Skip to main content

The Dog Who Fishes - and What He Teaches Me About Dedication

You know how some people get up at dawn to go fishing? They sit there in their boats, patiently waiting, casting, reeling, hoping for a big catch. Well, let me tell you about the real fisherman in our family. Spoiler alert: he doesn’t own a tackle box, and his fishing license would never hold up under scrutiny.

I’m talking about our dog.

Yes, you read that right. One of our dogs is a fisherman, though “fisherman” is maybe too generous a word. “Lake stander and occasional snapper” might be more accurate. But for the sake of his dignity, we call it fishing. And believe me, he takes it very, very seriously.

Happens every time when we’re at the cabin (or the cottage, for those of us Canucks who know that’s the proper word). It’s early morning, the kind of crisp fall day where the mist is still rolling off the water, and most sane beings are wrapped in blankets with hot coffee in hand. But not him. Nope. Six o’clock sharp, he’s up, tail wagging, trotting down to the water like it’s his nine-to-five job.

And there he goes. Belly deep in the lake. Standing there like some stoic fisherman of the north, eyes locked on the ripples, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Every so often, he snaps at the water. Sometimes he gets lucky. Once, I swear he actually caught a minnow or two, but that’s about the extent of his record. Still, in his mind, he’s basically the king of the lake. And who am I to argue? I mean, the sheer dedication is impressive.

Because here’s the thing. This isn’t just a summer hobby. Oh no. He does it in the fall too. When the wind is cutting across the lake, when the water is so cold I wouldn’t dip a toe in it even for a dare, there he is. Belly deep. Fishing.

Now, you might be thinking, “That’s ridiculous. Why does he do it if he doesn’t catch much?” But my friend, that’s where the wisdom lies.

This dog doesn’t care if he catches one fish or one hundred. He shows up every single morning because that’s what he does. That’s what he loves. That’s his thing. And honestly? I admire the heck out of it.

We could all use a little of that kind of dedication. Whether it’s writing books, chasing dreams, or just showing up for ourselves, sometimes it’s less about the results and more about the commitment. The steady, daily “I’m here, let’s do this” kind of energy.

So next time I’m grumbling about getting up early to write, or questioning whether I can finish a project, I think about my dog, standing belly deep in freezing lake water, snapping at minnows like his life depends on it. That’s commitment. That’s focus. That’s passion.

And who knows? Maybe that’s what it takes to write a book too. Show up. Do the work. Even if you only “catch” a minnow some days.

Besides, if he can fish in the icy lake at dawn, the least I can do is pour another cup of coffee and get back to the keyboard.


Comments

  1. Now that’s a fisherman worth wagging about. The image of him standing belly-deep in icy water is pure poetry—and the parallel to writing life? Spot on. Minnow days happen, but showing up is what makes the magic. Thanks for the reminder, my friend.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Labour-Free Labour Day? Yes, Please!

Hello and Happy Labour Day to all my lovely North American readers! Now, isn’t it just a little bit ironic that a holiday with the word labour baked right into the name is universally observed by doing absolutely none of it? Zero. Zilch. Unless, of course, you count the rigorous work of flipping burgers, casting fishing lines, and chasing wasps away from the potato salad. Then yes—we are a nation of highly skilled, recreational labourers. Olympic-level loungers, really. This year, I’m wholeheartedly leaning into the contradiction. After an exceptionally busy summer filled with writing deadlines, creative misadventures, and one unfortunate incident involving a Papillon, a pie, and a squirrel (don’t ask—Pixie is still refusing to discuss it), I’m embracing the art of not doing much at all. My Labour Day weekend plans include: Reclining in my favourite chair like a dramatic Victorian heroine recovering from a fainting spell. Watching the endless activity in the harbour just outs...

The Art of a Well-Timed Swear

There comes a moment in life when frustration bubbles over, and the only logical response is… well, a good, solid, soul-cleansing swear word. I’m not talking about casual, everyday muttering under your breath. No, I mean that moment when nothing else will do. The kind of moment where dropping your toast butter-side down feels like an act of war, where technology conspires against you, or when you stub your toe so hard you briefly see your ancestors. Now, I was raised in a house where we had a rule: Use your words, not you hands. This was my dad’s way of preventing sibling-induced concussions, and frankly, it worked. We weren’t an inherently violent bunch, but three kids in one tiny household meant tempers flared, and so did elbows. The logic was simple—if you had time to yell, maybe you’d have time to think twice before swinging. Or at least give your victim a solid head start. This philosophy stayed with me, though in adulthood, I’ve adapted it to use a well-placed expletive now a...

The Battle-Scarred ThinkPad and the Mountain of Notebooks: A Love Story

Let’s talk about favorite writing tools. Now, I know some authors might name drop fancy apps, sleek white minimalist keyboards, or those delicate fountain pens with gold nibs that require ceremonial ink rituals … But me? My tools are a little less... romantic. A little more indestructible . And, dare I say, a little more clunky with character . Once upon a time—cue flashback shimmer—I wrote all my stories by hand . Not just a page or two, either. I mean boxes and boxes of handwritten notebooks , full of scribbles, side notes, doodles in the margins, entire character backstories I forgot existed until ten years later. My early stories were a workout for my wrist. I had pens running dry faster than a coffee pot in a newsroom. It was chaotic. It was glorious. Typing those books up? A mission. A translation project. A cryptic decoding effort worthy of Indiana Jones. There were arrows. Stars. Entire paragraphs stuffed sideways in the margins like they were trying to escape the story. So...