(Excerpted from my unpublished book ‘K444 – Growing Up In The Shadow of a Rusty Boat‘)
The view from the maple tree outside my bedroom window was spectacular, stretching from Cape Mudge lighthouse to the northeast to the smoke rising over the pulp mill in Powell River in the distant south. And in between nothing but the dark blue swell of the Salish Sea punctuated by the single red-brown dot of Mittlenatch Island.
Broad like a brood mare the maple had been an easy climb since early childhood, with chimneys to crawl up like an intrepid mountaineer and wide flat branches to nestle on with a good book. There hidden amongst the verdant leaves was a great place to escape a sinkful of dishes or the ubiquitous Saturday morning trips to town for groceries.
As the youngest of six wild and crazy children I often felt just a little smothered by my elder siblings. Perhaps that, as much as the isolation where I grew up, bred in me a lifelong wanderlust to see what was over the next hill. Robert Louis Stevenson would often accompany me up into the lower branches of the maple; or Robert Service as I grew older, leaning back against the stout trunk, seabreeze in my face to imagine a wild blow on Cape Horn, high in the rigging of a four master or mushing across a frozen lake in the Yukon.
These were the bucolic times, long before the winds of change scattered us in four directions. The times we only read about in stories these days, when predators meant cougars in the forest and not dirty old men in Econoline vans; and it was quite acceptable for a six year old to head out alone at 6 am for a day of surf casting and beachcombing. A helicopter parent in those days usually meant Bob Langdon and his wife, he the proud owner of a Bell 47.
To historians 1969 is known as ‘The Summer of Love’. Woodstock, at Yasgurs Farm in upstate New York became the bellwether of a generation, the last summer of free love, basement LSD and music in the mud in the face of the carnage in Vietnam, tear gas on the streets of Chicago and the coming clouds of the 70’s. For me it was summer of my first love, perhaps not the testosterone fueled pre-teen panting over the little redhead down the beach you would expect, but an enduring love for small, furry four legged people.
David Balfour crept up cold stone steps of the tower, inching his way forward in the dark. This was a favourite part of the story for me, the heartstopping flash of lightning that saves him from a sure fall to his death and reveals his uncle’s treachery.
Below me a quiet “Woof!” shook me from my story, almost sliding off the tree limb as my heart jumped into my mouth!
“Woof!” came again, and I peered through the leaves at a small dog sitting on its’ haunches at the foot of the maple looking up at me with head cocked to one side.
The dog was no pure breed, a mix of tufty russet hair on his head and back and soft downy white underbelly. He had no collar and I could tell from the matting on his fur that he had been living rough for some time. But in his eye was a mischievous twinkle, a spark of memory of a dog that had probably been much loved at some point, probably by a child.
“Hello Boy!” I called down, placing the book gently into a crook in the tree and sliding down to the ground.
The small dog lifted off its haunches just enough to wag his tail, a slow, timid sweep back and forth. On closer inspection the dog reminded me of the K444, that rust red colour of a ship sitting in salt air for many years. A small white forelock drooped over one eye that he shook his head to move before returning to eye me closely. Then one paw lifted up off the ground, as though to formally shake my hand. I was smitten.
Rusty, as I named him, and I were constant companions from that point, beachcombing every morning, tossing sticks far out into the surf for him to swim out after, or lying on the grass together just staring up at the clouds drifting over the straits. For an 11 year old boy living on the edge of forest he was the perfect companion, confidante and friend. I am not sure what he got up to while I was at school, but every day at exactly 3pm he would appear from nowhere to sit at the trailhead at the corner of our property until I jumped down off the bus. On those days that I stayed after school for sports or band practice Rusty would take a lot of coaxing to leave his guard position at the trailhead, patrolling the property until I arrived home.
I think, of all the dogs I have known, and there have been quite a few, Rusty was perhaps the 2nd smartest dog I have had the acquaintance of, short only of the pure ability to devise new ways to get into trouble that Miss Frieda, our current Walker – Aussie Shepherd cross (more on her later) has.
But Rusty was more than just a smart dog, he was one of the most perceptive animals I have known, even more so than many humans I have come across!
To whit, my Father was dead against ANY animal in the house – PERIOD!
Even the venerable Samantha the Cat, who had been a family member since I was barely out of diapers lived under the back porch during inclement weather or sunned with her kittens on the railing that ran the length of our front veranda. My Father gave no reason for this, simply NO PETS IN THE HOUSE!
Perhaps having six of us underfoot at any time was enough noise and bedlam for him! Or perhaps it was the thought of a dog tearing up his beloved Vancouver Sun before he had had the chance to read it cover to cover in the evening. If it was because of some bad experience as a child he never offered an explanation, just a directive!
