My Last Boat Ride. EVER.

"On the way back to shore, I imagined each of the kids rehearsing the rescue story in their minds, eager to tell it to their friends and family - with their own tiny twist of the truth, no doubt."

You are reading 🏝The Little Island and the Hungry Dog, an illustrated story for kids (and kidults) published in serialized form here on Substack. With this installment, we close out Marco’s account of his adventures. The story’s final installment will be published as an epilogue next week. Just joining us? You can catch up on the whole story here.

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I’ll skip all the sappy stuff about my return home to Ms. Mei and old St. Francis.

No doubt, Ms. Mei will share a lengthy account of my homecoming in an epic Facebook post, complete with photos and videos of me, moments after arriving, nosing into the food closet and burying my head in a bag of kibble.

Me nestled in my suspiciously warm dog bed — St. Francis just out of reach, staring me down and tearing apart a plush, felt mouse with his paws and teeth.

Me with the three kids who, gulp, saved my life.

Suffice to say, the boat ride home was uneventful.

No storm snuck up on us.

No massive wave tipped the boat and spilled me (or anyone else out).

The kids — particularly the oldest — manned the boat as if it was a toy — comfortably, even playfully.

Illustration by Charlie Shifflett

They had expected to recover a surfboard stolen under mysterious circumstances — not to discover a house-trained golden retriever thought (reasonably so) to be long gone.

In the boat, on the way back to shore, I imagined each of the kids rehearsing the rescue story in their minds, eager to tell it to their friends and family — with their own tiny twist of the truth, no doubt.

I suppose, in this story, I might have done a little of that myself. But I assure you, with God, Ms. Mei and St. Francis as my witnesses, that everything pretty much happened just as I wrote it.

The storm might not have been quite as terrible as I made it out go be, but it was indeed a doozy.

I may not have got Baldy’s and Gordo’s words exactly right, but — without a notepad or recorder — I wrote them down as accurately as I could.

And, yes, it’s possible St. Francis was not wearing a helmet in my napmare-ish encounter with him in outer space, but I trust you’ll forgive me this and the other little embellishments.

I also trust you will allow me to step away from the keyboard without detailing what happened on that fateful boat ride that sent me sprawling into the gulf — and into this wild tale of dogged survival. Some things dogs just need to keep to themselves.

I still cannot bear to think about that day, and I have vowed never to set foot on a beach or boat again.

So no more leisurely walks with Ms. Mei on the beach for me.

No more tour boat rides to decommissioned lighthouses.

No more raw fish, ever. (Well, okay, on this point, I might be open to compromise should the bribe of treats be sufficient.)

I will, though, have many more of these: quiet, comfy naps in my cushy bed that smells suspiciously like St. Francis.

I know, in avoiding the beach, I will be missing out on pets from strangers, peanut butter treats for sitting patiently while Ms. Mei wades into the surf, strange seaside scents from rotting stingrays and dried seaweed passing through my nostrils, as well as surreal conversations with seagulls and on-the-lam sea otters.

But I’ve had my share of adventure, thank you very much, and now I would just like another hundred helpings of human-grade dog food — and unlimited naps without the rude awakening of torrential rains and wind nipping at my ears and tail.

[The story’s final installment, an epilogue, will be published next week.]