“I rehabilitate dogs. I train people.” Cesar Milan

It was our annual fly fishing trip to the Adams River. Time out, guy time; time to catch a few fish, tell a few lies, drink some good scotch, belch and fart; you know the male bonding thing.

So after several weeks of juggling hectic schedules we finally arrived in the Roderick Haig-Brown Provincial Park parking lot in high spirits. John and Rodger drove up from the coast and Phil and I over from the West Kootenay. The only hitch to our trip now was John’s dog Buddy. Buddy is an innocuous looking black and white floppy eared run of the mill mutt of the Canis lupus ubiquitous variety – in other words the kind of dog you  see just about everywhere.

When Buddy jumped out of John’s Isuzu Trooper he was real excited to see Phil who usually has a doggie biscuit for him. Phil and Buddy have what I would call a love-hate relationship. I’m not sure what kind John and Buddy have except that dysfunctional might best describe it. In any event it has never lacked for affection or even love, just any kind of meaningful discipline. I think it’s safe to say neither John nor Buddy had ever heard of the famous dog trainer Cesar Milan or anyone like him for that matter. In other words Buddy is what you might say a wee bit out of control.

And thus, right off the bat, the first mishap of our trip happened in the Haig-Brown parking lot. Phil was looking pretty sharp all geared up and wearing a spanking brand new pair of Simm’s breathable waders - the kind that cost a small fortune - when he tossed Buddy a doggie biscuit. Buddy (probably on account of being cooped up for too long in the Trooper) miscalculated his speed coming at Phil. After intercepting the biscuit in mid air like a pro ball outfielder he ricocheted off Phil’s waders puncturing them with one of his incisors. Phil took the mishap in good stride which says a whole lot about his character; not to mention that the prospect of trout fishing tends to put one in a good mood. When it comes to Buddy’s enthusiasm and free spirit; we’re a pretty easy going bunch of guys: most of the time anyway.

While we patched Phil’s waders, Buddy crapped in the bushes and ran laps around the parking lot burning off doggie biscuit and pent up energy. Fifteen minutes later we were all geared up and happily on our way to the river.

Well, our happy little medley of anglers and one dog didn’t last long. Halfway to the river Buddy spotted a squirrel. It was scurrying back and forth across the trail doing squirrelly things. Buddy being Buddy took off after it like a heat seeking missile. The squirrel heard Buddy bounding towards it and bolted into a dense thicket of scruffy bush and dead fall with Buddy in hot pursuit and oblivious to John’s commands to come back. John handed his fly rod off to me and took off after Buddy. In no time we heard John down on his knees cursing and thrashing about in the bush. I was beginning to wonder if we were ever going to make it the river.

Buddy finally stopped about fifty yards away, he had the squirrel treed. John was still on his knees cursing and trying to bushwhack to Buddy. After ten or so minutes the rest of us were getting antsy. Rodger piped up and said, “For cry’ in out loud man, get that dog so we can go and fish!” We heard John mumble and grumble. A few minutes later he crawled out of the bush all scratched up and profusely sweating in his neoprene waders dragging Buddy by the collar. Buddy was revved up like a car engine; his eyes were dilated and fixated on the squirrel that was still up in the tree razzing him.

I could see Rodger making an effort to restrain his Irish temper. He looked at John and tactfully said “It might be a good idea to put a leash on Buddy.” John looked at the bloody scratches on his hands and arms. Being a free spirit himself, John reluctantly dug a leash out of his daypack and attached it to Buddy’s collar. Rodger, Phil and I were somewhat relieved now that Buddy’s free spirit was reined in. I handed John back his fly rod and once again we were on our way to the river.