Free Water Dogs by Lewis Robinson Page A

specialized in Labrador retrievers—Nixon was an easy choice, he said, though Bennie wondered about this. She was fat but still youthfully strong and vigorous, an excellent swimmer, a heroic eater. As a fetcher of tennis balls, she was unstoppable. Sometimes the boys would take her out to the un-mowed field by the technical college; they’d put a Nerf football in her mouth and she’d know to run. They’d chase after her, diving at her thick brown body to tackle her, and when she’d fall, slamming hard against the ground, she’d bounce right back up, not knowing the rules of football; she’d keep thundering along, not anticipating the next tackle, thinking only about getting the ball to a safe place where she could chew it. Secretly, Bennie knew Nixon suffered from the high expectations Coach put on her; before he’d married Eleanor he had a Brittany spaniel named Ike who loved to hunt. (Now Littlefield’s dog Ronald was modeled after Ike, though Littlefield would not admit this.)
    Throwing the ball for her at Cape Fred, Bennie always started with short tosses, warm-ups, getting Nixon wet and accustomed to the exercise. She was an expert at staying on task, and there was something about her dark chestnut-colored hair that suggested stubbornness.
    After the warm-ups Bennie threw the ball as far out into the ocean as he could. It fell through the sea smoke to a spot just beyond the single lobster buoy within their sight. The buoy had probably been swept in by a storm—few men set traps during winter, and if they did, they set them in deeper water. Nixon galloped down the shale, then bounded into the waves, swimming with a noticeable wake despite the windy chop, toward the place where the ball had splashed. Her fat made her buoyant, and she was powerful enough that her back stayed well above the surface of the water when she swam at full strength.
    As Nixon made her steady way toward the ball, Bennie watched her closely, thinking it was amazing that this animal,
their
animal, whoslept on the old purple couch and never barked when strangers came to the door, didn’t hesitate to brave the icy water in mid-March.
    Nixon must not have seen the ball through the sea smoke, because she went right for the red buoy and bit into it. Bennie was pleased the dog believed him strong enough to throw a lobster pot thirty yards offshore. He found it odd and charming that Nixon was attempting to retrieve the buoy. He was proud of her.
    Gwen laughed. “Look at her! How did she fit that thing in her mouth?”
    “Good girl,” said Littlefield. “Thatta girl, Nixon. Good dog.”
    Nixon was swimming at her usual rate, full speed. She’d spun a tight U-turn and was swimming back toward shore now, with the red buoy in her mouth. There must have been some slack in the line, because her body made a clear wake, the kind a lobster boat might make, only smaller. But when the line tightened up, the wake stopped.
    “Now, we’ve all heard of a shithouse rat,” said Littlefield. “Well, that right there is a shithouse dog. That dog is as nuts as Gwen. Maybe more nuts.” Then he raised his voice. “Good dog, Nixon, good dog.”
    “William, that’s cruel,” said their mother.
    “You don’t think Nixon’s crazy?” said Littlefield, jabbing a finger out toward the dog, who was snorting at the seawater. “Look at that.”
    “Apologize to your sister,” said Coach.
    “A shithouse dog,” said Gwen. “I like that. That’s exactly what Nixon is.”
    Eleanor didn’t go along with the cheering. She still had her arms folded on her chest and even with her wool hat pulled down, deep lines showed on her forehead. She said, “I don’t like this at all—she’s going to hurt herself.”
    Coach was staring at the dog, sternly.
    Littlefield said, “Well, it’s Bennie’s fault. Why’d you throw it all the way out there, ass-muncher?”
    “She’s swum farther before,” he said, but he wasn’t sure she had. Then he added, “I wasn’t