The Golden Wader

Le Lacet Hors d‘oeuvres

His original name was Brandon, the beautiful Golden Retriever my family adopted when we moved to the country. The first six years of his life he’d been a city dog with little area to wander and no practical dog experiences. He didn’t fetch, chase rabbits or swim. Storms, fireworks and guns scared him. He was the only dog I’d ever had that could lose at hide and seek. I should have understood how could he learn any doglyness living in a kitchen eating table scraps with everyone calling him Brandon? But, there was simply no way I was going to have a dog with that reminded me of the AV kid in high school. The problem of changing his name was given careful consideration owning to his perceived lack of swiftness (I say perceived because he later showed us he could be both creative and devious). The solution proved clear as we simply dropped the “n” and called him the phonetically close but machismo filled Brando, with tongue firmly in cheek.

For all his restricted city habits, Brando was big, lovable and had the kind heart the breed is famous for. He barked at the correct times to protect us and assimilated into an honored place in our family. He coveted his hikes with me and I couldn’t drive to the dump on Saturday morning without him although I believe his true motive was his passion for the WHBL Polka Hour we’d listen to on the Sheboygan AM radio channel. 

It took him a while to understand the country. Tall grass scared him for a week or so, he was clueless with twenty-five acres surrounding him and he would only walk up to his knees in the river behind our home. The latter christened him the slightly derogatory but endearing, Golden Wader.

He consumed whatever he discovered on the trails around our home from dead mice to the most disgusting turd piles imaginable deposited by the indigenous fauna. His involuntary methane release could empty a room and we loved him for it.  

My oldest son and I had planned a trip to climb Mt Kilimanjaro in Africa. The trek required new boots that needed the all-important break-in prior to the trip. Brando dutifully stayed at my side as I hiked all over the Kettle Moraine State Forest; we must have put 75 miles on my new boots and my “desk job” legs. There were times though when he sat quite perturbed watching me ride away on my bicycle for some extra cardio exercise knowing he couldn’t go along. Brando would look at me with distain…like he was planning something.

A week or so after our successful return to Wisconsin, I grabbed my hiking boots from their resting place and slipped my feet into my old friends. As I reached down to pull on the laces all I found was quarter inch stubs protruding from the eyelets…”what the hell?”

In an instant, I replayed our rapid descent from the roof of Africa. Sweat showered from us on the swift two-day retreat. My boots had been soaked with the salty collection. My macho-less city dog had turned the laces of my Asolo climbing boots into hors d’oeuvres. I laughed out loud because he had helped me prepare for the unforgettable adventure. The laces were a very small price to pay for his loyalty and friendship; I knew he must be laughing somewhere behind the house.

My epiphany was confirmed two days later when my son discovered the laces congealed in a pile he was removing from our yard. Brando, my unpretentious buddy, had strategically rendered his clever revenge for my bike rides without him…Golden Wader, indeed.