For the Love of Dog

"HELP! HELP! PLEASE. SOMEBODY. ANYBODY. HELP!!!"

After yelling, I once more tried to hoist my body out of the water. But my hands no longer felt like they were part of me. Suddenly, I didn't feel cold or frozen. And that, I would learn later, meant I was heading into stage two of hypothermia. I remember leaning my elbows on the ice for balance and looking at Looly pacing along the bank.

I wanted to believe there was an internal survival mechanism that would kick in, an uberhuman force that would enable me to rescue myself. But losing muscular function prevents those surreal endings. Humans are said to be able to survive in freezing water for up to 15 minutes, but by then the metabolism has slowed to a crawl and we are unable to perform the easiest of physical tasks. I was thinking all those things when I heard footsteps on the towpath.

A young man emerged from the darkness. He had dark hair and was wearing running clothes. I could tell by his labored breathing he had been on a long run. He began to walk down the bank.

"Hey, so what are you doing in the ice?" he said.

"Can you give me your hand?" I asked. I remember my tone being desperate, panicked.

At first he looked confused, like a student who had walked into the wrong classroom. But then he took another step, a few feet off the bank. Both his feet went through the ice, and he was in maybe up to his knees. He took another step, making sure he got his footing. I lunged toward him through the water, grabbing the ice as best as I could, and for the first time I felt the sensation of the bottom.

"I can stand, I can stand."

Of all the things in my life that have given me relief from physical pain or emotional grief -- massage, medication, the support of my sister and friends -- nothing equaled the exhilarating feeling of touching the bottom of the C&O Canal that night. I later learned that the canal was built with a deep center channel, and that the drop-off was sharp and steep less than 10 feet from shore.

In saying "I can stand," what I really meant was: "I'm going to live."

I began to move forward as the young runner broke the surface by pushing his feet through the ice. I thought he was knee-deep in the water, but he was actually up to his chest when I began to take large steps and break the ice immediately in front of me. Suddenly, there was a narrow pathway carved through the ice, leading to shore. I reached for him and, together, we made it up the bank and out.

I sat on the ground shivering, soaked and frozen, my knees nearly pulled toward my chest, my heart pumping wildly. As I was catching my breath, I recall saying: "Thanks. Thanks a lot. You really helped me out."

"What were you doing in there?" he asked. He still seemed a little uncertain about what had just transpired.

"My . . . my dog. She fell in. I had to go get her out."

"You want me to call 911 for you?" he asked.

"I'm just frozen. I just need to thaw out. I'll be all right. Can you check on me on your way back?"

He said he was going toward Georgetown, meaning I would not see him again. I knew there was a bathroom at Fletcher's Cove, where daytime visitors can rent boats and kayaks on the adjacent Potomac River. If it was open, I told him, I would warm up in there. If I felt dizzy or in trouble, I could cross the wooden bridge there and walk up to Canal Road and flag down a car for help.

"You sure?" he asked.

"Yeah, yeah."

His body was soaked and cold, and he wanted to stay warm by continuing his run. As he sped off, I yelled: "Hey, wait. What's your name?"

"Jason," he said. "Jason Coates."

"Where do you work?"

"I'm a law student at GW."

As he disappeared back into the darkness, Looly approached me and licked my forehead. She had dried off as best as she could, but the water on her chest had crystallized into frozen droplets.

"Good girl, good girl," I said, running my fingers through her wet fur. As she sat down beside me, I curled up in a fetal position for maybe three minutes and sobbed.

SHAKEN, UNSURE OF MY GAIT, I STAGGERED LIKE A WOOZY BOXER TOWARD FLETCHER'S COVE and don't remember seeing anyone. My hands were still frozen stiff but my legs began to warm.

When Looly and I got there, the bathroom was open and had a blower for drying your hands. For maybe the next 30 minutes, I directed the dryer to my hands, arms and chest. I discarded the thick, cotton sweatshirt and hung it over a bathroom stall. I wrung as much water as I could out of my running shirt. I looked at myself in the mirror. My torso was bright pink. My face was ghost white and my pupils were enlarged. My heart still pounded violently.

I learned later that cold-water immersion is best when first thawing frozen hands and fingers. The blower felt like sewing needles stabbing into my fingertips. But within 20 minutes, I had close-to-normal feeling again.

I walked to Canal Road twice, halfheartedly trying to flag a car down and get a ride back to Georgetown. But drivers were zooming by at close to 50 mph, and I didn't want the dog getting near the road.

Shivering in 35-degree weather, I walked back down to the bathroom and used the dryer for another five minutes. Still flush with adrenaline, I ran as hard as I possibly could the next two-plus miles to the car. Looly never ventured near the canal the entire way and stayed within six inches of my back heel.

When I got to the meter it had expired, but there was no ticket.

I WANT TO REMEMBER THE FEELING OF GETTING HOME AND RUNNING A HOT BATH THAT NIGHT -- and then of cradling a reluctant Looly and carefully depositing her in the same bath water after I got out -- of massaging her paws, her ears and kissing her forehead, of drying her off and then having to wage a tug of war for her shredded bath towel.

I want to remember calling Valeska in California and hearing her voice.

I want to remember exchanging messages with Wilbon that night. He was having heart surgery the next day, and I told him he was in my prayers, but I didn't reveal my own close call.

I want to remember waking the next morning, a morning I almost never saw, and Looly, having jumped up on the bed, fully stretching out her frame, nudging closer and closer, until our noses were six inches apart.

I want to remember everything about that run back to the car, our hearts pulsating together in a single, metronomic beat. We were still a little frozen and still a little terrified even though we were on solid ground, back on our path. We were racing home and into all the days still ahead of us.

Mike Wise is a sports columnist for The Post. He can be reached at wisem@washpost.com.