Chauncey and the Cliff
I had walked the trail around Vallecito Lake many times. Chauncey usually went ahead of me, as he always did, exploring the trail while I followed behind.
I rounded a turn and noticed something odd. The path seemed to lead directly over the bank—and Chauncey was nowhere in sight.
I knew immediately what might have happened.
I walked to the end of the path and looked down. There he was, about twelve feet below me on the narrow shore, looking back up with an expression that seemed to say, What do I do now?
The situation was worse than it first appeared. The bank was steep and mostly dirt, undercut by years of wave action. Chauncey was a hundred-pound Golden Retriever, and despite all the places we’d been together, he had never learned to swim.
For a moment I considered going for help—a rope, perhaps, or a boat. But there was nobody around. More importantly, I knew Chauncey. If I walked away, he would try to follow me. If he went into the lake, we would have an entirely different problem.
So there really wasn’t much of a decision to make.
I went down after him.
The bank was far too steep to walk, so I lowered myself over the edge on my belly, searching for footholds and grabbing whatever roots I could find. Dirt and small rocks broke loose beneath me as I worked my way down. Chauncey simply watched, apparently confident that I knew what I was doing.
I eventually reached him and clipped on his leash.
Then we had to get back up.
We crawled together, sometimes almost on our bellies. Chauncey dug his paws into the loose soil while I worked my way upward beside him. The dirt crumbled beneath us and the rocks scraped my legs. Progress came in inches. I don’t know how long it took. I remember my arms burning, my knees hurting, and both of us becoming exhausted.
Finally we were only a few feet below the trail.
And that was where we encountered the real problem.
The top of the bank was undercut. There was a lip above us with essentially nothing to climb on. Chauncey tried to scramble over it and slid back down.
Somehow I was going to have to lift him.
I got an arm underneath him and tried to boost a hundred pounds of dog over the edge while maintaining my own position on that slope. We weren’t getting anywhere.
Then I noticed a little root sticking out of the bank.
It wasn’t much of a root. But it was all I had.
I grabbed it with one hand and remember hoping—perhaps praying—that the damned thing would hold. With that hand supporting me, I used the other arm and everything I had left to push Chauncey upward.
The root held.
His front paws caught the top. Then the rest of him disappeared over the edge.
Once I knew he was safe, I managed to pull myself over too.
And then we simply lay there together on the trail.
Two exhausted animals, side by side, panting and recovering.
Later my ankle hurt badly enough that I thought I might have broken it. When I told my doctor what had happened, he listened to the story and said something I’ve remembered ever since:
“It’s worth breaking your leg to save a dog.”
I think he understood.