I^aEURTMll bet you can count the number of people you know on one hand who^aEURTMve planned a vacation around their dog. I^aEURTMm the only one I know of who has ever done that. When I mentioned it to a few of my cohorts they were unanimous in suggesting that I get a life or consider therapy before booking anything, but it was all in good fun. They recognize how important he has been to me over the years and realize that he won^aEURTMt be around much longer anyway.

Alley is a small brown dog of the Chocolate Labrador Retriever variety, one of the most popular breeds in the Maritimes. My wife Sandra had promised the kids that when we moved from the city of Winnipeg to rural Avon Valley, Nova Scotia, that they could have a dog to play with; as long as they looked after it. The kids were four and six years old at the time and we both realized that it would be Sandra looking after the dog.

We decided that our new home would have to be set on a large lot with mature trees and a pond. After an exhaustive search we managed to find a nice home on the side of a wooded mountain overlooking the Avon River. It seemed the perfect place to raise a puppy, and two of our own.

We chose a well respected kennel that had produced several grand champion dogs in Suffolk, New Brunswick, and enquired about a puppy. The only one available was a chocolate male that had been held back from sale as a potential stud dog, but had proven, though of excellent temperament, too small to win blue ribbons. After passing a test from the breeder on suitability as potential dog owners, they agreed to let us purchase the now ten week old pup for what we begrudged at the time, was a king^aEURTMs ransom. We first met him at the Tim Horton^aEURTMs coffee shop that is set on the road as you approach the Halifax airport; your last chance at a Tim^aEURTMs before you journey to destinations unknown.

Alley was delivered to us on a Saturday morning by two friends of the breeder who were headed to the airport. We were seated in the coffee shop waiting impatiently for the arrival of our new family member, the kids eating donuts and apple juice, while poking each other and giggling excitedly. Sandra and I were reciting rules of behaviour around a new puppy that were falling upon deaf ears. I looked out the window to the parking lot behind them and saw a young couple unloading a little brown dog from a crate in the back of an SUV and placing it gently on the grassed area behind the vehicle. I watched in silence for a couple of minutes as the puppy was leashed and led out into the field for a pee and a bowl of water. He drank for quite a while and then began wandering around the field, nose to the grass, tail up and wagging, making his bum wiggle the way only a puppy^aEURTMs could.

“You^aEURTMre awfully quiet babe. Thinking about work againo” Sandra placed her arm around my waist and laid her head on my shoulder.

“No^aEUR|I think our new arrival is here Out in the field beyond the parking lot. The people in that Explorer just unloaded a little Labrador puppy. I^aEURTMd say he^aEURTMs our boy!”

The kids heads snapped around and Ian, in his usual conservative style, bolted to the window of the coffee shop and yelled, “Where Daddy” I don^aEURTMt see a puppy!” The restaurant was filled with laughter as we gathered the children and took them out to meet their new family member.

Alistair grew up as most country dogs do but arguably, was indulged perhaps too much. He always had at least two walks a day, two youngsters to play with and the marvellous Avon valley as his playground.

As a new puppy he quickly showed a quiet and conservative personality that was fiercely loyal and uncannily intelligent. Like most pups he had a penchant for chewing the wrong things, including rolls of toilet paper and Sandy^aEURTMs shoes. He once stole a blue Prada from the bedroom closet that as I remember, cost about a weeks pay and bolted to the basement family room for a quick chew. My wife spotted the little monster as he clicked through the kitchen and summoned my help to rescue the shoe, or perhaps it was to save the dog^aEURTMs life. We chased him around the furniture for a couple of minutes to his delight but when finally cornered he lowered his ears and dropped the shoe unharmed. He had an unusual capacity to understand the English language when it suited him, and without exception, was completely devoted to Sandra.

When he was a year old, our neighbours who were quite enamoured with our dog, purchased a lab of their own. Cheeba was immediately adopted by Alley and the two of them regularly got in to a bag of mischief. A stream filled with speckled trout divided our properties where the ‘boys’ could be regularly found fishing, wrestling, or chewing sticks. They were notorious toy and shoe thieves, usually abandoning them along the banks of the stream, in favour of some other distraction. I had an enviable collection of left handed work gloves but could never find any right handed ones. I often wondered how they new the difference. By the fall, with both kids now in school, Alley and Cheeba spent nearly all their days together, occasionally joining in with the children at play on weekends.

