The Dog and the Brick
“The Dog and the Brick” is a short story exploring misery, cruelty, and the unexpected kindness that misadventure can inspire. This story is based on an encounter experienced by ocean athlete Nicholas Cryder on his 2015 attempt to break the solo circumnavigation record of Vancouver Island, a 1400 KM journey through what is considered “the Himalaya of the Pacific Ocean.” No roads. No cell phone coverage and in the historic drought year of 2015. No water.
The Dog and the Brick:
He emerged from the treeline surrounding the coastal village of Marktosis cut into the wilderness of Vancouver Island's West Coast like a time traveller from another realm.
Or, in the eyes of the village children of Marktosis, a goblin cleverly disguised as an expedition kayaker sent to steal their land and poison their way of life.
The historic drought year of 2015 that pummeled the Island’s primordial rainforests and left creekbeds bone dry and the air choking with wildfire smoke also left the kayaker desperate for freshwater after his expedition had gone off the rails.
The arrival of the Kayaker was immediately registered collectively as a mortal threat by the village children who shouted and screamed “Whiteface!!!” and they darted out of view like sparrows into the air of the hot summer afternoon, leaving the village eerily quiet.
Puzzled by the comically phobic reaction to his arrival, he contemplated the painful history his mission for water had veered into.
The sticky texture of his tongue refocused his mind to address his own acute thirst and without much more thought he approached the nearest house in the village.
It was a dingy mustard-brown single-story home. Its white trim stained brackish green from the mildew testified to the unforgiving nature of a coastal setting famous for its brutal winters devoid of sunlight and endless months of rain.
But not this year. This year the script had been flipped by record heat, wildfires that roared unchecked in the rainforest and choking smoke that left the islanders wondering what new misery might be stalking them from the future, or perhaps even worse; from a past that refused to let them go.
Letting himself in through the rusty chainlink gate involved shoving an enormous, soggy box of unopened mail out of the way, which was made more difficult by the overgrown grass that stood almost two feet tall. He approached the front door not knowing what to expect; holding a pair of empty water bags as a kind of self-explanatory apology and a peace offering.
A split-second after knocking, His regret registered with the sound of a heavy steel chain racing out from under the front porch towards him. The chain roared like an anchor being dropped from the bow of a ship.
Unlike a ship's anchor, the Pitbull on the end of the chain had a thick head laced with unsavory scars, infected wounds and cracked teeth that offered visceral testimony to its uniquely violent existence.
Falling backward off the porch allowed the misinformed intruder an opportunity to scramble defensively backwards away from the beast snapping only millimeters away from the soft tissue prize of his face. A fitting penalty for trespass.
With no other defensive mechanism available to him, he flung one of the plastic water bags he carried into the mouth of the dog, who happily snatched it and began to thrash it wildly as if to further demonstrate credibility as a mortal threat to life and limb. The water bag seemed to briefly serve as a toy and distracted the dog long enough to buy the trespasser a critical moment to slither further away on his backside.
Seeking to regain control of the situation, he feebly commanded the dog to “Stay!”
The command backfired in spectacular fashion and only served to remind the dog of his priorities. Turning to finish what he started, the dog bit through the Kayaker’s rubber hiking shoe and drew blood.
The front door to the house exploded open. Out stumbled an angry man in his late 40’s wearing an unbuttoned dark gray flannel shirt, his own skin laced with the scars of a painful life.
Seeing the mischief at hand, the homeowner growled in wrath while grabbing a large cinder brick from the front porch. The savage blow that followed came down from the heavens like a lightening bolt upon the miserable creature's head and delivered the betrayed dog into a violent seizure followed by an abrupt loss of consciousness and an abrupt end to the chaos.
Laughing off the absurd antics of his own engineering, the homeowner slurred
“That’s my dog. He doesn't like outsiders.. But he sure likes to argue.”
The homeowner surveyed and then contemplated the bizarre nature of the situation for a long thoughtful moment as he pieced together the events leading up to the surreal moment he found himself navigating. Noticing the shredded water bag, the homeowner’s demeanor shifted from entertained to informed and finally, insulted. At last he remarked coldly;
“Ohhhhhhh… I get it now. You need our help.”
Then he shrugged indifferently and said flatly,
“My dog is right. You don’t fucking belong here.”
At last a very dark thought seemed to spring to life in his mind in a way that amused him; evidenced by a thin smile that slowly grew across his weathered face as his pupils dilated and his countenance darkened noticeably.
Abruptly changing gears, the homeowner offered an upbeat
“Ok Matlose! No problem! Come with me...” (Matlose is a famous hobgoblin of the Nootkas)
He then motioned for the kayaker to follow him as he marched around his house through the brush to a plastic toddler pool filled with a rancid, brown water.
The kayaker’s hopes for hydration shifted to revulsion and despair when he saw within the brackish water a rotting, severed deer head.
