By Danny Maybin
Fishing friends seem to, nearly always, be the lasting kind. I can’t begin to describe how much my life has been enriched by the many anglers I have come to call friend. Many I only met once or twice and many I see everyday.
I doubt I have enough time left on earth to tell you about even half of them but one in particular was very dear to me. I don’t think I ever knew his given name. I just called him Posey [like Rosie with a P].
The first time I met Posey, it was obvious he had never been fishing. In fact it was plain to see he had never experienced any of the joys of the outdoor world but seemed so excited to just be in the action that I couldn’t resist taking him under my wing. As Posey slowly learned the ropes with such zeal, he soon became my favorite fishing partner. After a year or so, I rarely had to tell him anything except “don’t eat the bait”, “don’t pee on the boat” and “don’t chew on the rod handles”. You see, Posey was my dog. A bloodhound bred high as a woodpecker’s hole but neither he nor I held much stock in pedigrees. We just liked to go fishing.
I found him in a dirt road bait shop somewhere between Charleston and Beaufort, S.C. He was the last of the litter and apparently unsalable as he was the runt, a red, three-pound fur ball, one pound body, two pounds ears!
I swapped a 5500c and a Fenwick fast tip rod for him. Best trade I ever made!
I brought him home and, to his delight and that of the kids, the next three months were a constant romp in the woods of frequent canoe excursions with me pursuing panfish and crappie.
As he crossed the eighty pound mark, it became apparent our canoeing days were coming to an end when he abandoned ship in the middle of the river to chase a possum on the bank, leaving me, all my tackle and a capsized canoe quietly floating down the river. We then switched to the johnboat, which sufficed till he reached a hundred and ten pounds. From that point on, we only used vessels of at least eighteen feet.
The only impasse we ever reached was that Posey could not remain quiet while I was reeling in a fish. It did not matter if the fish was four inches or forty pounds, as soon as my rod bent he would start this excited, low pitched barking/howl that lasted until the fish was off the hook. I didn’t mind this most of the time but in a catfish tournament where everybody knew what Posy’s howl meant, it oft-times resulted in a lot of unwanted company in my fishing spot!
As time went on, we finally ended up with a moderate sized cabin boat, which made life easier for both of us. Once Posey discovered the virtues of a cabin, I was hard pressed to keep him on deck under fifty and over seventy degrees. Posey was aging much faster than I was but I knew he still wanted to be there. If I happened to step down into the cabin, the first sound I would hear was the thump, thump, thump of his massive tail against the bottom of the forward berth.
After a many good years, in the spring, just about two weeks before the redbreast started their spawn, ole Posey played with the kids, ate a good supper and went to his bed happy but never to rise again.
There was about a year of fishing without Posey that proved to be odorless and tasteless but I still had my human friends to fish with. I know they are friends because, bone tired of my repetitive Posey stories, they kept going out with me.
Then one day I came home to discover my wife and kids had had their fill of my moping and decided it was time for a new fishing partner. Enter the Badger. Badger is what is known around here as a bench legged feist. Weighing in around six pounds, soaking wet, Badger is mostly black with half of his head white and a bobbed tail.
Puppyhood was fine but when we started fishing, Badger began to develop a sense of entitlement. He never had to ride in a lowly canoe or johnboat or even a shadeless center console. Nope he came in on top and now has claimed the Captain’s chair as his personal daybed. He never even raises his head when I hook up and when I need the chair to drive the boat, he bares his teeth, growls and snaps at anything that threatens to unseat him! I’ve discovered a really good use for those ugly, orange life jackets. I use one like the padded arm they train attack dogs with.
Once unseated, I have to make sure the cabin door is closed as Badger will invariably pee on my bunk and find something, be it curtains or boots, to destroy. I’m just glad he’s not Posey’s size. I guess at least he is company if not “good company”. I can say his name and he growls at me from the chair and I know I’m not alone, but I’m not sure if that’s worth anything. I’m sure he would rather I jump ship just as long as I’m back in time to feed him.
It’s really not much better at home. Instead of the Captain’s chair, my wife’s lap is his chosen lair anytime she sits down, which leaves me no place to lay my weary head. I think I’ll get one of those orange life jackets for the den. He will play with the kids but gets snappy and sullen once he’s bored with the activity. He even growls at himself when he passes the floor mirror in our bedroom.
I’ll always remember that look in Posey’s eyes that said “You’re my friend and I’ll always be yours”. All I get from Badger is a look that says, “I’m going to outlive you, and then all this will be mine”.
I’m in quite the tight spot here and I never even saw it coming. If I leave him at home when I go fishing, the family will be upset. I can’t leave him tied to the dock, as he would surely bite someone, which would mean I couldn’t return home with him, which, in turn, would upset the family.
I guess if you believe in the balance of life or the yin and the yang, I’m paying for all the good years with Posey. I wish he was here now, I’d sick him on the little monster.
If I do manage to outlive Badger, I think I’m going to get a cat. At least I can go into the relationship with no expectations of loyalty or friendship, which brings to my mind the age-old question “Do all dogs go to heaven?” In my humble yet experienced opinion; Not all, my friends, not all.
Danny Maybin’s family has fished and hunted in the area of Lake Summit for at least six generations. He is a state firearms instructor, blacksmith, musician/luthier and his favorite, a fishin’, and hunting resort facilitator. He also does voice acting, copywriting, and short story humor.