The Red Dog in the Woodshed

There's a red dog in the woodshed, my little brother was telling me in my dream, Come and see.

I could hear the seagulls circling over the slatted drying tables where the men in their boots and heavy aprons were laying out strips of salt fish to dry in the sun.  I could hear the tide coming in and the steady chug of the ferry making its crossing.  I could even hear the tinny sound of my grandmother's little radio broadcasting the morning farm report from St. John and the comforting kitchen clatter of breakfast in the making, all warm and welcoming sounds of island life.  

Go 'way, I muttered to the boy in my dream and turned my face into the pillow, not wanting to leave the soft place between not quite awake and no longer fully asleep.

There's a red dog in the woodshed, he insisted, Come and see.

And then he pinched me.

I opened my eyes at this outrage and saw my little brother standing beside my bed, his buzz cut, cowlicky hair that seemed to grow only at angles and his blue eyes, so exactly like my daddy's, were alarmingly close.  He nudged me with one small hand.

How old are you?  I growled at him.

Six! he said proudly and held up four right fingers and two left ones.

You want to see seven?  I asked and swatted at him, Go 'way.

But there's a red dog, he repeated patiently, In the woodshed.  Come and see.

I sighed, yawned, sighed again and finally gave in.  

Allright, allright, I told him, Five more minutes.

You have to come now!  he insisted stubbornly and with one quick hit and run gesture, pulled the covers off and was gone in a flash.  Fully awake now and playing scenarios of how best to dispose of a body through my mind, I got up and pulled on a clean tee shirt, denim overalls and my sneakers and crept down the stairs, out the side porch door to bypass my grandmother, up the path and around to the back of the house.  Nothing out of the ordinary here - as always, the old Lincoln sat with its tailfins barely inside the garage, the swing set was silent and still - and my little brother was waiting by the woodshed door, impatient and jittery with excitement.   He had to stand on tiptoes to reach the crossbar latch but when he did, the door swung open easily.   Remembering that little brothers can be pranksters and not knowing exactly what to expect, I walked through the wet grass slowly and a little cautiously, determined not to scream if some wild-eyed, ax wielding teenager (it would be one of the Sullivan boys, I had no doubt) should come leaping out at me from the dim interior but I worried for nothing.  All that looked back at me was row upon row of precisely stacked firewood, sweet smelling and shadowy in the single shaft of light coming through the window. 

Well....that and the fully grown, clearly full blooded Irish Setter sitting expectantly among the wood chips and looking at me with a blend of curiosity and hope.

I'm keeping him, my little brother announced defiantly, I found him and I'm keeping him.  I'm calling him Rags.

The red dog barked softly and politely.  Calmly, I thought.  He was dusty and thin but when he stood and walked toward me, favoring a front paw slightly, he was regal.  He came to the very edge of the doorway and sat, head cocked and tail wagging.  My little brother hugged his neck ferociously and was rewarded with an enthusiastic, wet kiss.

Told you so, he said indignantly.

Well! came a gentle voice from behind us, And who might this be?

We all three jumped in surprise as my daddy rounded the corner with an armful of wood and broke into a grin at the sight of the dog.  The setter immediately stepped down and trotted to him and out in the sunlight his red coat shone like feathers on fire, his whole body seemed to quiver in anticipation.

C'mere, boy, my daddy said quietly, Let me have a look at that paw.  The dog laid down on the grass and obediently offered up his injured paw, making no protest as my daddy gently examined it and removed a nasty talon-like fishhook buried deep between his pads as my brother and I looked on anxiously.  Good dog, my daddy said casually, Now the question is where do you belong.

No, Daddy! my brother wailed, I found him in the woodshed!  He's mine!

Well, son, my daddy said kindly, We do live on an island.  He didn't fall from the sky.  This brought bucketfuls of fresh tears and after several futile attempts at reason, he relented just a little, getting my brother to agree that if we couldn't find the dog's home, we could talk about keeping him.  It was a delaying tactic and it should have worked save for the fact that we couldn't find the dog's home.   Over the next week, we went from one end of the village to the other and then from one end of the island to the other.  The second week we crossed the passage and went from one end of Westport to the other.  We checked with all the summer families and the ferrymen, even made a trip to the mainland with stops at Little River, Sandy Cove, East Ferry, Centreville.

