The waves of the Bras D’or Lakes would lap gently against the hull of the sailboat, absently drawing chimes of protest from it’s sun-kissed crow’s nest as the sea-faring leviathan swayed back and forth in the early morning tides. That hollow, roused bell was always a comfort to me, as it would be heard countless times during my weekend getaways to my grandparents’ seaside bungalow. The bell would awaken me each morning, and loll me off to sleep at the peak of every twilight. Like the maritime lullaby it was for many others before me, it never failed.

The beach house had seen many days and nights, with its sidings worn and chipped from the constant assault of the salty sea breeze and the brisk, Ben Eion air. For nearly fifty years, that house sat on those timeless shores to greet the waves of the Atlantic and many a sailboat was docked before the sandy beach, constantly dappled by the small footsteps of children who ran up and down the golden expanses. Despite the bonfires, storms and the peppering of little angels with their water wings in the tides… the bells always rang.

Every morning, I would trek into the aged confines of my grandparents’ bedroom to sit on their bed. That room always captivated my young mind with its musty scent, pink walls, oil lamps and the thirty-year-old quilt that smelled like salt water. Surrounded by oil paintings of lighthouses, coastlines and scenery, I would nestle into the blankets with a bowl of Fruit Loops in my lap. With the patience and insight of someone thrice my age, I would examine each and every timeless ‘artifact’ in the room: Dresses from the fifties, loafers, hardcover Reader’s Digests and even a pair of wooden, Czech shoes. With the utmost care, all of these articles and many others would be observed, but only one object in particular held my youthful attention.

It had it’s own little stand, with it’s back turned stoically to the sunny window at it’s flank. Obviously a toy of sorts, having long been devoid of a child’s delicate touch and the duties of protecting it’s youthful owner from the monsters under the bed. The stuffed dog, imported from New York, was certainly historical in it’s own right, for it’s crushed velvet, brown fur had lost a former sheen to about eighty years worth of dust. The constant exposure to sun gradually began to bleach the chocolate brown tones into that of a taupe shade, but expressive beads of black plastic never lost their shine. Staring back at me from above a half-opened muzzle, as if asking to be hugged again.

Haphazardly, I would take the old pup into my hands, holding it as if it had been the most fragile being to grace this world. With the soggy cereal abandoned to the nightstand, I would examine the toy as if it was a Christmas present. The framework was hard and hollow, most definitely composed of wood and thin cotton. The dog was troublesome to embrace, but a dented belly and tight shoulders proved it’s earlier years of being hugged by its juvenile owner. A small section of the chest would click if pressed inwards, so there was a sort of mechanism inside. Could it have been possible that this old martyr of the toy world had a voice at one point? The mouth remained agape, as if frozen in mid-bark.

In my curiosity, I would be unaware of my grandfather’s presence in the doorway, his green eyes watching me carefully. The moment I heard the old sailor’s quiet chuckle and his heavy feet moving away, I would instantly scramble to replace the toy dog and leave the room. It wouldn’t be my last excursion into a room that remained off limits to hyper little girls, as I would often revisit the wood and velvet dog every weekend. So many mysteries under those layers of dust… it was as if my grandfather knew something I did not.

Years waxed and waned like the glistening waves of the ocean, and I never really got around to understanding the dog further. I was not eight years old anymore and my new, sixteen-year-old life proclaimed better things than playing with ninety-year-old toys. My vigilant grandfather fell ill, as the onslaught of Alzheimer’s disease was slowly taking him away. His memories of watching his little granddaughter’s covert missions into his bedroom drifted away like the tides, and never returned.

During his last days, I would often accompany slews of family members to visit him. As he lie motionless in that white room, we would sit around his bed, Surely enough, at his side on it’s own little table, sat the wood and velvet dog. Having endured eight more years, with it’s back turned to the sunlight and black eyes glistening in the florescent lights. Gone were the pink walls, oil paintings, the salty breezes and the musty quilts. The old oak dresser was devoid of the toy’s presence, as it now stood stoically on the metal table’s chilly surface, watching its owner die.

As grandpa took his last breath and drifted off to be with God, I left the room slowly. Moments later, my grandmother followed behind me with the old toy cradled in her hands. In my arms it would be placed, it’s mouth half opened as if uttering a final goodbye. Off I would trek down the white halls of sterile tiles and rushing nurses. Letting the strong scents of bleach and starch remain oblivious, as the pain began to fall from me. My grandfather wasn’t truly gone, as the wood and velvet dog rested solemnly in my trembling grasp. Out into the sun I stepped, with the chiming of the boat’s bells in my ears and the scent of soggy cereal on my senses.

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© Faye Wong