The perfectly executed insult amused the homeowner to cackle with delight before offering the next dimension of insult as he shoved the shredded water bag towards him and growled,
You can fill one of your water bags.”
Hearing the dog bark in the front yard was enough to signal that the moment of retreat had come at last for the kayaker. The homeowner watched his multi-generational nemesis turn tail and run for his life. Shouting one final defiant warning to cap the spectacle of revenge:
“Next time there won't be a chain!”
Collecting himself after his narrow escape, the kayaker made a mental note to be more discerning in who he might solicit water from. Looking around he noticed a tidy two-story house at the far end of the village.
Mastering his fear by way of courage, the kayaker observed that this house had a doorbell. Just before pushing it, he thought out loud to himself;
“Doorbell? Must be a good sign.”
No response. He pushed it again before daring to knock on the door. Still no response. His heart sank and as he walked away slowly, he heard a man shout from the back of the house
“OUT BACK!!!”
Contemplating what he had just heard, the dread of another violent confrontation spilled the banks of his weary mind, and the kayaker debated the merits of simply slinking away into the woods.
The decision and his fate were sealed when the man’s bold voice again filled the still evening air, this time with authority.
“WE ARE OUT BACK! Come around Back!”
Obediently, he took a deep breath and followed tidy paver stones placed deliberately into a soft brown earthen path to the backside of the house, where a large screened porch was hemmed in by thick cedar tree boughs. A porch screen door was propped open with a brightly colored rock that looked like it had been painted by children.
On the porch sat two men. An old man with wrinkled skin and weathered features greeted him with a surprised look. He had deep-set, piercing eyes that shined like black marbles placed just beneath a broad forehead and bushy eyebrows peppered with black and gray. The other man was lanky, tall, and in his early 20’s. His spiked hair was trimmed high and tight like that of an enlisted man with a square jaw chiseled by a life of discipline, purpose and order. Both of them were sharing a pipe that billowed a perfumed smoke into the still evening air of the porch.
The unplanned arrival of the kayaker wearing ocean-paddling clothes and no shirt elicited a smirk from the young man and a calm, measured response from the old man in a teasing
“What can we help you with… Sir?”
Feeling compelled to offer context for his sudden arrival, the kayaker explained the nature of his circumnavigation attempt and acute need for water.
“That’s it? Water? No problem buddy. The kitchen is at the front of the house. Help yourself.”
Noticing the bleeding wound on the kayaker's foot, he remarked, “Looks like our town crocodile found you. That dog is a menace. And don’t mind his owner. He’s not a bad guy when he isn’t trying to drink the ocean dry. Let's get you fixed up.” After a quick dose of Neosporin and a bandage job, the old man politely opened the sliding glass door to his house, then he abruptly left the kayaker by himself and returned to the priority of smoking his pipe with the young man.
The kayaker walked into the house and was greeted by a profound sense of peace as the old man’s cat purred and rubbed eagerly up against his shin. A marine radio broadcasting the evening weather forecast hinted at the old man’s profession as a boat captain working the wild coastal waters of Vancouver Island's West coast. The pictures of his grandchildren framed and neatly hung on the wall added depth to his history. Of particular note was the a portrait revealing the younger man’s status as a family member.
The trust offered by the old man to allow a complete stranger to walk through his house in order to fetch water was particularly provocative for the kayaker. “wild… I would never let a stranger walk out of the woods and into my house by himself”. It also inspired urgency to not tarry so as not to violate the precious gift of trust and respect.
Returning to the men on the porch with his full water bag prompted more questions about the nature of the kayaker’s journey. The young man revealed that he was part of the Canadian Coast Guard. His questions were pointed and direct;
“You are circumnavigating the island… alone? What kind of kayak are you paddling? How did Cape Scott go for you? What about Brooks? And Heshquiat Peninsula? That place is creepy after what happened there. It still feels like death to me.” Followed by a long silence and unbroken eye contact that revealed an assertive point of view and willingness to challenge a stranger.
“You mean the smallpox outbreak in 1862? That was a while ago...”
“Not for the dead. That was this morning for them, and there was nothing small about it.”
The kayaker felt the vibe shift with the weight of grievance bearing down on the memory of his hosts, and then in typical Western fashion, he clumsily ended the conversation with a polite “thank you" and an awkward reference to needing “to get going.”
But when the Kayaker said “Goodbye,” the old man took umbrage at the particular word choice, repeating it back for clarity and poignance;
“Goodbye?!”
This question was followed by a long silence to fully register the insult.
“Nonsense! I do accept this word from you. Instead, we say čuuč... (Pronounced chooch. This Coast Salish word translates loosely as “until again”). Then, in a moment of sincere diplomacy, the young man offered a final remark: “Trouble isn’t hard to find out here, but if and when it does find you. We will be the first to help.”