The water-Spaniel who hated water

Danny Boy - my childhood friend

“Whew! What is that smell?” my dad asked, quickly winding down the driver's window on his 1955 Super-88 Oldsmobile. 

He quirked an eyebrow, looking at mom and the four of us girls, to see who had made that very un-ladylike odor. 

“Not me, not me!” we yelled back at him. Then all eyes turned to our dog, Danny Boy, who was blissfully unaware that he had caused a commotion.

“What? Why are you looking at me?” his expressive brown eyes seemed to say. “I'm just enjoying our Sunday car ride.” He poked his head over Dad's shoulder, out the open window searching for fresher air.

Bradian Townsite - our playground

Danny Boy, a Golden Cocker Spaniel, came into our family the same year I was born. We quickly became inseparable. When I was about six or seven years old I started exploring the hills behind our house in the upper town-site of the gold mining town of Bralorne. 

Danny Boy stayed by my side as I picked a variety of wildflowers, a present for my mom: the fuzzy red Indian Paint Brushes, delicate mauve and white Lady Slippers, the yellow and purple Honeysuckle, and bright orange Tiger Lillies. He hung out with me while a group of young friends and I fooled around the with discarded mining equipment. The group quickly discovered that we could make the body of the rusty old oar car spin around and around, while the four wheels stayed stationary. It was an impromptu merry-go-round until one of our friends, Nadine, slipped between the rapidly spinning body and the stationary frame, painfully snapping her femur. No more merry-go-round. Danny Boy was with us, but it wasn't his job to control our goofy antics, he was there to make sure I could find my way home at the end of the day.

About 1957 - Dad, my sister Judy, and I

He always accompanied us on our family outings, hanging his head out the car window with long ears flapping in the wind. In the 1955 Oldsmobile he preferred to stand behind our dad with his feet on the armrest and the window open wide. 

He was just as happy in the back of a pickup truck, as long as he had one the girls to keep him company as we bounced over rough mountain roads. 

My cousins Rob & Ken, and I. Dad and Granny in canoe - no dog!

But the one thing Danny Boy would not do was swim! He hated water. I can still hear the frustration in my dad's voice, “He's supposed to be a retriever for heaven's sake! And I can't get him to go in the water.” So we swam in rivers and lakes, and the dog watched from the shore. No amount of coaxing was going to get him into the water. As for retrieving, nope not going to happen. In his mind watching four active girls was work enough, he didn't have time for other jobs.

Along with his refusal to swim was the persistent problem with flatulence.  It wasn't until years later that I found out the cause of the problem. Raw eggs! Our parents had taught us to put a raw egg in his food, to make his coat shiny. 
It turns out the raw eggs cause flatulence for dogs – especially for Cocker Spaniels. The poor guy never had a chance!

I will always remember him as a fun, faithful, and somewhat stinky, friend.

Dad as a youngster with his dogs.

“Buck – go get me a beer!”

And he did. With that simple action, Buck, my six-year-old black Labrador Retriever won a spot in my man's heart.

Abandoned Bradian Townsite photo taken in 1980

Lawrie and I, and his then eleven-year-old son John, were spending a three-day weekend near Bralorne, the remote and almost-abandoned gold mining town where I was born. 

We parked our camper truck under the pine trees at our original family cabin situated on the shores of the glacier-fed Big Gunn Lake. Lawrie wanted a cold beer so he decided that he should toss the entire case of beer out into the lake to cool it down.

A half an hour later when Lawrie tried to retrieve a cold beer he discovered his mistake. Freezing cold water. Too damn cold - unless you happened to be a young kid who grew up swimming in that lake.

Our original family cabin on Big Gunn Lake

He looked calculatingly at my dog, Buck, who was sitting beside us, tail wagging and tongue lolling out of his mouth. Lawrie took a small pebble and tossed it into the water towards the case of beer. “Buck – go get me a beer!” he commanded. Buck, always eager for a swim jumped in the water and swam to where the pebble had disturbed the surface of the lake. He paddled around in confusion, then to our surprise dove down, leaving just the tip of his tail poking above the lake's surface.

A minute or two later he popped to the surface with a beer in his mouth!  Wow, Buck the Wonder Dog! Clutching the beer in his teeth he swam to shore where he was greeted with hugs and love and praise. “Good dog, good dog!” “Now, go get Lynda a beer,” Lawrie said, tossing another pebble into the lake. 

Buck the Wonder Dog - retrieving a beer from the lake

Off he swam, no confusion this time, diving down and retrieving a second beer. His arrival on shore was greeted with more hugs and praise.

For the balance of the weekend, whenever we wanted an icy cold beer we simply pointed at the lake and said, “Buck, go get me a beer!” 


And he did, every time – until three days later when our short vacation was over.