Things were pretty much ideal at that point in my life; challenging and lucrative work, a sexy, beautiful, and intelligent wife, a lovely daughter, Moira, and my little man Ian, and Alley, all in a lovely house on the mountain overlooking paradise. It was just a little too good to last I guess. The down side of living in utopia is that it leaves lots of room for disappointment.

One evening the following winter, while driving into Windsor to grocery shop with the children, Sandy and the babies were killed in a head on collision with a drunk driver returning home after a hockey tournament.

I had been working late at the plant on a month-end report and was coming home down the same road perhaps twenty minutes later and came upon the scene perhaps ten minutes after the emergency response vehicles and police had arrived. I don^aEURTMt need to go into much more detail than that. You can imagine that I took the whole thing very badly.

If being in shock has any benefit, I suppose it allowed me to go home to an empty house and begin the gruesome task of arranging burial for my family, and contacting those who needed to hear it from me first. I was angry and grief stricken in a way that could never be explained to someone who hasn^aEURTMt suffered the loss of everything dear, and the reason to be, all in one lightning quick blow.

I tried to deal with the situation alone, and handled things rather poorly. Sandra^aEURTMs parents had never had any other children and were now not only without a child but also grandchildren. Their entire legacy destroyed in one cruel accident of timing. In my own grief I closed my world to them as well as my own family, unwilling at first to accept the reality of what had happened, or allow the wound to heal. I wanted my loved ones back and no outcome could assuage my agony.

I took a bereavement leave from work and was graciously granted as much time as needed before returning to my responsibilities. In the fullness of time, realizing that I could no longer be passionate about making car parts and tendered my resignation under protest from the HR vice president. He called me one morning and I answered, still drunk from an all night bender, asking me to reconsider. He insisted on providing professional grief counselling or any other assistance required to assist the healing process. I was quite rude, and with obvious slurred speech told him to mind his own affairs, while leaving me to manage mine. He wasn^aEURTMt the last to feel the wrath of my frustration in dealing with my pain, but was kind enough to offer to hold on to the letter for another month to allow me time to reconsider.

I didn^aEURTMt have a change of heart and listed the house two weeks later, deciding to leave the Avon Valley forever and return to the Ontario of my youth. It was a misguided attempt to put the pain and the memories behind. The house was on the market for less than a month, selling at ten thousand below what I^aEURTMd paid for it.

Through all of this, Alistair was by my side. Save feeding and letting him out when he pawed at the door, I had ignored him completely at first. Looking back, he probably saved me from a life of alcoholic ruin. Because of him I had to go to the grocery store to buy food, and seeing all that was available was encouraged to buy some groceries for myself. He too was suffering, but was dealing with it far better than I.

Alley had stopped playing with Cheeba, choosing to stay close to me instead.
He would spend his days sitting on the sofa in the family room, head resting on the back, looking out the window and watching the driveway. It seemed as if he was waiting for the family car to return. Occasionally he would let out a loud impatient sigh but would only leave his post, to sleep, or nudge me as a reminder to feed him, or let him out. I gradually came to admire his quiet optimism, recognizing that it was an excellent substitute for grief, and the realization that they would never return.

Eventually I decided to start taking him for walks down our road, to check his messages as Sandy used to say. I found the exercise and a change of scenery was more effective at dulling the pain than booze and the dog seemed to enjoy it as well.

We took up cross country skiing for what was left of winter and when that was no longer practical began jogging, first down the road to the highway in front of the house and eventually up the logging road on the mountain behind. Before I had met and married Sandra, I had served as an officer in the Airborne Regiment, spending countless hours jogging in full kit, to stay in shape. After mustering out of the army I had given that habit up and forgotten the feeling of an endorphin rush when you run long enough to hit the ‘the wall’. I soon rediscovered exercise and became obsessed with running rather becoming intoxicated. Alley had no problem with that.

I left Nova Scotia and settled in a rented town house in a small Ontario town along the Grand River, accepting work as a management consultant. Alley spent most of his day sitting on the sofa, looking out the window. I felt bad keeping him inside all day and soon found a home with a large fenced yard that was well treed. I installed a doggy door into the mud room and on my days off began building him a woodland garden. I planted a twenty foot tall Tulip tree for Sandy, a Star Magnolia for Moira and Golden Beech for my cobby little Ian. I didn^aEURTMt worry about a lawn at all, choosing instead ferns and native perennials. Within a couple of years it looked quite natural. Apart from occasional canopy pruning, Alley^aEURTMs backwoods were maintenance free. I built an office in an upstairs back bedroom and worked from home, where I could keep an eye on Alley and work undisturbed on reports and presentations.

