January 3rd
I’ve always preferred summer fishing, but I still drag myself out a couple of times in winter. Like I say, ‘to freeze my tail off.’ I never bring back much, but there’s always enough for a good stew, and a bit left over for the local cats.
Today I checked the ice on Lake Windermere was solid and got ready for another trip. Quietly, I gathered my tackle, grabbed the sandwiches from the fridge, and tiptoed out into the yard—my wife and kids were still dreaming their seventh dream.
The lake was empty. Even the keenest anglers seemed to prefer spending the New Year holidays tucked up with leftovers than out in the cold. Honestly, that didn’t bother me one bit.
“More fish for me,” I muttered, and started unpacking my gear.
That’s when I noticed something moving near the shore. A big, scruffy dog padded carefully onto the ice and stared straight at me. Everything about him screamed he’d been living rough for a while—matted coat, hollow sides, wary eyes.
He came closer, tail giving a tiny wag, as if to say he meant no harm. I figured he’d once been someone’s pet; a wild one would have bolted long before trying to make friends.
He watched every cast and every pull. Every time I landed a fish, he’d bounce up and wag his tail like he was celebrating my luck.
We shared the sandwiches—good thing my wife packed extra. By the end of the meal, he’d plucked up enough courage to sniff my flask of tea. He didn’t approve.
The awkward bit came when I started packing up. He had no intention of leaving, circling my car. I hesitated—bringing a full-grown dog home wasn’t part of the plan.
As I drove off, he trotted after me along the verge, churning up snow with his paws.
I looked back once, then twice, then stared grimly at the road. A few minutes later, I couldn’t help glancing in the mirror. Skinny as he was, he hadn’t given up. I sighed and hit the brakes.
My whole family came out to meet me—the kids and my wife had just finished breakfast and were building a snowman.
“So, big catch today?” she smiled.
“Not much fish,” I laughed. “But I landed one hefty specimen.” I opened the back door. The dog stepped out shyly and wagged his tail.
A couple of weeks later, any doubts about keeping him vanished. We named him Bream—odd name for a dog, but it stuck. He’s taken over the yard and even lets the kids ride him. The vet said he’s healthy, just starved. That’ll sort itself out with proper home cooking.
Lesson learned: sometimes the best catch isn’t the one you were after.
