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 nearly 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.
What could possibly go wrong?
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.
The arrival of the Kayaker was immediately registered collectively as a mortal threat by the village children who shouted and screamed “Whiteface!!!” and then darted out of view like sparrows into the air of the hot summer afternoon, leaving the village neighborhood eerily quiet.
Puzzled by the 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 acute thirst and without much more thought he approached the nearest house in the village.
It was a dingy, mustard-brown single-story home with white trim stained brackish green from mildew that 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. Record heat. Wildfires that roared unchecked in the rainforest. 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 a soggy cardboard 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 mutt on the end of the chain had a thick head laced with unsavory scars, infected wounds and cracked teeth that offered compelling testimony to its uniquely violent existence.
Falling backward off the porch allowed the misinformed intruder an opportunity to scramble 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 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 that exposed the kayaker for who he really was: a tender morsel waiting to be devoured by the realities of the the West Coast of “The Island”
The front door to the house exploded open. Out stumbled an angry man in his late 40’s wearing an unbuttoned 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 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 immediate end to the chaos.
Laughing off the absurd antics of his own engineering, the homeowner slurred
“That’s Boomer. 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 moment he now 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 help.”
Then he shrugged and said with indifferent detachment common to islanders,
“Boomer 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 Nootka lore.)
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 severed deer head.
The amused homeowner cackled with delight before offering the next dimension of his perfectly executed insult as he shoved the shredded water bag towards the kayaker 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!!!”
Pausing to contemplate 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 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 drooping cedar tree boughs. A porch screen door was propped open with a colorful 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 smoke into the still evening air of the porch.
The unplanned arrival of the kayaker wearing ocean-paddling clothes and a ripped 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 can be 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 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 the old man’s cat who purred and rubbed 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 personal history.
The kayaker noticed that as the portraits progressed, members of the family, old and young alike seemed to just disappear, leaving the frames that once contained their happy images emptier and sadder. Of particular note were portraits revealing the younger man’s status as a treasured family member.
An old clock on the wall chimed to announce the changing of the hour. The clock also reminded the Kayaker to not tarry and so violate the precious gift of trust and respect offered to a total stranger who had emerged from the woods seeking water only minutes ago.
Returning to the men on the porch with his full water bag the kayaker was startled to see the dog, Boomer sitting quietly by the old man who tended his wounds.
Noticing the kayaker, Boomer stiffened and let out a low rumbling growl, the old man spoke tenderly to the wounded dog as he cleaned and sutured the day’s wounds.
Sensing the appropriate timing, the young man opened the screen door and deadpanned “Stay safe out there buddy, off you go.”