Having been frustrated with an abscessed tooth for over a week and a
dentists office that doesn't believe in the need for pain meds for the
aforementioned condition, I needed a bit of cheerin' up. So, as I posted
yesterday, I am preparing mother's protector and animal companion--Bear-- to
be my fishin' buddy, as I can't find a reliable or suitable fishin' buddy of
the human kind!

Bear is a 120 lb. German Shepard with a heart of gold, except when it comes
to bees and wasps--HE HATES BOTH EQUALLY! Bear will snap them out of the
air, effortlessly, and then eat them. Personally, I'd be satisfied just
killin' them, if I was Bear, but he apparently he does like the taste of
them? Anyway, after our successful swimming trip yesterday, I decided that
we were ready to go fishin' together. I picked Bear up from mother's house
at 8:45 AM and we arrived at stream side around 9:30 AM. I had packed us
some vienne sausages, crackers, kippered fishies and some milkbone biscuits.
I geared-up as Bear pranced around sniffin' and then ****in' on everything
in sight.

I tied on a traditional Adams dry fly to the tippet attached to the leader
attached to the flyline attached to the Hardy Featherweight reel attached to
the Diamondback 3 pc., 3/4 wt., 7' rod. Steel Creek, where we parked is an
easy access stream. We made our way about 25 yards up the trail and then
put-in. Bear caught on fairly quickly. He stayed behind me and to my left,
as I cast to the first pool. I had a fish on within the first few casts and
tried to interest Bear in the smell of fresh trout. He was thoroughly
unimpressed! I caught a few more small browns on the same fly, but it
became water-logged so I tied on a parachute Adams. I caught a fish or two
before I lost this fly to a submerged rock. Bear, patiently, watched me.
He'd wonder ahead, occasionally, on the left-side of the stream but never
up the middle of the stream. All that I would have to say was: "Bear, get
back here!" and he would come back and station himself behind me. Bear has
proven himself to be a most proficient rock hopper, as well. He'd hang on
to a sloped boulder, like a billy-goat on a mountain side cliff. I guess
those #12 sized paws are go for something besides draggin' mud across the
front of my chest.

Over-all, I think I have found myself a reliable and trusty fishin' buddy
now.

Op --eat yer heart out Uncle Wally and Mr. Jeff Miller!--