Monday Monday

The little terrier ran back and forth along the side, its claws rat-tat-tatting against the deck like a toy machine gun, barking as if its heart were breaking and then stopping to howl as if it had already and long ago been irredeemably heart-broken.

And then it jumped.

“It’s swimming right for us,” said Betty.

Noah swivelled the dinghy around and backed water. They were inside Rogue’s Roost. The yellow yacht lay at anchor near a rocky islet capped with stunted hemlocks. They could hear music. The clouds behind the hilly coastline were low and made Noah think the fog might move in later.

When he pulled the dog into the boat, it bounded into Betty’s lap and would not be moved.

“Why, it’s just frantic for affection,” she said.

“I wonder what’s up,” replied Noah. He rowed for the yacht. Coming alongside, he recognized the music. It was that sweetest and saddest and most haunting of songs by the Mamas and Papas, Monday Monday. His grandparents had loved it and had played it a lot, especially when they were tipsy and feeling romantic. He raised his voice to be heard. “Ahoy! Ahoy there!” When no one answered, he knocked on the hull and called again, adding, “We’ve got your dog. It jumped in but we got it and we’d like to give it back, please.”

They waited. The lyrics appealed, “Oh Monday, Monday, how could you leave and not take me?” The threat of fog increased. “We’ve got my new drone,” Betty suggested, her lap soaked with her wet squirming visitor. “Get it out of the bag. We’ll fly it over and see if we can see anything.”

There was nothing to see. At least nothing that explained anything. There simply was nobody there.

Not knowing what to do, and feeling strongly they should not board the boat, Noah rowed for home to stay ahead of the fog.

“You keep Monday,” he said to Betty as he tied up at the dock. “Okay? I’ll call the Coast Guard.”

It could hardly have been otherwise. The dog clung to Betty. And Betty’s heart had melted.

“Monday,” she said, petting the quivering creature as she cradled it in one arm. “So that’s your name. Well, let’s go get you fed. I have a feeling you’re starving, you little mystery.”

Back at Rogues Roost, there was no sign of anything, because the fog had swallowed everything.

Noah kept calling the Guard and kept getting the busy signal.

Monday Monday kept playing aboard the yellow yacht, having been set on repeat.

(To be continued)

8 June 2024
Texas Jim
Prospect, Nova Scotia
www.granitecoast.ca