The setter made friends with everyone he met and while several folks offered to take him in, no one claimed him.

Who knows, Guy, my grandmother said tartly at the end of the second week, Maybe he did fall from the sky. 

Not helpful, Alice, my daddy sighed, Decidedly not helpful.

By then, of course, in the way of dogs and little boys, my brother and the red dog were inseparable.  The setter was healthy, full of energy, agreeably sweet natured, well behaved and loyal.  They were together every minute of every summer day and night and my daddy, too tender hearted to face splitting them up, was racked with guilt and apprehension at the prospect.  And then, as if answer to a prayer, the cargo ship Prince John arrived on her twice monthly run.  When her whistle blew, the red dog went into full alert - when it blew a second time, he was off the old cot on the porch, through the screen door and down the front path - Hell bent for leather, as Nana said and running like the wind for the wharf with my little brother following, looking as if his heart would break.  She and my daddy exchanged glances as if they knew a secret and had just realized it.

Reckon you'd better get down there, Guy, my grandmother said, sounding sad, Got me a feelin' Rags is gonna be leavin' us directly and that boy's gonna need some comfortin'.

We'd spent every summer of our brief lives on the island without knowing the first sense of loss or heartache but that was a dark day.   Rags was frantic, barking non-stop and running mindlessly back and forth beside the  rusty, old vessel as the captain steered her in and the crew came ashore.  A young officer, tanned and trim in a white shirt and navy jacket, leaned over the railing, shaded his eyes, then caught side of the dog - his face broke out in a huge grin and he was suddenly in motion, moving smartly down the gangplank and onto the breakwater - we could all hear him yelling Skipper! Skipper! Here, boy!   At the sound of his voice, the setter whipped around and ran for all he was worth, nearly knocking him off his feet but oh, so joyfully.  You'd have had to have been blind or sheer stone hearted not to realize it was a reunion and beside me, my little brother gave up his brave face and began to cry while my daddy looked on helplessly.  After several minutes, the officer and Rags approached us, shared the story of the dog's misadventure and how they hadn't realized he wasn't aboard until they'd sailed, how they'd been desperately looking for him ever since, how the boat was so hollow and empty without him.

Raised him from a pup, the officer told my little brother, and you sure took real good care of him, son.  I appreciate it. 

He's my best friend, my brother managed to say through his tears.

The young officer got down on one knee and ruffled the little boy's spiky hair.

I know, he said softly, Mine, too.

It was a kind thing to say but it couldn't mend a six year old heart and watching the Prince John depart with Rags aboard was more than we could bear.  We walked home slowly, desolately, too disheartened for words.

The magic of summer had sailed with the boat and the red dog and would never be back.

But then, we hadn't counted upon the young officer's gratitude or understanding of the bond between a little boy and his dog.  Two weeks later, the Prince John was back and my brother was reluctantly persuaded to be at the breakwater to see Rags one more time.  The setter bounded down the gangplank with the young officer following, carefully carrying a cardboard box in his arms and smiling.  He and my daddy exchanged one of those secret looks and my daddy nodded.  Boy and dog were gleeful, hugging and kissing and laughing and with the captain and entire crew watching from the deck, the young officer put down the box and lifted out a miniature version of Rags - a feathery, red bundle of puppy with bright eyes and a sleek coat - a near exact replica of the grown dog only in a ten week size.  For an instant, I thought my brother had been turned to stone, his eyes grew saucer big, he looked from my daddy to the young officer, to the wriggling and warm puppy and I was sure he was about to cry.  

He's mine?   The words came out in a whisper as the pup was placed into his arms and he buried his face in its fur and accepted enthusiastic puppy kisses.

He needs a name, my daddy said a little gruffly,

And a boy to take care of him, the young officer added.

And so, Rags Two came into our lives, a little boy's broken heart was made whole again, and the magic that was island living was restored, all due to there being a red dog in the woodshed one bright, summer morning.

Never discount your dreams and always pay attention if you find a red dog in the woodshed.