Time off was spent with my Alley. We had our daily jogging routine. He continued that until he was about eight years old, settling for a walk every evening instead. On Saturdays in the spring and fall we would go fly fishing on the Grand. I would torment brown trout and bass while he would stand watch for evil herons or intruding geese. In the summer and winter, we would hike or ski along sections of the Bruce trail that meandered along the escarpment from Niagara to Tobermory

We lived like that for ten years, me gradually slipping into the routine of a workaholic, taking daily exercise breaks with my dog, who lived mostly in his backyard, and slept in his bed beside my desk. My reputation as a consultant flourished and I spent more time travelling to meet customer needs and occasionally boarded him at a local kennel but for never more than a couple of days at a time.

I became a recluse socially, never pursuing a relationship, never trying to replace my Sandra or allow anyone new into my private world. At first I would reminisce daily and then weekly but in the fullness of time, I came to be reminded of my family only on special occasions. Christmas and birthdays were the worst.

It was near end of summer on the tenth year since I had lost my family, when Alley and I were inspecting things in the backyard. Sandy^aEURTMs tree had now reached nearly fifty feet, and through the canopy of the original Box Elders that had been planted there. Moira^aEURTMs Magnolia was huge taking up nearly a quarter of the yard, and guaranteed to produce a breathtaking floral display every spring. Ian^aEURTMs Beech now nearly forty feet tall, showed promise of producing a glorious golden display to herald the arrival of autumn.

I looked down at my old friend and told him that his garden was beautiful and that I admired how well grown the trees were. I could see that he was listening intently, ears twitching, eyes shifting alternately from yard to me, as he always did when I spoke to him, searching for a familiar word like ‘cookie’, ‘bone’, or ‘walk’.

I suddenly noticed how grey his beard had become. He was not particularly heavy for an older dog but he had lost the characteristic shape of a young Labrador in his prime. He was getting old. Looking back, the past ten years had passed away in a monotonous blur punctuated by several professional triumphs and the accumulation of some wealth. None of that was significant to Alistair. For the first time I imagined what life without him would be like, and felt guilty for not having done more to make his short time with me more rewarding. I owed him a great debt in preserving my sanity. I could never have survived the loss of everything without his companionship.

I resolved then to do something to make it up to him in some way. He was still fit enough to enjoy a visit to the seaside and chase gulls. As a puppy, Sandra and I took him and the kids to Riser^aEURTMs beach, on the Nova Scotia south shore, to search for sand dollars and fetch sticks from the surf. He loved it then and would no doubt regain the spring in his step at going back. I had just completed a large contract and had nothing pressing that couldn^aEURTMt wait a month so the timing seemed perfect.

By the afternoon of the next day the arrangements had been made. Alistair and I would drive the to the south shore town of Chester, Nova Scotia and stay in a ridiculously expensive three bedroom seaside cottage. We would take day trips to the local sandy beaches in the morning, enjoying the surf for as long he was interested, and in the evening have a seafood supper of halibut and Digby scallops. The local pubs allowed dog owners to bring their companions in, while enjoying ale and that would offer me the chance to reacquaint myself with some of the finest people on earth, Bluenosers.

We set off on a Wednesday and arrived the following Saturday afternoon, a week after deciding to go, and were greeted by the owner of the cottage, a local elderly woman. “Is it just you and the dog theni” she asked bending down to accept a kiss from Alley.

“Just the old man and me. We^aEURTMre here to see the sights!” I replied looking at Alley and feeling somewhat awkward at how ridiculous it must seem. I offered a lie in embarrassment to avoid explaining why I was taking my dog on a vacation, “I^aEURTMm working on some technical writing and thought the change of venue would add some flair to my work^aEUR|”

She straightened up and looked at me briefly before smiling warmly. “Indeed. Well fortunately the weather promises to be pleasant and warm for the next week anyway. Are you planning to take this little fellow by the ocean for a swim “

“Alistair. His name is Alistair or just Alley. Yes^aEUR|He would like that very much wouldn^aEURTMt you old man ” His ears were twitching and his eyes were moving between us as we spoke and his tail gently wagging in anticipation of something.

“Well there are several good beaches nearby but the best one is a short drive along the shore. Riser^aEURTMs beach at the provincial park is wide and long, and virtually empty this time of year.”

“Yes we know that beach don^aEURTMt we old man ” Alley shifted his glance from the woman back to me and decided to sit down.

“Have you been here before, then>” she enquired.

“Ah^aEUR|Yes. Once on holiday a few years back” she didn^aEURTMt press any further.

