an accident that she even got the chance. She was only four months old and had never been swimming before. A few people had started to wade through the knee-high water while we were still gathering some gear, and Gracie just walked in and swam right along with them. By the time we noticed her in the water, she was almost all the way across.

Gracie was smallish for a Golden Retriever, weighing in at around 65 pounds. She was on the blonde side of strawberry blonde, with redder sections and platinum blonde streaks down her rump. Her tail was amazingly bushy. We’d had her since she was a puppy, and she gave birth to a magical litter at age three-and-a-half. So, Gracie had a special place in our unofficial “Dog Hall of Fame” just for that. But she was a very adventurous dog, and several of the stories in this book are going to involve her.

Gracie was moderately obedient, but if she didn’t want to do something Terryle or I wanted her to do, she would simply ignore us. She didn’t make a big deal about it, ; she just chose to do her own thing instead of our own thing. She was sweet and loving, but could be stubbornly independent. It was like she appreciated our advice, but chose to do something else.

George Burns II and Yosemite were two of Gracie’s puppies. George, like his mother, had a lot of blonde in his golden red coat with occasional white patches, a big head and was very handsome. He was tall and weighed 95 pounds, the heaviest of any of our line of Goldies, but he was not really overweight. Just long, tall and large.

George was a loyal and loving boy. He loved to be petted and would linger for an hour if you didn’t stop. All in all, George was not particularly smart. He didn’t really formulate his own ideas, instead tending to follow his sister Yosemite’s lead on most matters. The only time he was in any way the alpha male was when we went walking. Then, he would take the lead and growl at the ladies if they tried to venture ahead of him. That probably annoyed Gracie and Yosemite, but they did comply.

Yosemite, or “YoYo,” as we called her, was incredibly smart and really in tune with humans. She was very red in color, with just a few white-blonde sections in her chest and back flank, and she weighed around 75 pounds. Yosemite knew what you were going to do before you even did it. Going somewhere in the car? Yosemite would be outside next to the vehicle, waiting for you to walk out the door. Straightening up the house for guests? Yosemite would be on the driveway, looking for their arrival.

She followed instructions without us needing to repeat them. This was partly because she was obedient, but also because Yosemite somehow knew what was coming and wanted to please us. When Terryle suffered from serious health problems, Yosemite stayed right with her, trying to provide as much comfort as she could. We marveled at Yosemite’s sweetness.

Speaking of blondes, Terryle is a beautiful blue-eyed blonde with mid-shoulder length, slightly curly hair and a smile that positively lights up the room.  She is medium height with a slim physique, and she always dresses nicely. Her sense of style earns compliments wherever she goes.

Terryle is smart and funny, and a particular focus of her humor is making fun of me, which I assure you, is not justified.

Walking down our block toward the stream crossing on that fateful day, Terryle and I joined up with some neighbors who were heading there, too. We compared stories of crazy things we’d see around our respective homes during this storm. One neighbor saw a van being swept out of sight. The stream was easily over 100 feet wide at the high-water crossing, flowing with a steady roar at thirty to forty miles per hour, with big, loud waves, bouncing, swirling water and all kinds of debris racing past. It looked more like a river than a creek. We all shook our heads in awe at the power of the swollen stream.

Suddenly, on the far side of the stream, our blue heron “mascot,” Sammy, fluttered to the ground on the shallow edge of the flow. Before we knew it, Gracie leaped in to go chase the tall bird and was immediately swept downstream and out of sight. We all looked on in horror and disbelief for a moment before gasping and screaming. Gracie, despite being a great swimmer, was not coming back. She had no control in the powerful flow. She was rising and falling with the violent, swirling waves, being tossed and spun every which way like all the other debris, completely disappearing for long moments, then bobbing to the surface again. Gracie was swept out of sight in seconds.

Just as we were gasping as we lost sight of Gracie, Yosemite leaped in, too. Like Gracie, she was instantly swept up in the turbulence, violently tossed around, spinning in circles, now underwater, now popping back up, swimming desperately, a diminishing form, gone in seconds as the river carried her away. Terryle grabbed George to make sure he didn’t join in this nightmare situation. She was shrieking and crying, as were our neighbors. I started running downstream after the dogs. Someone called 911.

