"Nope, no ducks there. Maybe over here."
I usually let the dog off the lead before we get to the pond, and she races ahead. I don't worry about any ducks that may have left the safety of the water; they have time to waddle to the water when they see her.
But one day she'd made it to the pond, and when I looked back, I noticed one water bird, a black tern, who hadn't made it to the safety of the water. And the dog was between him and the shore.
She didn't pay him much attention. Birds, after all, can fly, or swim, and there's no sense chasing them. Besides, that looks undignified—only pups bother to chase birds.
The bird headed frantically for the shore, and that's when I noticed he had a lame foot. Suddenly the dog noticed this too, and her ears jerked up in surprise. She probably remembered that pigeon she'd come across in the woods once, who couldn't fly. She might ought to give chase, I could see her thinking, just as I screamed "No!" and raced toward her, the lead flapping in my hand.
The poor bird hobbled for all he was worth, and finally reached the water, where he tumbled under and then rose, swimming out of her reach. Here's the thing: She was inches away from him. I think she could have caught him, in those big soft jaws. But she didn't. As the bird swam away, she veered off, and pretended she'd never sunk to the such levels.
The incident taught me a lesson. Now I never release her until I'm sure the ducks have made it to safety. Because even though my dog seems remarkably human and non-violent at times, she's still a dog, and dogs like to chase things that run from them.
Although she still swears, to this day, she never intended to harm Tony Blair's squirrel.
