OLD DOGS AND ROUGH DIAMONDS
ON A NIGHT IN EARLY JANUARY, WHEN THE TEMPERATURE WAS FAR BELOW FREEZING, MY ROUGH DIAMOND STOVE SAVED MY LIFE.
I CAME HOME FROM TOWN IN AN OPEN SKIFF, A TWO MILE TRIP ON THE PACIFIC OCEAN TO A LITTLE COVE AS BLACK AS PITCH.
ARLO, THE HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD DOG, MISJUDGED THE DISTANCE FROM THE BOAT TO THE DOCK, AND LANDED INSTEAD IN THE WATER. HE SANK LIKE A STONE; I THOUGHT HE WAS GONE, UNTIL I HEARD HIM SCRATCHING AT THE TIMBERS UNDER THE DOCK.
HE WAS A GOOD OLD FRIEND; I COULDN'T LEAVE HIM TO DROWN. SO I JUMPED IN THE WATER, HAULED HIM OUT TO THE SURFACE AND HEAVED HIM ONTO THE DOCK.
IT SEEMED LIKE FOREVER UNTIL HE COUGHED, AND BREATHED AGAIN.
IT WAS SALT WATER, BUT IT FROZE ON MY CLOTHES IN AN INSTANT.
I CARRIED ARLO UP TO THE HOUSE, TO THE RAMSHACKLE CABIN COVERED WITH SNOW.
THE ROUGH DIAMOND STOVE HADN'T BEEN LIT IN 36 HOURS, BUT A BIT OF PAPER AND A FISTFUL OF KINDLING WAS ALL I NEEDED TO GET IT GOING. STUFFED WITH LOGS, IT CRACKLED AND GLOWED.
I WARMED MYSELF AS I WARMED POOR ARLO, TOWELLING HIM DRY AS HE LAY BY THE STOVE. THEN I SAT WITH HIM, HIS HEAD ON MY LAP, THANKFUL FOR OLD DOGS AND ROUGH DIAMOND STOVES.
SINCERELY
Iain Lawrence