“Well we should see a full moon the next couple of nights. The beach is lovely on a full moon. You may even chance upon the witch if your lucky!.”

“The witch, now that sounds interesting if not a little spooky. I hadn^aEURTMt heard the beach was haunted by witches! How does that sound Alley ” he stared back at me with his patented expression, a mix of confusion and optimism.

“Well it^aEURTMs probably a tale someone started to spur tourism.” She chuckled, “I^aEURTMve never seen her myself but, the storey goes that she appeared a few years ago and on some mornings can be seen walking along the shore, with two young children in tow. No one has ever been able to get close to them; they just seem to disappear if you try to approach them.”

“She sounds more like a ghost than a practitioner of witchcraft” I said, in response to the shanty.

“Yes she does.” she said, circumnavigating the ground floor of the cottage throwing open windows, “But word has it that if you continue to pursue her, she will cast a spell on you^aEUR|” the last statement, a whisper preceded a little chuckle that was very dramatic and obviously a well rehearsed.

“Very cool. We^aEURTMll have to see if we can find her, eh Alleyl What do you think “

The elderly lady turned and headed for the front door and paused briefly holding the screen door open, “Be careful Mister Edwards, lest she cast her spell on you! I hear that she is very beautiful.” With that she was gone.

I unpacked a few things and hung those clothes that needed to be hung in the closet as Alley took in all the scents and smells that pervaded the beautiful old building before sitting squarely in front of the screen door and staring out at the sea less than a hundred meters beyond.

An hour later we were stretching our legs along the edge of town and found ourselves at a marina where a sailing class for young children in small dingys was underway. The kids ranged in age from around eight to ten years in age and I was amazed at how deftly the handled the little craft, negotiating around each other and several buoys moored in the harbour. Watching the little regatta I was suddenly reminded of a little voice asking if he could learn to sail, and was struck with a crushing wave of remorse.

In the ten years since the death of my wife and children I had cried very little. I had learned to control my grief and bury it, the way you would wear a wig to hide a bald pate, or a long sleeved shirt to veil an ugly scar, or so I thought. The need to cry welled up in me like a geyser. Tears flooded my eyes so forcefully that I could not see. I rushed back along the cobbled beach and village streets, head down, with Alley in tow. I made it back, choking with grief, to the quiet refuge of the cottage where I tried to wrestle the demon back down.

I held a clenched fist against my mouth, burst in the front door and collapsed on a wingchair in the sitting room. “Fuck!” I sobbed, relenting to sorrow, “I miss you so much^aEUR|” and letting my head fall back against the chair gave in to the need to cry, eyes closed. Alley had placed his head in my lap and we sat there for perhaps a half an hour while I gradually regained control of my emotions.

That evening I went to a pub and met some locals and few end of season tourists, mostly American. At some point a fiddle and a bodhran were produced and live music was added to the background conversation. It was a lot of fun, something I hadn^aEURTMt experienced in far too long. I^aEURTMve always been a notorious people watcher and couldn^aEURTMt help but notice the wide range of characters the place seemed to accommodate. I had a long and interesting conversation with a local retired fisherman on the demise of the cod fishery and all of the contributing causes, one of which I was surprised to learn was nuclear submarines.

I sampled a few of the local ales but ended up settling on my old standby, Guinness. I had just finished one and was contemplating ordering another when the waitress arrived and placed a fresh pint on the table in front of me. “Compliments of the lady at the end of the bar John Edwards” she said and moved on to the next table.

I glanced in the direction of the entrance and noticed an attractive blond in a short skirt, in her mid twenties sitting with her knees crossed on a stool at the end of the long mahogany bar. She raised a glass of something orange in a salute and smiled. I raised my glass in return, and took a generous swallow before placing the glass back down on the table. When I looked up again she was gone. I looked around the bar thinking perhaps she had gone to the washroom but did not see her again. It was an odd experience, but I shook it off, letting the Guinness have its way with me. “So you^aEURTMve got to explain to me how submarines have had an impact on coastal fishing.” I said, turning to my drinking companion.

I left the bar around about the time things were getting a little raucous, claiming to be tired after along journey. On the way back to the cottage I smiled, musing that perhaps I should have taken this journey a long time ago.

In the morning after a hearty breakfast, I bundled the dog and a cooler of sandwiches and beer into the vehicle and struck off for Riser^aEURTMs beach. Before leaving I grabbed one of his favourite toys, a piece of floating rope with knots at either end. On impulse I grabbed a comforter off one of the beds, thinking it would be ideal to spread out upon the sand and catch a few late summer rays.

