If kayaking has gone to the dogs, then I’m happy to have paddled with Bart. I now call him Blueway Bart.

Bart belongs to Deborah Williams, a New York-based writer, editor, photographer and author. She spends a good deal of time documenting her Labrador’s personality on her Web site, www.deborahwilliams.com. Check it out.

When I heard Deborah was here at the Beaches of Fort Myers & Sanibel for a few weeks, I also heard that she was looking for adventures to explore with Bart, who happens to be an obsidian-hued 90-pound bundle of love.

It was to be his first time on a kayak. He’d already experienced Lee County Parks & Recreation’s Dog Beach, www.leeparks.org. And he’s done a few nature tours aboard motorized boats. Plus Deborah is a sailor on the Great Lakes, so he’s got sea legs from that.

To prep for the trip, I lined up a tandem kayak with a 600-pound weight limit and a stable feel. Stefan Kuenzel of Kayak Excursions, www.kayak-excursions.com, recommended it. I figured Bart would sit in the front and Deborah could control the boat from the stern.

Bart figured differently.

He’s a lap dog at heart.

We launched from Matlacha Park, which has a policy of dogs only being allowed in the park for on-loading and off-loading at boats at the kayak launch site and the boat ramp site. So Bart stayed in his kennel and on his leash until launch time. Then we were off. But Bart’s tail curled up between his legs, and he faced the stern, longingly looking at Deborah.

Maybe he’d prefer a college crew team so he could go backward in the paddlecraft?

Nope. He made it clear the backward part didn’t matter. What mattered, he seemed to say as he muscled up and over the seatback and into Deborah’s lap, was that his human was too far away in that dang kayak.

This dog wasn’t whimpering or whining. He was moving to the stern.

Once there, the trip smoothed out.

We paddled south around the fishing pier and west toward the mangrove shore of Little Pine Island and Calusa Blueway marker No. 81. Bart appeared to like open water. Deborah did, too, except her lab’s weight on her leg was putting her foot to sleep. But who needs legs and feet when you’re kayaking, right?

“Hey Bart,” I said at this point, “want to go up a mangrove tunnel?”

He didn’t bark yes but he also didn’t decline the offer. So I led us into a tunnel just south of marker No. 81.

Not the best plan.

Bart noticed the mangroves closing in and thought it might be an opportunity to disembark. As he made his move, Deborah’s kayak got tangled in the trees.

Her voice commands slowed the 11-year-old lab down. He reluctantly sat. And she worked nudge forward and backward until her boat straightened out and she eased into the opening on the tunnel’s other side.

The silent lagoon-like water was peaceful.

Then a mullet jumped. Splash.

Bart stood up.

Then a leggy heron took flight from the low mangrove branch on which he’d silently stood.

Bart took a pointer-like position.

Then the heron let loose and white splay cascaded from the air onto the water’s surface not far from where the mullet was leaping and splashing. Splash. Splash. Splish.

This was about too much for ole Bart to take. I thought he was a jumper at this point.

Deborah took control. A few sharp commands later, and Bart had resumed his lap-dog position, furrowing his black eyebrows in defeat.

“Would you prefer to stay in open water,” I asked my journalist companion.

They say there’s no such thing as a dumb question, but that may have been one.

We skedaddled out of the tunnel and headed across Matlacha Pass.

Bart looked, well, blissfully relaxed.

That’s when I decided to start calling him Blueway Bart.