Rescuing .......FISH?

I have a small creek running through my property. On one side of the path it is perhaps 18” wide and 10 inches deep; on the other side it widens into a marshy pond under the big willow tree before tumbling over a rocky ledge to go off to the neighbouring property. The yellow grasses of winter are so tightly woven on that side that the dogs can walk right across without getting their feet wet.

Or so I thought. When I arrived home from work today, I immediately headed out in the pasture with my dogs. As we passed the creek, I noticed something frantically splish-splashing around. Still in my suit and dress shoes, I stepped closer for a look, shoes sinking into the goo under the straw and grasses, and there I saw……a fish! It was a brown trout about 7-8 inches long, virtually stranded atop the thatch of weeds, its little mouth gaping and its gills opening and closing as it attempted to get its head back under water.

Now, I am an angler from way back. From the first time my dad took me fishing along the streams that flow through Manning Park, I fell in love with the rhythm of the cast, the anticipation of the tug on the line, the pure pleasure at being outdoors, near water, enjoying the fresh air – not to mention the tasty meal afterwards, trout browned in a little butter in a heavy cast iron frypan held over an open campfire.

It’s been a year or so since I went fishing. And during that year, my involvement in rescue has increased. It has obviously gotten to me. For what did I do when I saw the fish? Think of dinner? Run for my rod? NOOOOO..... I raced to the house for gumboots and bucket, with visions of lifting the poor little fishy out of his predicament and moving him further along the creek to an area with more water.

Gumboots on, I sloshed back into the marsh. Reality hit. First, this wasn’t as shallow as I thought – the mucky water was almost to the top of my boot. Second, the gumboot, which was new late last summer, had a hole in it and was quickly filling up with water. Third, I was still in my dress clothes and the pants leg of my blue suit was getting rather wet and muddy.

But the rescuer in me argued that fishy mustn’t suffer. And so I ignored the wet and the mud and the muck as I bent over to scoop him up and discovered……he was gone! Obviously he was not as stranded as I thought, and could manage just fine on his own, thank you.

As I checked the surrounding area just to make sure he wasn’t still landlocked, Belle decided I could use some help. And so my arthritic little girl with the funny splayed duck-feet charged right into the water, only to find herself stuck in the mud up to her belly and floundering around as helplessly as the fish had been.

In rescue mode once again, I scooped her up, mud and all, and held her against my formerly-white shirt, dripping more mud on my jacket and pants.

But all’s well that ends well. Both fishy and Belle are safe.

Now if I could only find a drycleaner who gives discounts to Rescues.