Saturday nights were Hockey Night In Canada night at our house on the beach. Dinner and dishes done we would gather in the living room in front of our trusty black and white RCA 26 inch TV. These were pre-Canucks days so our options were either Toronto Maple Leafs or Montreal Canadiens broadcasts. And with only one TV channel it was a tossup which game we would see.
My Father was a Canadiens fan, steeped in the traditions of The Rocket, Belliveau and The Roadrunner. His usual contrarian self, my oldest brother became a diehard Maple Leafs fan, while the rest of us fell somewhere in the middle, with a slight lean towards the Canadiens. Heaven help us if the Saturday night game was Toronto vs. Montreal!
My Father, as always, commanded the big green chair next to the front door, while the rest of us squished onto the long, rock hard couch under the bookshelves. My Mother tended to float in and out, usually sitting at the kitchen table smoking and reading, or making up the weekly duty roster for us. My oldest brother would sit at the farthest end of the couch making snippy remarks about the Canadiens until disappearing out the front door to my grandmother’s house next door.
During the game I could slip out of the living room to the back porch with Rusty, idly sitting on the steps and watching out over the straits at the cruise ships heading from Vancouver to Alaska. With the hockey banter inside and the silence of the straits in front of me, not to mention a warm and happy dog next to me, it was a favourite way to spend a Saturday evening.
As luck would have it, one Saturday evening I slipped in off the porch to refill Rusty’s water dish at the kitchen sink. As I filled the dish I just caught a flash of red on my left as Rusty slipped around the end of our kitchen counter and lay down in the dining room doorway to watch the game.
Now you need to know that from anywhere in the living room you can see the dining room doorway. Anywhere that is except from the big green chair by the front door! While six of us stared and held our breath my Father blissfully watched Cournoyer, in full flight, wristing a roofer over a prone Johnny Bauer!
To make matters worse, Rusty was slowly slinking on his belly towards the TV, right under the right arm of the big green chair, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Finally contented with his view of the TV Rusty settled himself directly under the arm of the green chair, no more than 12 inches from my Fathers hand.
I followed Rusty into the living room and plopped down on the couch between Dode and Pam, trying to look nonchalantly at the game while keeping a watch on Rusty in case we needed to make a fast dash from my Father’s wrath. But Rusty seemed quite content to lie there with his chin on the floor watching the game. And my Father continued, apparently unaware of the little red dog right under his nose!
Long about the middle of the third period Dode elbowed me softly in the ribs, “Psst… Look!” she whispered in my ear, nodding towards my Father.
There sat my Father in his chair, intently watching a close match. Intent except for his right hand, which dangled over the side of the big green chair softly petting Rusty on the head.
I grinned at Dode, and from under the arm of the big green chair Rusty gave me a little smile.
After the game I took Rusty outside for a pee and pet before bed. Sitting on the back porch I could see my Father on the veranda, quietly looking out over the straits as he smoked a cigarette, deep in thought. As though his work for the day was done Rusty settled on the door mat, curled into a tight little ball and fell asleep. I took this as my cue to head in and get ready for bed.
As I headed through the kitchen for the back stairs my Father called me from the living room. ‘Ut oh’ I thought, ‘I am in for it now.’.
Sitting in the big green chair with his newspaper spread out on the ottoman in front of him my Father turned his head and gave me a long look over the top of his glasses. I took a deep breath and waited for an explosion.
“It’s getting colder out now, with Winter coming. I think Rusty should sleep in your room at night.” he said, matter of factly. “But ONLY in YOUR room.” he added pointedly, turning back to the sports page.
To say I glided out through the kitchen on wings would be an understatement!
On the back porch Rusty looked up from his mat as I came through the door. “Cmon Rusty – Bedtime!” I half croaked, caught up in the moment.
Holding the door open for him, he followed me softly through the kitchen and up the back stairs to my room, stopping to nod his head in greeting to my Father reading in the living room.
From that point on Rusty slept every night on a mat in front of my bed, careful not to be stepped on when I jumped out of bed and always ready for an adventure at 6am. Never once do I remember him barking in the house and every Saturday night he would slip into the house with me and lie down beside the big green chair to watch Hockey Night In Canada.
The winter that year was hard, an almost endless parade of southeasters and gales – dumps of heavy west coast snow followed by pounding rain and flooded sections of the Island Highway between our house and town. The old maple in the front yard took the brunt of the southeasters, each storm followed by hauling broken limbs and leaves off the lawn to the burn pile on the beach.
In the spring my Father spent an entire Sunday afternoon inspecting the maple, testing the ground around the tree for exposed roots or movement that meant the base was infirm, poking his head into the hollow chimney that separated the two main trunks where they split six feet off the ground, even climbing into the lower branches to test them.
