Fireside Books: There's exciting news for book lovers. Fireside Books in Parksville now has a second location in Port Alberni. The BookWyrm - used books are just $5 or less. The BookWyrm, on the corner of Redford and Anderson, opens seven days a week from 10 to 5, building your personal library for less. Fireside Books at 464 Island Highway East in Parksville is a book dragon's dream come true. Browse their extensive collections seven days a week. Both locations make growing your personal library easier than ever. New and used books and so much more. Order online at firesidebooks.ca and pick up at either location. Details available online.
The Ballad of Peter & Gracie: Peter and his dog raced here and there, through fields so wide, with dreams in their pockets and stars as their guide. Every day's an adventure under the open sky. In their world of stories, time just flies by.
Peter McCully: The sun was not even properly up yet when I opened one eye and thought, "Today is going to be a very good day." I could feel it in my whiskers. My name is Gracie. I'm a fluffy white American Eskimo Dog, and I am the most important member of my family, even though nobody has officially voted on this. I sleep at the end of Peter's bed, curled up like a little snowball, and every morning I wake up before anyone else in the whole house.
This is a very important job. Somebody has to make sure the sun rose properly, and that job is mine. I stretched and stretched and gave myself a good shake from my nose all the way to the tip of my curly tail. Then I hopped up and put my two front paws right on Peter's pillow. Peter, who is seven years old, still has his eyes closed most mornings, even after I have licked his ear twice.
I licked his ear a third time just to make sure I didn't miss a spot. "Okay, okay, Gracie, I'm up," Peter mumbled, and then he rubbed his eyes and grinned at me, and my tail started going so fast it was practically a helicopter blade. There's nothing in the whole world better than Peter's morning grin.
Nothing. Not even bacon, and I love bacon more than almost anything. We thundered down the stairs together, me first because I'm faster, and also because someone has to check the kitchen for danger, which mostly means checking if any food fell on the floor overnight. Sadly, none had. But Peter's mum was already up, and she was making eggs, and the smell of eggs is one of my top five favourite smells in the whole world, right up there with the beach, wet grass, Peter's soccer cleats, and the inside of the fridge for one glorious second when someone opens it.
"Good morning, Gracie girl," said Peter's mom, and she scooped up a little bit of kibble into my bowl. I know some dogs turn their nose up at kibble, but I'm not a fussy dog. I ate it in roughly four seconds, and then I sat very politely by Peter's chair just in case any toast happened to fall on the floor.
Toast does not usually fall on purpose in this house, but I like to be ready. Being ready is part of my job, too. After breakfast, Peter got his backpack because it was a school day, and I walked him right to the door, my nails clicking on the floor like tiny tap shoes. I don't get to go to school with Peter, which I think is a mistake that the school has made because I'm an excellent listener, and I would sit very quietly in the back.
But instead, I watched through the front window as he walked down the street towards the bus stop, his backpack bouncing. I gave one small woof just to say, "Have a good day," and then I flopped down on the rug with a sigh because the house is very boring without Peter. Luckily, Peter's mom does not let me be bored for long.
Once the dishes were done, she clipped on my leash and said the four best words in the English language, "Let's go to Rathtrevor." I spun in a circle. I may have spun in three circles. Rathtrevor Beach is where the forest turns into sand, and the sand turns into the whole entire ocean, and it is, without question, the finest place on the whole of Vancouver Island, and I have personally sniffed most of it.
We drove there with the windows cracked just enough for my nose to poke out, which is the second-best feeling in the world after running. The air smelled like salt and seaweed and somebody's campfire from the night before, and I let out a happy little groan just breathing it in. The moment my paws hit the sand, I was off.
Not far, because Peter's mom keeps me on my long leash near the road, but far enough to feel the wind rushing past my ears and my tail streaming out behind me like a flag. There were seagulls, dozens of them, standing around like they owned the beach, and it is my sworn duty to remind them that they do not.
"Excuse me," I barked, which in dog means, "This is my beach now," and the seagulls all lifted off at once in a great flapping cloud. We walked along the tideline, where the sand goes dark and squishy, and I found a piece of driftwood almost as big as I am, and I decided it needed to come home with us. I dragged it for a while before Peter's mom gently suggested I leave it for the eagles, who apparently like driftwood too, though I've never actually seen an eagle carry driftwood.
I have my doubts. Still, I dropped it. I am a reasonable dog. On the way back to the car, I said hello to another dog, a big golden fellow named Baxter, who visits the beach most days too. We touched noses, which is dog for, "How do you do?" and did a little spin around each other, and then his owner called him, and mine called me, and we went separate ways like two very important business dogs who both had somewhere to be.
By the time we got home, my fur was full of sand, which meant a very unwelcome bath in the tub, which I do not love, though I will admit that afterward I feel extremely soft, and I do enjoy the toweling off part, where Peter's mom rubs my ears and calls me her little snowball. The rest of the morning was mostly a nap.
