If you ask someone to tell you about his or her best day ever, chances are you are apt to hear a love story.

That's only right. After all, what matters more?

But there are different kinds of love stories. In winter, they might involve ice skating or telling secrets by a fireplace. In summer, well, maybe they involve fishing, as mine does.

One summer, when I was about 8, my family was staying at my grandmother's house for a week. My father took my brother and I fishing on the Mettawee River, a place he had frequented when he was a boy.

The only female with us was our old, overweight dog, Lady. And she had a gangbusters day. She seemed to rediscover her youth as she raced around, chasing rodents and barking at the fish we caught.

Tension was usually my family's default mode. But on that day, everything was smiles and laughter. And watching Lady have the time of her life.

At least that's how I remember it.

When it was time to pack up and head back to my grandmother's, we put our fishing rods in the trunk and started to get in the car. Then we noticed something.

Lady was so exhausted from the day's full-tilt frolic, she couldn't climb into the car. She just stood by the open back door and looked back at us.

At first we found this amusing. Then my brother and I noticed our dad was looking at Lady with a tenderness he didn't always show us.

(My brother and I would recall the moment more than once years later.)

My dad bent over and gently scooped Lady up and lifted her into the car.

She's just tired, he said. Or words to that effect.

Then we headed back to my grandmother's house, our heads full of fresh memories of fish we caught and things we shared.

All four of us.

 

 

 

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