Over dinner that evening he declared the tree unsafe for us to play in anymore, and with that my favourite reading spot was gone! By this time I was the only one still reading in the tree so my siblings simply nodded and went back to their soup.
Reading at the picnic table was no substitute for the leafy perch in the old maple and after a few weeks it was time to find an alternative. Outside my bedroom, beside the maple, was a tall gnarled fir tree, slightly bent at the base, with a fine, thick limb a dozen feet off the ground, overhanging what was once our well. Being the ever resourceful 12 year old that I was, an idea came upon me to create a platform on that limb, up amongst the fir cones and bristles, well out of sight but with a fine view of the straits.
Quietly I collected the necessary materials, heavy rope and planks from beachcombing, spikes pulled from boards on the beach or acquired from the big can over my Father’s workbench.
Saturday dawned warm and sunny, with nary a breeze. As per usual Mother bundled my older siblings into the car and off they went shopping, leaving myself and Rusty the run of the place. Quickly I had the ladder in place on the backside of the tree away from prying eyes. Rusty sat at the foot of the tree quietly watching as I slung the heavy rope over an upper limb and began to haul the planks up into the darkness of the fir tree.
The platform was almost done when turning around I kicked the hammer off the side. “Fuck!” I swore under my breath as I turned about and scooted across the planks towards the ladder.
From somewhere below me in the darkness of the tree I heard a muffled “Woof!” followed by a small red head popping over the top of the ladder with my hammer in his mouth. I had to stop still, how the heck had Rusty made it up the ladder to the platform I wondered?
Rusty just smiled as I took the hammer from him and helped him up on the platform. Checking the perimeter he settled near the trunk, well out of the way, and watched me finish my work.
The platform was well constructed, if I say so myself, of 2 x 6 planks with even an old plywood backboard nailed to the trunk to keep sap off my clothes. It wasn’t as well concealed as I would have liked but would serve the purpose, especially once I had a rope ladder attached to the overhead limb! Below a large pile of sawdust and several short pieces of plank were a dead giveaway but they would be long gone before the paper bag battalion returned from Overwaitea!
By the looks of things the platform passed Rusty inspection as he curled up and fell fast asleep.
Sadly the platform was a secret for a very short time, soon small sketches of horses appearing to tell me Dode also planned to share it. That was cool, unless my Father decided it was unsafe, followed by the unenjoyable task of dissembling and packing away all the lumber to the burn pile. Neither Dode or I mentioned it to anyone and for several months it was our private place, with unwritten rule that we were not going to share it at the same time.
As for how Rusty made it up the ladder I have no idea to this day other than he must have climbed it. Never again would he climb up to the platform, content to curl up at the base of the fir tree and snooze. Perhaps it was that he knew I needed the hammer, maybe it was to check out that it was safe for me to be on, perhaps it was, as I like to think, he just liked my company.
With the last of the stormy Winter weather, Spring came quickly to the Island, crocuses and gladioli popping up in my Mother’s garden and my Father whistling away in the backyard as he laid out yet another, bigger, greenhouse for the coming season. Spring is also prime season for beachcombing, the Winter gales depositing all sorts of treasures high above the usual tideline.
Rusty and I spent hours traipsing up and down the beach, from Petersons in the north to Bennett’s Point in the south. These were grand times, finding fishing lures trapped in masses of kelp pulled from the undersea forest, round glass Japanese fishing floats, sections of fishing net, even the odd Kisbee ring ripped from the side of a passing tug.
Some of the finds defied description, a single tennis shoe (years later single tennis shoes would begin to show up on the shore with regularity – with the foot still inside!), panties and bras galore, once a half full bottle of Jack Daniels I dumped out after a quick smell. My older brother found a cash box stuffed with 10 dollar bills half covered in sand under a stump. This turned out not to be from a storm but a recent robbery in Courtenay, causing my brother no end of grief as he spent hours explaining to the RCMP where and how he found it.
And the logs! Scores of tall red and yellow cedars lined the shore, breakaways from a Davis raft enroute to Vancouver or ripped from the shoreline by a gale. If there was one game all six of us enjoyed it was ‘running the logs’, barefoot scampering along the logs from one end of the beach to another, being careful never to touch the sand below or, worse, slip and fall on your arse. The logs were always wet of course, with a thin layer of slime where the bark had been peeled by the shale. It was even grander to run the logs during a storm, the pounding surf soaking you as you ran, with certain drowning if you slipped and were sucked out to sea by the undertow. Thinking back I am surprised we all survived to adulthood, but for a time it was not unusual to see 8 or a dozen kids madly laughing and running the logs with 10 foot surf pounding all around!