Naps are an important part of my job, too. A dog cannot be alert and ready for adventure all day without sleeping in the sun. The sun lands on the living room rug at around eleven o'clock, and that is frankly perfect. I woke up when I heard the car keys jingle because Peter's mom had errands to run, and one of the errands was in Coombs.
Now, I must explain about Coombs. In Coombs, there's a market with grass growing right on the roof, and on that roof, there are goats, actual goats living on a roof. I don't understand it, and I don't need to understand it. I only need to sit in the car and stare up at those goats while Peter's mom goes inside to buy cheese and jam and whatever else humans buy at markets.
The goats looked down at me like they were very impressed with themselves. Living on a roof is a good trick. I gave them a small bark of respect. On the way out of Coombs, Peter's mom took the long way home through Qualicum Beach, and she rolled my window down a little further so I could smell the ocean air change from forest to saltwater.
We stopped for exactly two minutes so she could grab a coffee, and while we waited, a small girl walking past stopped to ask if she could pet me, and I sat very still and let her scratch behind my ears because I believe every dog should be generous with their ears when they've been asked nicely. When Peter's mom came back with her bags, I sniffed them thoroughly for cheese because I am nothing if not thorough, and then we drove home along the road that winds past French Creek, where I could smell the marina even through the closed windows.
Boats and fish and rope. I pressed my nose to the glass the whole way and left a very satisfying smudge that nobody seemed to mind too much. The best part of the whole day, though, the very best part, was three fifteen in the afternoon because that is when the school bus comes rumbling down our road, and I know the sound of that bus before anyone else in the house does.
I hear it two roads away, and I start doing my happy dance by the front window, front paws up on the sill, tail going, the whole body wiggling like I'm made of jelly. "He's coming, he's coming," I would say if I could talk, but instead I just make a sound that is somewhere between a bark and a yodel, which Peter's mom says is very greasy of me.
The door opened, and there he was, backpack half off one shoulder, grinning that same morning grin, and I threw myself at his legs so hard he had to grab the doorframe to keep from falling over. "Greasy, I missed you too." He laughed, and then he got right down on the floor with me, which is the correct way to say hello to a dog, and I licked his face about eleven times while he tried to tell me about his day.
Something about a spelling test and a kid named Marcus who brought a lizard for show and tell. I didn't fully understand the spelling test part, but I understood the important part, which is that Peter was home and everything was right with the world again. After his snack, which he shared exactly one small piece of cheese with me, even though he wasn't supposed to, we went out into the backyard to play. Peter has this orange ball that squeaks, and it is, in my professional opinion, the greatest invention humans have ever made.
He threw it clear across the yard, and I was a white blur chasing after it. My paws barely touched the grass, and I brought it back and dropped it at his feet and did a little spin, tail wagging. We played until the sun started going gold and low over the trees. Peter's dad called us in for dinner. I sat under the table during dinner, not because I was hoping for scraps, though I absolutely was, but also because that's simply where a good dog sits.
Peter's little sister, who's only two and drops food more than anyone else at the table, is easily my favourite dinner companion, and that night she dropped an entire piece of carrot, which I considered a very personal gift. After dinner, there was bath time for Peter and story time, and I curled up on the rug next to his bed while his mom read to him about a bear who couldn't find his hat.
I like story time. I don't always follow the plot, but I like the sound of Peter's mom's voice, low and warm, and the way Peter's breathing gets slower and slower until his eyes start to droop. When the story was done and the lamp was clicked off, I hopped up onto the end of the bed and turned around three times, the way I always do, before curling into my snowball shape right by Peter's feet.
"Night, Gracie," Peter whispered, already half asleep, and he reached down and rested his hand on my head for just a moment. I let out one long happy sigh, the kind that comes from a dog who chased seagulls, stared down goats, played fetch until the sun went down, and got to say hello to the school bus, which is my favourite sound in the whole world.
Outside, the moon was rising over Vancouver Island, over the beach, and the market, and the marina, and all the places I visited that day. Tomorrow, there would be more adventures. I was sure of it. There always are. But for now, my job was done. I closed my eyes, tucked my nose under my tail, and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of squeaky orange balls and the very good, very important life of a small white dog named Gracie.
The Ballad of Peter & Gracie: Peter and Gracie, the finest of friends, with tales of wonder that never end. In the pages of books or stars above, they find their magic in laughter and love.
Fireside Books: There's exciting news for book lovers. Fireside Books in Parksville now has a second location in Port Alberni. The BookWyrm - used books are just $5 or less. The BookWyrm, on the corner of Redford and Anderson, opens seven days a week from 10 to 5, building your personal library for less. Fireside Books at 464 Island Highway East in Parksville is a book dragon's dream come true. Browse their extensive collections seven days a week. Both locations make growing your personal library easier than ever. New and used books and so much more. Order online at firesidebooks.ca and pick up at either location. Details available online.
