Dog Trapped on a Submerged Playground Platform

A public park playground in Louisiana, after a flood, is a place of water and play equipment, a place where, in dry weather, children climb and slide and swing, a place that smells of summer and grass and plastic, a place that, in flood, becomes a shallow lake with play equipment rising from it, a place where a slide becomes an island, where a climbing frame becomes a reef, where a platform, high above the ground in dry weather, becomes the only dry surface in a flooded park, a platform that a dog can stand on, can wait on, can hope from, while water covers stairs, covers paths, covers the ground that, in dry weather, would lead home, covers everything except the platform itself, which, for a Border Collie, became a refuge, a high, plastic island in murky floodwater, a place to stand, to wait, to look across water toward rescuers in a boat, toward a world that, in flood, can only be reached by boat, by bridge, by hands that can hold a boat steady, by a team that understands that a flooded playground is not a playground anymore, but a water rescue, a rescue that starts with a dog on a platform and ends, if it ends well, with a dog on a boat, on dry ground, safe, far from floodwater that has turned a park into a lake.

A black-and-white Border Collie stood on that platform, on the high, plastic floor of a slide structure, water below him, murky and brown, covering stairs, covering paths, covering the park’s ground, covering everything that, in dry weather, would be a way home, leaving only the platform, only the slide, only the play equipment that rose from water like islands, like reefs, like reminders of a park that had once been dry, that would, one day, be dry again, but that, for now, for this dog, for this flood, was a lake, a murky, brown lake with a dog on an island in it, a dog that could not swim to shore, not because Border Collies cannot swim, they can, famously, they love water, they love to swim, but because swimming in floodwater, in murky water with play equipment in it, with currents, with debris, with submerged stairs and paths that can trip, that can tangle, that can turn swimming into a struggle, is different from swimming in a clean lake, different from swimming for fun, different from swimming when you choose to swim, and a dog that swims in floodwater because it has no choice is a dog in danger, a dog that could become tired, could become disoriented, could become trapped by submerged equipment, could become a dog that needs rescuing from water, rather than a dog that rescues itself by swimming, and so the Collie stood on the platform, waiting, as dogs wait when they cannot swim safely, as Border Collies wait when they are trying to solve a problem, by watching, by thinking, by being still, by being intelligent, in the way Border Collies are intelligent, which is to say, by waiting for a better option than swimming, by waiting for a boat, by waiting for a bridge, by waiting for people who understand that a flooded playground needs a boat, not a swim.

A rescue team in red life vests approached by small boat, because the playground’s flooded area was now a waterway, and the boat was the only vehicle that could use it, the only surface that could move on floodwater, that could hold a position beside a platform, that could carry a dog from a platform to shore, without the dog having to swim, without the dog having to leap, without the dog having to trust floodwater that had already covered a park. Their plan was built around the platform’s height, around the boat’s movement, around the Collie’s nature, which is to work, to follow instructions, to respond to a voice, to a lead, to a bridge, to a task, to a job, which is, for a Border Collie, the most motivating thing in the world, more motivating than food, more motivating than play, more motivating than safety itself, because Border Collies, famously, will work themselves to exhaustion if given a job, will follow a voice, will cross a bridge, will step onto a boat, if they believe that stepping, crossing, following, is their job, is a task they have been given by a person who sounds like they know what the job is, who sounds confident, who sounds like a shepherd, even if that shepherd is a rescuer in a red life vest, on a boat, in a flooded park, in Louisiana, in a flood.

The camera from the boat in the opening seconds showed the Collie standing on the platform’s plastic floor, on the slide structure’s high deck, water below him, murky and brown, covering the park, covering stairs, covering paths, a dog on an island, looking across water toward a boat, toward rescuers, toward a world that, in flood, could only be reached by boat, by bridge, by hands that could hold a boat steady, by a voice that could tell a Border Collie what its job was, which was, in this case, to wait, to watch, to step onto a bridge when it came, to step onto a boat when the bridge led there, to be, for a few minutes, a working dog, working with rescuers, working toward shore, working toward safety, working toward dry ground. A rescuer held the boat steady, kept his voice calm and bright, the way people talk to Border Collies when they want them to work, because Border Collies, more than most dogs, respond to a voice that sounds like a job, like a task, like something to do, rather than a voice that sounds like pity, which Border Collies, famously independent, tend to ignore, or at least, tend to treat as less important than a job, less important than a task, less important than a voice that says, in tone, here is what you need to do, here is your job, here is the bridge, here is the boat, here is the way home. “Hey, boy… I see you up there. Hang on, we’re coming to you, just stay right there.”