We arrived before ten in the morning to an empty beach. It was low tide and perhaps a hundred meters from the dunes to the surf. Riser^aEURTMs is a long crescent of white sand perhaps three kilometres long. The trees behind the beach are stunted by the harsh elements but otherwise representative of the Acadian forest, Pine, Oak and Rock Maple.

The smell of the ocean air in Atlantic Canada is like no other in the world. If they could make cologne that smelled as good On this particular morning there was a sea breeze, bringing light wispy fingers of fog ashore from the warmer coastal water. I walked slowly out to the edge of the sea with Alistair weaving back and forth in front of me, carrying his rope, tail wagging. He reached the edge before I did and turned to face me sitting down and dropped the rope.

It was clear what he expected. I hurled the bright yellow rope perhaps twenty-five yards into the sea and he was off in a flash, crashing through the first then the second breaker, circling quickly in search of the rope, seizing it, a couple of snorts, and then returning to me. He would rush to me, drop the rope and sit down, his bum inches from the sand, a coiled spring waiting to leap into the surf once I had thrown the rope. If I waited too long to toss it, he would howl and yelp in protest, much to my delight. He was having fun.

We played this game for an hour. I gradually gained confidence in his ability to swim against the surf, eventually throwing the piece of rope out as far as forty yards. He soon remembered how to body surf the waves back to shore and was clearly in his element. I started to become worried that his old body couldn^aEURTMt take the stress of the exertion and cold, once he started shivering. He refused to stop, yelping in protest until I launched his toy into the waves. Finally after one retrieval, he paused to cough and vomited up a belly full of sea water.

I decide that was it, for a while, and turning my back on him, walked back up the beach to the car to set up the blanket and cooler. I towelled off the dog and produced a half litre of bottled water and filled a cereal bowl I^aEURTMd had knicked from the cottage. He drank nearly all of it before lying down in the middle of the comforter and looking out to sea, let out a contented sigh and put his head down.

“Shift old man” I pushed him over to one side and lay own beside him with a copy of Grisham^aEURTMs The King of Torts. Alley went to sleep fairly quickly, clearly exhausted and I followed suit within an hour, lulled by the gentle breeze and the sound of the surf.

I was awakened by a gentle “Woof!” the sound of Alistair on guard.

Sitting up and looking around I could see in the distance perhaps two hundred meters up the beach, was a figure walking along the waters edge. The sun was high, and the air, now clear of fog. Alley stood up, hackles raised, “Woof!”

“Its okay boy, other people can use the beach too.”

At the sound of my voice Alley bolted twenty yards towards the intruder and began barking, tail wagging. I stood up and began walking towards him but the closer I got to him, the further he advanced towards the intruder. He suddenly sprinted off and I followed at a trot “Oh shit” I muttered “ALISTAIR!” I yelled in alarm.

He was now at a full gallop headed for what was now clearly a young woman, who seemed to take no notice of the little brown rocket homing in on her. I was now at a full sprint trying in vain to catch up to him. When Alley got within ten yards of her, the women kneeled down and opened her arms. He stopped at her feet and jumped up on her front, and then began running around her in circles, barking excitedly.

I caught up to him and grabbed his collar, “Sit Alley for Christ sake!” I finally managed to settle him down. I had never seen him behave so badly in all his twelve years.

Turning to the young woman I said “I am truly sorry Miss. He would never hurt you and normally is very well behaved.” I looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction at being attacked by a strange dog and was releived by her calm demeanour and her beautiful smile. She was wearing tan Capri pants and a matching cotton blouse, with two of Alleys sandy paw prints between her breasts.

“Oh it^aEURTMs okay^aEUR|I once had a puppy just like him. I can tell that he^aEURTMs a good boy aren^aEURTMt you puppy dog ” Alley started yelping and pulling himself free, began running around us in tight circles, his tale between his legs. I hadn^aEURTMt seen him behave that way since his summer with Cheeba, ten years ago.

We were both laughing as Alley carried on. She had both hands covering her mouth as she laughed. Reddish blond hair was tossed by the shore breezes around her beautiful face; freckled and fair, with unearthly blue eyes.

“My name is John” I said extending a hand, “And this is my dog^aEUR|”

“Alistair^aEUR|He^aEURTMs very spry for an old dog isn^aEURTMt hei” she crouched down and he came to her as if he^aEURTMd known her forever. “Hello Alley^aEUR|What a good boy! He must be what nowo.ten, eleven years old