The Big Storm
"I’ve been in a few rainstorms, but this... this was something else altogether." [Episode 6]
You are reading 🏝The Little Island and the Hungry Dog, a children’s story by Charlie Shifflett told here on Substack in short, illustrated episodes. Previously, Baldy the seagull had freed two coconuts from the tree so that Marco could have a meal. Unfortunately, the hungry canine could not catch them and they were swallowed by the sea as a storm stirred the waters around the little island.
Not counting baths (which I hate) and the disaster1 that beached me on this lonely little island, the coming storm left me more wet and waterlogged than I ever remember feeling.
Sure, I’ve been in rainstorms while out on a walk with my master. She’s elderly and walks kind of slow (no offense if you’re a slow-walking human), and so we have found ourselves in our share of rain showers and sudden downpours.
But this…[shudders] — this was something else altogether.
Every gust of wind seemed to topple a mile-high wall of water right on top of me.
The measly, now-coconut-less palm could only shield my nose from the worst of it.
And when the waves of water reached the tree, I had to retreat to the rocks that mark the middle and highest point of the island.
Even then I was battered on every side by the wind and rain. When a particularly strong gust of wind would strike me on my nose, I would whirl around and look for another crevice in which I could shield my face.
I suppose experiencing that storm on the island felt a little like being locked inside a clothes washer — on high spin and cold rinse.
I’ve never had the, um, privilege, but some of my stuffed, plushy animal friends have and they say it’s just terrible. (My master’s ancient, childhood Teddy said his last experience in the washer was especially traumatic.)
The worst part: You think it’s all over; the spinning stops; the water has all drained out of the drum; and then — without a warning — the machine (or in my case the storm) starts up all over again. Another high-efficiency spin turning you round and round. Another jet of cold water blasting you in the eyeballs.
Ah, well… eventually, the storm did subside.
Clouds still lingered, but the setting sun backlit them with refractions of all sorts of pretty colors.
I can’t tell you exactly what the sky looked like, since dogs like me are part color-blind, so you’ll just have to let your imagination run wild.2 I’m just sure it was a terribly beautiful sky.
The night that followed, though — while not my first on the island — would feel like the longest of my life. I was wet. I was super-duper hungry. And, truth be told, I was beginning to miss ole snarky, bossy Baldy.
In fact, I was wondering where he flies off to during storms when I finally collapsed into a deep sleep.
Continue reading:
I know, my little ones — I still haven’t told you how I ended up on this wee little island. Just sit tight a little while longer… [Inaudible] What’s that? You’ll give me a treat if I tell the story right this minute? Hmmm. Give me a little time to think about your offer. You can be very persuasive, you know.
In fact, draw me a picture of what you think the sky might have looked like. Ask your mom or dad or grandpa or grandma or aunt or uncle or teacher or dog or cat or ferret or goldfish to email them to my human assistant at thelittleislandandthehungrydog [at] gmail.com. I’ll feature your beautiful drawing in a future post!