The Collie’s ears came forward at the sound, its tail moved, just slightly, and it stayed where it was, watching the boat approach, as if the voice had told it that waiting was itself a kind of work, that staying on a platform in floodwater was a job, and that it was good at its job, that it had been doing its job, standing on a platform, waiting, watching, for hours, for as long as the flood had held it there, for as long as it had needed to wait, and that waiting, while not as exciting as running, while not as fun as swimming, was still work, still a task, still something a Border Collie could do well, could do with pride, could do until a better job came along, which was, in this case, a bridge, a boat, a step toward shore, a job that involved moving, not just waiting, a job that would take it from a platform to a boat to dry ground, a job that a Border Collie, given a voice and a bridge, would do gladly, would do eagerly, would do with the complete, focused attention that Border Collies bring to work, to tasks, to jobs that matter, especially jobs that matter to their own safety, even if they do not know, in the way humans know, that safety is the job, even if they simply believe, in the way dogs believe, that following a voice across a bridge is a good thing to do, a right thing to do, a thing that will be rewarded, with praise, with a hand, with dry ground, with home.

From three to seven seconds, a rescuer secured the boat in a safe position, bringing it close to the platform, holding it steady against floodwater’s movement, against currents, against debris, against the park’s submerged equipment that could shift a boat, that could push it away from a platform, that could turn a rescue into a chase, a boat chasing a platform that is not moving, a dog waiting on a platform that is not moving, a rescue that should be simple, a boat beside a platform, a bridge between them, a dog stepping across, but that, in floodwater, is never simple, because floodwater moves, because boats move, because platforms, while they do not move, are surrounded by water that moves, by debris that moves, by currents that move, by a whole flooded park that is, in every way, a moving world, a world that requires a boat to be held, held firmly, held steadily, held by hands and lines and anchors, so that a bridge can be laid, so that a dog can step, so that a rescue can happen, not in spite of floodwater, but with floodwater held at bay, for a few minutes, long enough for a Collie to cross a bridge, to step onto a boat, to be safe. The rescuer brought a transfer bridge close to the platform, a flat, stable surface, a bridge from platform to boat, from plastic to boat deck, from an island to a vessel, a bridge that a dog could trust, because it was held, because it was steady, because it was laid by hands that understood that a bridge in floodwater must be held, must be steadied, must be a surface that does not move with water, even though water moves around it, even though a boat moves beneath it, even though a platform stands still above water that moves, a bridge that, for the duration of a dog’s crossing, would be as steady as land, even though it was floating, even though it was held by hands, even though floodwater moved around it, beneath it, beside it, in every direction, except, for a few minutes, across it, where a dog would walk.

The Collie watched the bridge come, watched the boat hold, watched the rescuers’ hands, and its body, which had been tense and braced, became a little less tense, a little more focused, as if the bridge itself were a job, as if crossing it were a task, as if a Border Collie, given a bridge and a voice, could do nothing else but cross, could do nothing else but work, could do nothing else but step, paw by paw, across a surface that had been laid for it, by people who understood that Border Collies work best when given a clear task, a clear bridge, a clear voice, a clear job, which is, in this case, to cross, to step, to move from platform to boat, from island to vessel, from floodwater to safety, from a park that had become a lake to a shore that was still dry, still solid, still home.

Between seven and twelve seconds, the dog stepped onto the bridge, but hesitated as the boat shifted with the water. That hesitation was the climax of the rescue, the moment when a nearly completed crossing became a place of new difficulty, not because the bridge had failed, but because the boat beneath it had moved, because floodwater, which had been held at bay, had asserted itself, had shifted a boat, had moved a bridge, had made a dog’s step feel less stable, less trustworthy, less like a bridge and more like a moving surface, a surface that shifts with water, that cannot be trusted the way land can be trusted, because land does not shift, land does not move with waves, land does not require a rescuer’s hands to hold it steady, while a bridge in floodwater does, requires hands, requires lines, requires a team that understands that a bridge in floodwater is not a bridge on land, is a bridge that must be held, must be steadied, must be a surface that, for a dog’s crossing, is as steady as land, even though it is not land, even though it floats, even though water moves around it. The Collie, committed to the bridge, pausing as the boat shifted, its body low, its paws braced, its eyes on the bridge, on the boat, on the rescuers, trying to decide whether the bridge was still a bridge when the boat beneath it moved, whether a moving bridge could be trusted, whether a Border Collie should step onto a surface that shifts, or should wait, should stay on a platform that, while it is an island in floodwater, is at least stable, at least solid, at least a place that does not move, even if it goes nowhere, even if it is surrounded by water, even if it is not home, not shore, not safety, but at least stable, at least a platform, at least a place to stand while deciding whether a moving bridge is better than a stable island.

