Droop, our loyal pup, would always be up to greet me as I stirred for the day’s activities. Opening my bedroom door, I would find her in an excited rhapsody of moves, spinning and gyrating in all directions while emitting a low but thrilling whine, with absolute indifference to those still sleeping.

The summer I turned fifteen, I found myself cod trapping with two uncles. Each morning, as I headed out to prepare the trapskiff for the day’s fishing, the dog dutifully followed me down to the wharf in excited anticipation of becoming a member of the crew.

Slipping the lines and pushing the bow off, I turn the flywheel until force is felt. Rolling the heavy cast iron hard against the compression and letting go, the five horsepower, make and break, sputters to life.

Motoring away from the wharf, the boat’s movement came with the incessant inflammatories of a dog, hell-bent, on being one of the crew. As the vessel turned towards the harbour mouth, the dog barked unceasingly, the pleading rapture, one continuous oration, echoing throughout the still-sleeping community. Rounding the small island jutting out into our direction of travel, the dog scrambled towards the beach and commenced her chase, following the vessel as she raced along the shore, yelping her displeasure at being left behind.

Her dedication to the cause was inspiring, as she followed us to the extreme end of the harbour, stopping only when she reached the full extent of dry land, lodging precariously on the very last rock available. As we rounded the opposite point, denoting the harbour mouth, we disappeared from her line of sight, slowly losing the sounds of her passionate appeals to our sense of fairness.

The workings and complexities of a trapskiff are many. Even for a vessel of twenty-nine feet, the fathoms of linnet and rope pulled aboard, the rushing back and forth, the fish being dipped into the midship room up to your waist and gutting of the catch, was a flurry of activity requiring complete focus. One wrong move could easily lead to tragedy.

Pleading my case to Droop, although cathartic in its relief of my conscience, never seemed to convince the pup of the danger of her becoming a member of the crew. Unmoved by my arguments, her behaviour was more akin to the pleadings of a soul cast ashore by a cold and callous captain, the victim begging for the consideration of her worth, that never comes.

I felt for her, knowing that she would not be the disruption that everyone expected. Begging Great Uncle Ira to relent and allow her onboard, fell completely on deft ears. Dogs had a purpose and in his mind fishing wasn’t one of them. The pup would remain ashore.

Within days, all hands, including Droop, fell into a comfortable routine. Up at three am, down to the boat with the dog in tow, preparing the skiff, leaving the wharf, the dog rapturously barking and running for the harbour mouth in a valiant attempt at finally being noticed for her efforts and triumphantly taken aboard.

On the fifth day of fishing, I awakened to silence. Opening my bedroom door, Droop is nowhere to be found. Not an unusual occurrence. Droop would often be let out in the middle of the night to relieve herself, or in some cases she would be called upon to expel livestock that had managed to get into the enclosed garden through any number of gates that ringed the family homestead.

Heading for the boat, I was surprised the dog hadn’t appeared. Thinking maybe, after having herded the animals out of the garden, Grandfather had invited her into his kitchen for a treat. Something that he often did.

Slipping free from the wharf, the engine comes to life as I jump upon the first midship room thwart with tiller lines in hand. My favourite perch, in rough water and in calm.

The morning was a touch dirty, with long low swells from the east and choppy water. We had just passed Red Point and I was staring at the Branesses, a low outcropping of rocks, washed constantly by the ocean, in an attempt to determine conditions when we finally reached the trap.

As I contemplated the scene before me, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. My head turns immediately, my gaze quickly fading from the Branesses to focus squarely on the fore-cuddy. I’m sure I saw movement.

Great Uncle Ira is sitting on the next thwart forward of me, head down, he’s asleep or in deep contemplation of life, either way, he is not paying much attention to anything. Having full view of the fore-cuddy, I see movement again, suddenly Droop emerges from beneath some oilskins. Standing transfixed, I’m not sure if what I am seeing is real.

As she is wanting to do on such occasions, Droop begins to gyrate, slowly turning in circles, shaking vigorously and whining softly with a defined air of absolute delight.

Without warning, Uncle Ira lunges, jumping for the dog. I know what he’s thinking. He’s fast, but I’m faster. With two thwarts to clear, he moves swiftly. From where I’m parked, I need only to take three steps. Jumping from thwart to thwart, I close the distance in a second. The timing, perfect, I tackle my Uncle just as he grabs the dog by the scruff of the neck. Pulling on his shoulders, I quickly arrested his forward movement. “You can’t toss her overboard in this sea” I roar, “how is she going to get up the cliffs? You’ll drown her.”

He spins and looks at me, his face a cross between confusion and admiration, if such an expression exists. Slowly turning towards the dog, he suddenly launches the beast forward, pitching her upright onto the fore-cuddy, the dog whining excitedly at the turn of events.

Uncle Ira spins and climbs back over the thwarts, reclaiming his spot without further reaction. Astonished at what we had just witnessed, the genus of Droop’s actions are not lost on either of us.

We haul the trap as we usually do, Droop never moving an inch. From her perch she surveyed the proceedings with great interest, standing only long enough for me to slip a few old coats under her frame.

Slipping out over the trap, the skiff comes to life with that old comforting melody, put, put, put. Droop stands, puts her front paws on the stem head and leans forward, bracing against the wind and the waves. Within minutes her back paws join her front. Her body rigid, she is a straight line from her nose to her tail, standing, as if some extraordinary figurehead, perched high in the bow of a British Man-O-War.

Brilliant and cunning, she had earned her place in the boat and in no small way, our hearts.

Dwight Verge
Harry’s Harbour, NL