the dog and his person

 a fictional short story

Spruce sat patiently on his haunches, his tail beating the rain-soaked rocks, as his person worked with great effort to pull a net from the sea. A tangled green rope emerged inch by inch from the water, its unusual heaviness promising a fish.

“Please let this be a salmon,” said the man between exhausted breaths. “A big, fat, silvery salmon.”

The net proved itself faithful once by giving them a beautiful fish to feast upon. Spruce’s person had cried and rejoiced, lifting his arms up and thanking the heavens for something to put in their starving bellies. Straight to the fire it went, and they ate everything the fish had to offer, skin and eyeballs alike, and it was the best meal either of them had ever had. That was twelve days ago.

Now the dog and his person sat on the beach for the third time today, raindrops beating their shoulders, their stomachs aching with hunger. The man reached the end of the net and pulled out a glorious heap of white and blue trash, likely remaining from their own shipwreck. Spruce tilted his head and examined the garbage, his mouth watering. It smelled like the ocean, and the ocean smelled like fish. Perhaps he could chew on the plastic. Perhaps it tasted good.

“Dammit,” the man whispered, shaking his head. 

This was a word that Spruce had never heard before this month, but he recognized it now. It meant that his person was sad and angry. 

“Sorry, buddy,” said the man, giving him a firm pat on the head. “It’s just garbage.”

Spruce stood up and shook the raindrops from his heavy fur, as the man threw his sad net back into the water and made sure it was secure. The two of them began to venture down the beach again, hoping to warm up after sitting still in the wind and rain for too long. Spruce longed to run, for the rocky beach was so wide and free, but his body felt weak. His legs were stiff and his heart throbbed much too slowly, so he stayed by his person.

A familiar high screech echoed through the sky overlooking the island. Spruce heard it first and became excited, forgetting his weakness and running forward to find the noise.

Over the trees, there emerged an enormous flock of seagulls, flapping their wings against the wind and crying out for all the world to hear.

Birds! Spruce jumped in excitement, the sound of his barks drowning in the seagulls’ piercing shrieks. The creatures flew in hundreds above their heads, many meals worth of food gathered together in the sky. Perhaps this was the answer, that the dog and his poor person were to eat seagulls to their hearts’ content until someone came to rescue them from this wretched island. Neither of them had ever eaten the meat of a seagull before, but never mind that! It was food, and it meant that they weren’t going to die.

Desperately, the man began to pick up the sharpest rocks he could find, hurling them at the seagulls. One by one, the rocks flew into the air, thrusted by his weak arms, and none of them came close to touching a bird. He yelled and threw rocks with all his might, while Spruce barked and jumped and ran around in circles.

Soon, however, the seagulls were gone, their horrid cries echoing in the minds of the dog and his person. They disappeared into the cloudy distance, leaving none of their friends behind.

The man collapsed onto the ground in a puddle of rain and tears. He sobbed loudly, rocking back and forth and cutting his hands on the rocks. Spruce tilted his head and stared with his ears up, wondering what compelled him to respond in such a way. Still, he went and laid next to him and licked tasty blood from his hands.

“Good dog,” said the man, stifling sobs. “Good, good dog.” 

They lay on the beach for a while longer, growing colder and colder as they listened to the angry sounds of the ocean. It was the same noise they had heard in the hour when their little boat surrendered itself to the storm twenty-eight days ago. Spruce remembered the darkness, the screaming wind, the terror in his person’s voice, crying “Mayday! Mayday! Somebody please help us!” followed by the static of the radio. Then came the salty ocean, the freezing water swallowing them whole and spitting them out on the rocks. It was a miracle they were even alive now, though they felt quite dead as their weary bodies lay still on the wet beach. Spruce wasn’t sure why they were here and not in their little shelter, but he stayed with his person, who seemed to be thinking quite deeply about something until he was ready to go back to the woods.

It was at the moment the sky began to darken that the man finally stood himself up, dried his tears, and beckoned Spruce to come along. They went to the woods, to the small fort that he had made on the first day of their isolation when he was the strongest. It was layered with rotten logs, the cracks stuffed with moss and leaves and shreds of tarp from the boat wreck, anything he could find to keep them out of the rain. Outside of the shelter sat a cooler, which should have been full of delicious fish, but instead overflowed with rainwater. It was their only source of drinking water, in which case they were actually quite thankful for the rain, though it poured and poured and never seemed to stop.

