Did the river make the dog mad?

I was four or five. Most probably five because I am not sure one remembers being four. Or maybe I was six. Either way, I remember it was a perfect Johannesburg summer day. Vast, pristine blue sky; sun shining violently but not hurting, just the perfect warm temperature. We were lazing about, my parents, their friends Auntie Deb and Uncle Walter, my brother and me. Lazing on rough towels specially made to be used like blankets on the thick grass. I was staring toward the bottom of the long, green lawn stretched out between the house and the river. The river was dangerous, and we were not permitted…