Free Dead Dogs and Englishmen by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli Page B

had a few fly-fishing lessons so could pull in my line and send it arcing out beside me, but not the way Harry did. He was good—the rod and line a part of his arms and hands, his body knowing how to swivel gracefully as he cast.
    I wasn’t into the spirit of the rod and line and fly. For some guys it was a kind of religion. For me it was a matter of not twisting my line so it fell with a thud a few feet from where I stood. Or not catching it in the trees behind me. Or not catching a fly in my own backside. I worried that the slippery rocks beneath my feet would upend me, or that I’d step into a deep hole. Then, as I teetered on the rocks, I worried about catching a fish that required quick movement landing me face down in the fast water.
    I moved carefully out into the river and found a flat rock to stand on. I planted my feet and felt secure. Harry kept walking from shore to shore, doing a zigzag through the water, casting and recasting. There was a lot to be said for a fly-fisherman who knew what he was doing and a lot to be said for a woman who knew her limitations. Harry was precise, even stylish, in the slow arc of his arm, the dark suit coat he wore under his waders taking nothing from belonging to the river. With ballet-like movement his line snapped beside him to curve overhead and land exactly where he wanted it to land. I couldn’t help but admire a guy who knew what he was doing. But then Harry, as rough as he was, had this side of him in the wilds that was pure artistry. That was one thing I’d learned since coming up to the woods: art comes in all forms, sometimes without an easy manner or nice clothes but still with a deep knowing.
    Harry moved further downstream. I stayed where I was, figuring the fish would come to me as fast as Harry would stumble on one.
    I flicked my line sideways, getting the hang of it in my wrists and shoulders and feeling pretty good about how professional I looked out there, up to my hips in cheap green waders. I was beginning to smile a smug smile as something took my hook and ran with it. The pole slid out of my hands and sailed off down river, smacking the water and bobbing under and up until it got to where Harry stood. He reached down in one easy movement and grabbed the pole, holding it in one hand as he held his in the other. He pushed a gloved finger hard on the line and hung on.
    I left my flat rock without a thought to my own safety—now that I was embarrassed—and made my way through treacherous water until I stood beside him. I grabbed his fishing pole so he could concentrate on mine, pulling back hard again and again until a shimmering sucker broke the surface and leaped about in the air. It was gray and big, with the look of a carp to it. Harry grinned at me, then waded in to shore to release the hook and string the fish. I wobbled along behind him, watching how he pulled the fish carefully from the hook and strung it through the gills.
    When he’d finished and I was pretty sure I could do that much—if not really catch them—he turned his faded eyes, lost in a network of wrinkles, to me. “Why don’t you sit on the bank awhile and rest yourself. I’ll catch a few more of these boys and we’ll get on home.”
    I happily sat on the high bank, hugging my arms across my chest. I was dressed for heat in only a worn muscle shirt and shorts under my damp and mushy waders. I hadn’t remembered about river water. Always a sliver of ice buried in a river. That sliver of ice made me think of the dead dog Dolly and I had found. So still and empty. Not dog-like any more. What kind of person shot a dog in the head? What kind of icy human being felt nothing for an animal in his or her care? Or was so removed from feeling as to look down into a pair of hopeful brown eyes, then put the gun to the back of the creature’s head and pull the trigger. All I could see was Sorrow looking up at me, tongue out, eyebrows going up