“We’ll be back around seven, and we brought Sweetums’s Frisbee for you to throw. Try not to tire Precious too much, knowing his delicate sensibilities and fragile constitution.”

Right.

I had dog watching duties this weekend, and while tossing slobber-Frisbee is a rarified treat, peeling the layers of domestication off a well mannered beast is twice as much fun.

“Little Meat” is a burner, and freed from the leash and dropped into the primitive, there was a better than average chance that all my Spey flies would be real Blue Heron …

All we had to do is corner one on a stretch with no deer carcasses or desiccated anything – as maggot-ridden has a special draw equal to something fleeing in a panic, and only to a dog occupying the seat next to you.

… only they were smart enough to keep their distance, mostly …

The nametag says I’ve never seen him before, akin to the perfect crime. While the Fish & Game is frantically searching for a second clip and with closure approaching Mach 0.6, like everything else that breaks cover …  Toast.

Me and “Cheetah” have a few rough edges to work on … Tennis balls can be returned, but anything screaming or bloody should be consumed behind bushes – so I can feign horror like the rest of the onlookers.

Any animal “siding” you while fishing has to have personality aplenty. It may justify its oxygen providing precious “pointer” skills; lift the right paw if it’s a Pikeminnow, left paw if it’s a sucker, droop both ears if its Bass … yet while attentive to my pantomime, Meat’s keen eyesight and rocket-speed were reserved only for terrestrial prey.

While twenty-four hours isn’t enough to undo years of obedience, there was a tell tale gleam of malevolence after a scorching march through the watershed…

… especially after consuming two of the three Otter that have migrated down into the Big Fish stretch. It’s both the first and last time such magnificent creatures have been seen on my creek, and despite blanket protection provided by the Fish & Game, ag chemicals made them slow and fat, something my companion exploited unmercifully.

Chase stuff, crap on stuff, roll in stuff – look wounded when hurled into the creek after acquiring a disguising scent, and expect to go to Disneyland or Sizzler upon return to civilization.

Almost like fishing, with the only difference being our insistence on cooking or photographing stinky stuff, rather than wearing it proudly.