John had always loved summer fishing, but even in winter he made a point of going out a couple of times, as he liked to say, “to have a good freeze.” He rarely brought back a great haul, but there was always enough for a fish chowder, with some left over for the neighbourhood cats.
That particular morning, John had checked the lake ice was thick and solid, so he started getting ready for another trip. Quietly, he gathered his tackle, grabbed the sandwiches his wife had made from the fridge, and tiptoed out into the yard—his wife and children were still fast asleep, lost in their dreams.
Nobody else was on the lake either. Even the keenest anglers, it seemed, preferred spending the Christmas holidays indoors with their mince pies rather than out in the frost. Still, that didn’t bother John one bit.
“All the more fish for me,” he thought, and calmly began setting up his rods.
Around that time, he noticed movement near the bank. A large, shaggy dog stepped cautiously onto the ice and stared straight at John. Everything about the creature suggested it had spent a long time in the woods: its scruffy coat, its hollow sides, its wary eyes.
The dog edged closer, giving a slight wag of its tail, as if to say it meant no harm. John had already guessed the animal had once been someone’s pet—a wild dog would have fled long before trying to make friends.
The dog watched the fishing intently. Every time John pulled a fish from the hole, the dog jumped up and wagged its tail, as though celebrating the angler’s success.
They shared the sandwiches equally—thankfully, his wife had packed plenty. By the end of the meal, the dog had grown bold enough to sniff the flask of tea, though it clearly disapproved of that drink.
The awkward moment came when John started packing up to go home. The dog showed no intention of leaving, hovering around the car. John hesitated; bringing a full-grown dog home hadn’t been part of his plans.
As the car pulled away, the dog trotted after it, not on the road but along the verge, plodding through the snow.
John glanced back a few times, then stared grimly ahead, but after a couple of minutes he couldn’t help looking again. The dog, though thin, was still following. John sighed and hit the brakes.
When he arrived back, the whole family came out to greet him—the children and his wife had just finished breakfast and were building a snowman.
“So, a big catch today?” she asked with a smile. “Not much fish,” John laughed. “But look at this fine specimen I landed.” He opened the back door of the car. The dog scrambled out nervously, tail wagging.
Within a couple of weeks, all doubts about keeping him had vanished. The dog, given the unusual name of Bream, had settled in the yard and even let the children ride on his back. The vet confirmed he was healthy, just underfed—and that was easily fixed on the master’s good grub.