Rusty would sit and watch, barking if one of us got too close to becoming a statistic, but generally content to watch us silly humans at play. Occasionally he would join in, running behind me at a safe distance, as long as the winds were calm and no surf spray splashed in his eyes. Then with a mighty shake, as though he had been drenched by invisible surf, he would lie down in the sedge grass by the trail and wait for me to return.
And so it went, beachcombing in the Spring or running the logs, reading in my perch with Rusty snoozing below or simply hanging out at the picnic table or up in my bedroom. Rusty seemed contented and his coat began to lose its road-weary appearance. On the surface all seemed fine but in retrospect the turn of the decade began a seismic shift in my life, one unexpected, that changed me forever.
For some time we had had a few issues in our neighbourhood, missing vegetables from Old Lady Davidson’s garden, tools that seemed to disappear off folks back porches, even the Sunday we returned from our usual family drive to find that our plum tree had been stripped bare – over 200 pounds of almost ready to pick plums gone in a mere couple of hours!
Now you need to understand that Oyster Bay was a settlement where everyone knew everyone – had done so for at least a generation! If you needed a hand with something you simply picked up the partyline phone and someone would be there with the right tools! Heck even Jack Torrance, gruff bugger that he was, would spend hours on the beach each Spring with his chainsaw bucking up cedar logs into lengths we could use to build our ubiquitous rafts and then ‘peeveeing’ them down to the shoreline so we could float them away! It was a community caught between the deep rainforest and the cold Salish Sea, held in place by caring for each other. I have lived in many communities in my life, from the Sahara Desert to northern Canada, each one unique, each one special, each one caring, but none that breathed ‘Home’ in my ear like Oyster Bay every time I crossed the Oyster River bridge heading north!
So for these events to be happening in Oyster Bay was unique and disconcerting. Neighbours began to suspect neigbours, or were we victims of the cars travelling up the Island Highway through our community? Crime in the community, save the odd time my middle brother decided to blow up Old Lady Davidson’s mailbox on Hallowe’en (she deserved it!), was non-existent. But we knew the outside world was filled with bad people and everyone wondered whether they were starting to encroach on our little community.
If I hadn’t been 12, hadn’t been more concerned with playing baseball for the Jets, I would have noticed the wind was changing and that soon Oyster Bay and all it stood for would be forever in my rearview mirror.
1970 had its’ good points as well. One of the finest people I have ever known came to live in the community to take care of her grandmother. Eventually her entire family came to live at the cottage by the corner, but for a year Judy blessed us with her wit, wisdom and amazingly positive attitude after a hard and sometimes sad life. Slightly older than Dode they became fast friends and I circled at the edge of her friendship, cherishing the times we could spend alone in thoughts and laughter. But I should have known that even Judy would get caught up in the winds, blowing into our lives like a fresh breeze, then sailing away again on a damp and slippery backroad.
Up the road lived a retired couple, the Lowe’s, owners of a large but very gentle Dalmatian named Pepper (naturally). Given to snooting about the neighbourhood with his nose to the ground, Pepper was ever-friendly, avoiding the trailhead and generally staying away from Rusty, though I did see them playing on the shale together from time to time.
I don’t remember the Lowes having any children, being well past retirement, and to them Pepper was their baby, pride and joy. And the dog returned their affection, lying quietly out of the way while Mrs. Lowe tended her flower garden or walking protectively beside the couple during their evening walks. Pepper was a good dog by any measure.
The Lowes generally kept to themselves so it was surprising to find Mrs. Lowe at our front door first thing one May Saturday morning, tears in her eyes. Had we seen Pepper? He hadn’t come home last night and Mrs. Lowe was beside herself with worry.
JL and I set out immediately, corralling Clay on the way by, to search along the beach from Petersons to the K444. But not a sign of Pepper. It was like as though he had vanished from the face of the earth. Stolen perhaps? Or washed out to sea? Neither seemed to fit the oversized but gentle dog.
Within days more dogs began to disappear, a couple of poodles, even my oldest brother’s dog Buttons (who I swear to this day was a sibling of Rusty’s – the resemblance was uncanny as was her arrival in Oyster Bay). We decided to keep Rusty in as much as possible, thinking maybe we had a lone cougar on the loose, or even a hungry black bear come down from Forbidden Plateau.
A few days later Rusty and I got up as usual, about 6am, and I let him out to pee while I scrounged us breakfast in the kichen. A few minutes I arrived on the back porch with PBJ and Kibble in hand, but no Rusty. I called. And called again. I walked the property and down the beach – nothing.
As he came so he left, off to a new adventure I hoped, or returning to the family that he had lost the year before. I will never know, only that a huge hole opened in my heart, the first of several gashes in my life in the months to come.
Several months later Pepper’s remains were found half buried in the sand in an area JL and I had searched. He had been poisoned. In the weeks and months following the other dogs, including Buttons, were found, all poisoned.
Rusty never came home.