“Winter is on its way,” the man said as they crawled into the fort. “If anything, the seagulls came by today to tell us so.”

He quickly made up a fire, lighting a pile of sticks he had gathered earlier that day and left in the shelter to dry out. There were two things that Spruce’s person had managed to keep buried in his pockets beneath heavy rain gear while being tossed around in the ocean: a pocket knife and a lighter.

“Aren’t you glad I smoke cigarettes?” he said to Spruce, who wagged his tail in response. “Boy, Angie is gonna love that one.”

Spruce’s ears raised at the sound of the name Angie. He knew that name, and it was a wonderful one, for it recalled the smell of cinnamon rolls and the sight of a woman with auburn hair out in the backyard.

The man chuckled and gave Spruce’s ears a kind pet.

“You miss her too, don’t you boy?” he said. “We sure do love our Angie.”

The mutt wagged his tail, his mouth watering at the thought of those sweet sticky rolls lathered in cream cheese frosting. Angie would always sneak him one when their person wasn’t looking, giving him a pat on the head and whispering “good dog.”

“I’m so hungry,” said the man, speaking Spruce’s thoughts into existence. “It’s unbearable. I’d do anything to eat some food, just one bite of food…”

The fire was alive now, devouring all the many little sticks and charring them black. Its warm light flickered on their faces and captured the moment the man’s eyes turned cold. He looked at Spruce in a different sort of way—in a mean, guilty, hungry sort of way. Spruce sensed a change in his demeanor and cowered. The mutt’s ears fell back as he awaited what was to come next.

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out the knife he had carried around these last twenty-eight days, studying it closely and testing its sharpness on the edge of his thumb. The dog eventually laid himself down and rested his chin on his paws, keeping his eyes on the person.

Still holding the knife, the man gave Spruce a few long strokes down his spine with his other hand, feeling his bones and rib cage right through the fur and skin.

“Poor dog,” he said. “You’ve gone a long while without food.”

Food. Spruce knew that word too, his mouth watering all over again and making him sick. He thought of Angie once more, her wool socks pressed against the kitchen floor as she threw a wonderful compilation of smells into the large soup pot. He wondered if his person was reminiscing the same memory, for he looked so utterly and miserably hungry. 

With that, the man took the knife and held it to Spruce’s matted throat, his hand trembling furiously. Spruce wasn’t sure what to make of this gesture, but he held still and looked at his person with all the admiration he could muster. Tears filled the man’s eyes as he held the blade and shivered, pressing harder and harder until Spruce struggled to breathe and jerked his head away. The man shook his head and dropped his blade to the ground. He gasped for air, clamping a hand over his throbbing chest. The threat of danger dissipated and Spruce relaxed, now cuddling close to the man.

“Angie would never forgive me,” said the man, keeping his head down as the tears fell. “In fact, I’m sure she’d rather have me die of starvation.”

He grabbed a stick and poked the glowing fire.

“She’d probably kill me herself,” he chuckled.

Spruce’s eyes grew heavy in the comfort of his person’s lap. It was a lovely thing to hear him laugh like this after a day of so many tears.

“Our Angie’s a smart one,” the man said. “I’m confident she’ll find us soon enough, and she can make us our favorite cinnamon rolls–as many as we want. Don’t look at me like that, Spruce, I know she always gives you at least one.”

He leaned backward and relaxed against a rotten log, closing his eyes and petting his beloved mutt.

“You’re a good dog,” he said, “such a good dog.”

In the morning, Spruce would hear the glorious sounds of a motor approaching the beach, feet splashing in the ocean water, and voices exclaiming at the sight of a scattered boat wreck. He would hop onto his feet and bark twice, alerting his person that someone was here to save them at last. Strangely enough, his person would lay still, and as much as he barked and pounced on him, there would be no response. Spruce, in his excitement, would run out to the beach and find several human beings in orange gear, come in their big boat, to take them home. In the middle of the crowd would stand Angie, and she would take the dog into her arms and love him and promise him food, because Angie always had food. It would be a wonderful day for Spruce, who now lay sleeping against the comfort of his good person.