Cover Up

Dear Diary,

There is a paradox at play with my entries herein.

As the canine companion to the famous globe-trotting nature photographer Francis Falconin, I find myself undertaking adventures that deserve to be immortalised via my recording of them. And yet, due to said adventures, I often lack both the time and the energy to set down a word concerning these thrilling escapades as they are unfolding. Instead, it is only on quiet days such as today that I find myself with the open schedule and clear mind required for tending to my records.

But the problem is, when the excitement has died down, I find myself inclined to over-analyze small details rather than recount the broader story. As such, my diary, a document that should be replete with harrowing tales, instead reads as little more than a series of perceived slights. Although the one I put to paper today is among the most grievous and passive-aggressive Francis has ever committed.

For the past week, we made our way along the Crench River in the hopes of photographing the extremely rare mirror trout, a river fish whose scaling is entirely reflective. Their population is, at this point, suspected to be only a few dozen spread out over the entire three-hundred-some miles of waterway. Very few have been seen, and even fewer have been photographed (and those that have been photographed generally show nothing more than the photographer, given their iconic mirror-like nature).

But, as with all of our trips, things did not go exactly as planned. We learned, shortly after arriving, that we were not the only ones searching out a member of the protected species. A group of thuggish fishermen employed by celebrity chef Mark O’Feary were also on the hunt. They, however, did not desire a harmless photograph. Instead, they sought to catch several of them (which is against the law), so that they might be served at a secret dinner for ten of the world’s richest men.

In this way, our enemies proved to be poachers in both illegal hunting sense as well as the culinary, as delicate seafood is often prepared via submersion in melted butter or broth. (I attempted to tell Francis this, but, of course, my words arrived at his ears as nothing more than a series of barks. Such is the great tragedy of our relationship: he’ll never fully grasp my wit.)

And now we come to the problem mentioned at the outset of this entry: to tell the full story of what happened next would mean writing for hours on end, thus burying my complaint in an avalanche of words rivaling that which we experienced while seeking out the diamond-horned snow goats of Dufourspitze two years ago.

Suffice to say: the bad guys were thwarted, the celebrity chef exposed, and a beautiful mirror trout photographed as it swam close to shore, captured at the perfect angle to emphasize its shine without showing the photographer or his dog. The rights have already been sold for a handsome sum to a leading nature publication. In other words: success!

But, along the way, one of the criminal fishermen managed to shove Francis into the water. The current took him swiftly away, and he would’ve almost definitely been lost forever had I not leapt in after him, gotten ahold of his flailing arm in my muzzle, and dragged him gasping to shore.

Heroic, right? Also: very wet.

And this second aspect seems to be what captured the bulk of my owner and quote-unquote best friend’s focus.

This morning, when we drove into town to get coffee and a dog biscuit, I found the backseat of our Land Rover (aka my domain) outfitted with an Active Pets Waterproof Rear Car Seat Cover. And sure, I understand the utility. I am not delusional about how deeply my canine musk permeates all I lie upon, even if I’m not soaked wet from a daring river rescue. So, having a waterproof, easy-to-clean, one-size-fits-all layer between me and the upholstery below is smart.

Still, how can I not feel insulted that my act of extreme loyalty should be seen as an inconvenience to be rectified? Did it ever occur to him that I could have solved the problem myself by simply not leaping into the water after him? Perhaps next time I shall let him bob around in the rapids a bit more so he can appreciate me.

Of course, I could never actually. I simply love him too much.

Signing off,
Mutton Falconin
Canine assistant to Francis Falconin, photographer