W oof! As most of my two-legged and four-legged friends know, I swim in my lake every single day. I don’t care if it’s freezing cold or blazing hot—I need my lake time. We call it Beau’s Throws.

My routine never changes. In the afternoon I deploy my secret weapon: the stare. I lock eyes with my two-leggers until they crumble under my irresistible charm. Then I bolt down the steps to the back door, where I spin in frantic circles for about twenty seconds while my (very slow) humans shuffle after me.

Okay, fine… I might bark and screech a little. I can’t help it—I’m excited!)

The second that door opens, I’m off like a rocket: out the back door, across the yard, onto the boathouse dock, and then… airborne! Yeehawww!

Oh my woofin’ heavens, I love my lake! That’s when the real fun begins. One of my two-leggers comes down and starts hurling sticks or balls into the water. I’m a pro at snagging them and bringing them back. It’s what I was born to do.

Lately, though, something super weird is going on with my lake. The water keeps getting lower and lower. I used to hit the surface the instant I launched off the dock, but now I’m sailing through the air forever, and when I finally smack the water—ouch!—it kinda hurts. What the woof?!

My pack-dad has noticed I’m not loving the big drop and the hard belly-flop, so he’s been taking me to the steps at Charlie’s Landing (named after my big brother and best buddy Charlie, who got the sad smells and then went away forever). It’s gentler there, and I can ease into the water instead of crash-landing. It’s not nearly as thrilling as the flying leap, but I still get my swim and my throws.

Fingers (and paws) crossed my lake fills back up soon. A dog’s gotta fly!

Jim McCoy