The rescuer holding the bridge kept his voice calm and bright, talking the Collie through the shift, the way people talk to Border Collies when they want them to keep working, when they want them to trust a bridge that moves, when they want them to believe that a shift is small, that hands are holding, that the bridge is still a bridge, that the boat’s movement is small, that the dog’s step will be safe, that the bridge will hold, that he will hold it, until the dog is across, until the dog is on the boat, until the dog is safe, until the bridge is behind them, not beneath them, until the platform is behind them, not around them, until floodwater is behind them, not beneath them. “Easy, boy… I’ve got the bridge. Keep coming, you’re doing great.” A dog rushed at that moment, pushed forward by rescuers who wanted the rescue to be over, will bolt back to the platform, will retreat to its island, will lose the trust it had just begun to give to a bridge, to a boat, to a voice, and a retreated Collie on a platform in floodwater is a Collie that must be rescued a second time, from a place that is now more frightening than it was before, because it has learned that bridges move, that boats shift, that people rush, that crossing is not safe, that waiting on a platform is safer than stepping onto a moving bridge, even if waiting means staying in floodwater, even if waiting means staying on an island, even if waiting means staying far from shore, far from home, far from dry ground. A Collie given a steady bridge, given time, given a voice that does not rush, will walk, and the team gave it a steady bridge, gave it time, gave it a voice that held the bridge’s movement in its tone, that said, the bridge moves, but I am holding it, the boat moves, but I am holding the bridge, you can step, and I will hold, until you are across, until you are on the boat, until you are safe, until the bridge is behind you, not beneath you, until floodwater is behind you, not around you.

The Collie, after a moment of considering the shifting boat, the steady hands, the rescuer’s voice, the bridge’s surface, walked on, step by step, paw by paw, across the bridge it had just learned to trust as a moving surface that could still be trusted, because hands held it, because a voice guided it, because a job, once given to a Border Collie, is a job that a Border Collie will finish, will complete, will do, even when the bridge moves, even when the boat shifts, even when floodwater moves around it, because work, for a Border Collie, is not just movement, is not just crossing, is a commitment, is a task that, once started, must be finished, must be completed, must be done, until the dog is on the boat, until the dog is safe, until the job is done, until praise comes, until hands pat, until dry ground is reached, until home is reached, even if home, in this case, is simply a boat deck, a dry surface, a place that is not a platform in floodwater, a place that moves toward shore, toward safety, toward a world that is not a flooded park.

In the final seconds, the dog stepped down onto the boat, supported by a teammate who held him, who steadied him, who kept him safe through the last step, the step from bridge to boat deck, a step that, while small, was the most important step of the whole rescue, because it was the step from a platform to a vessel, from an island to a boat, from floodwater to safety, from waiting to traveling, from a park that had become a lake to a shore that was still dry, still solid, still home. The teammate who caught him held him close, his voice now warm with relief, spoken to the dog and to the boat as much as to anyone, because the dog that had stood on a platform in floodwater was now on a boat, safe, on its way to shore, on its way to dry ground, on its way to a future that was not a flooded playground, because the rescue that had almost failed at a shifting boat had succeeded, because patience had won over haste, because a calm, bright voice had won over a rush, because a bridge, however much it moved, however much a boat shifted beneath it, can be held, can be steadied, can be crossed, if hands hold it, if a voice guides it, if a Border Collie believes that crossing is its job, and does its job, paw by paw, step by step, until it is on a boat, until it is safe, until it is home. “Good boy… you’re on the boat now. We’ve got you, boy.”

He would be dried, checked for cold-water effects and for any injury from the platform, for exhaustion from standing on a platform in floodwater, for the stress of a park that had become a lake, kept warm and close, on the boat, on the way to shore, until that check was complete, until his breathing was steady, until he was ready to stand on dry ground, to walk, to run, to be a Border Collie again, in a park that was dry, not flooded, in a world where platforms are for playing, not for waiting out floods, where slides are for sliding, not for standing on as islands, where water is for swimming for fun, not for covering parks, not for trapping dogs on platforms, not for turning playgrounds into lakes. The playground, its water to be drained, its equipment to be cleaned, its platforms to be inspected, stayed in its Louisiana park, a playground with a story in it, a reminder that parks, even parks as ordinary as a Louisiana playground, are places where dogs can become trapped when floods cover them, and that trapped dogs need people with boats, bridges, steady hands, and voices that sound like jobs to bring them back to dry ground. The Border Collie that had stood on its slide platform was on a boat, safe, because a team in red life vests, with a secured boat, a transfer bridge, a support line, and a voice that held a shifting bridge steady in its tone, that told a working dog that crossing was its job, had given it back dry ground, and dry ground, for a dog that has been on a platform in floodwater, is everything, is a boat, is a shore, is a park that is dry, is home.