Our stream was lined on both sides with a tall bamboo variety called Arundinaria. It didn’t severely impact the flow of the stream, especially now, but its density made it very hard to see through in most places. I raced along, hoping to find an opening, but as I ran, I realized the stream was flowing faster than I could run, and even if I could find a break to squeeze through – and even if I miraculously spotted one of the dogs – I could never swim in to make the rescue. I’d never make it out. Finally, I slowed down, trudging now, out of breath and in despair. I was maybe three-quarters of a mile downstream.

I slowly turned around and headed back. I was too stunned to cry. We had lost our dogs, who we loved with all our hearts…all in one crazy instant. What were they thinking?! Many thoughts bounced through my head, all disastrous: Would they be trapped by a tree and overwhelmed by the huge flow, smashed against rocks, simply drowned by the speed and turbulence of the water? Would they possibly be swept out to sea, some eight miles away, and could either one survive that trip?

Would we ever find them at all?

I was trying to block out thinking about what Terryle and I would do without Gracie and Yosemite. I knew there would be way too much time for that later. We loved them so much. The enduring pain and reality would be coming soon enough. We would search, but what would be the chances of locating either one? And what relief would we get from ultimately spotting a cold, limp, battered, waterlogged carcass?

 Our days were going to be filled with the memory of the dogs just disappearing downstream indelibly carved into our consciousness, maybe fading for a short time at some random distraction, but inevitably flooding back in to be the foremost thing monopolizing our minds.

We had already been through extreme tragedy in our lives. We didn’t need this, too.

      As I trudged around a bend into view of Terryle and our neighbors at the crossing, I was stunned by what I saw. It looked like three golden-red dogs with the people! I rubbed my eyes and squinted. Getting closer, I could see Terryle feverishly hugging and holding two of them close. They were all wet and disheveled. My God! It was Gracie and Yosemite!

I was now running but couldn’t wait to get there. I yelled, “How did they make it out?” from twenty yards away.

“It was all of a sudden,” Terryle called back, “Gracie popped out of the bamboo, way down where you were running, where I could barely see her. I thought I was seeing an illusion. Gracie was shaking off the water and wagging her tail like she enjoyed the thrill! A minute later, Yosemite squeezed out, too, just a few feet from where Gracie came out.”

When I got there and joined the hugging fest, I was amazed by the dogs’ demeanor.  They didn’t seem traumatized or stunned or grateful to be alive. (Like I certainly would have been.) I swear, it wouldn’t have surprised me to see them jump back in for a second round of thrills.

 “That was astonishing,” one of our neighbors exclaimed. “Incredible! How those dogs are here right now is a miracle. What were the chances of surviving that?! Impossible! Those two Goldens are the greatest swimmers I’ve ever seen.”

“And for not just one but both of them to have survived,” another neighbor chimed in, shaking her head. “How did they do it? It was incredible, all right! If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes…”

I was laughing through my tears.

We got them home, still stunned by the events, half-wondering if we had seen what we’d thought we’d seen. Terryle and I could barely even talk to each other, ; we were so shaken. We were unspeakably grateful that both dogs swam out of a situation anyone would have thought would have been fatal. It seemed like a dream.

Gracie and Yosemite acted like it was no big deal. They’d forgotten about their adventure already. Get dried off? Okay. Where was dinner?

As it happened, I was on a flight around a week later and found myself sitting next to a veterinarian. “I have a story to tell you,” I said.

When I’d finished describing the incident, he said, “Yep, I’m not all that surprised; Golden Retrievers can really swim. They’re bred for that, you know. Very few breeds are as good in the water. I’ve seen the sad sight of many a drowned dog in my day, but I’ve never seen a Golden drown. They can swim out of anything.”

“Jeez,” I thought to myself, “I sure wish I knew that a week ago.”