The Scottie of Gitche Gumee

         The girl strolls down the streets of old Marquette sporting a navy denim jacket and a Guinness tote bag on her way to her final stop of the day. She gazes at the weathered façade of Washington Street, admiring its sober countenance which had kept her company since she was a child. For the last four months she has been waiting for winter's sharp chill to melt away so she can once again walk the familiar city streets and take in the crisp scent of Lake Superior that now fills the spring air.

         She spent the entire sunlit afternoon perusing the rock and mineral stores and touring the antique gift shops up and down the thoroughfare. Now she is ready for one last stop at Book World for a fresh novel before heading home and curling up to a restful read. She sifts through the fiction section for an hour before purchasing the perfect book and walks out of the shop with her nose glued into its pages. She is almost to the end of the first chapter when she catches something large and black in her peripheral vision.

         "Raf! Raf!"

         Startled, she stops and peers over her book to see a lone Scottish terrier underfoot. "Why, I'm sorry." She closes the book, using her finger to keep her place. "I didn't see you there."

         "Raf! Raf! Raf!" The dog furrows his brow and casts an unsympathetic glare.

         "Ruff! Ruff!" The girl mimics the pup, more out of affection than sarcasm. The dog relaxes his face and shuffles toward the girl, looking into her eyes. His own eyes soften as he tilts his head in curiosity. The girl notices a copper tag on the Scottie's red collar. She dog-ears her page in the book and places it in her tote bag before she bends down to read the tag: "Fitz".

         "Hmm-" She glances up at Fitz's face and then back down at the tag. "That's an odd name. And there's no info on here about an owner or anything." She looks up and down the street for any sign of a master. There is no one around save for herself, Fitz, and a man entering the café Lagniappe. "The owner is probably shopping or something. Gotta be." She stands back up and studies Fitz. "Or did you run away from home?"

         "Raf!" Fitz stands up also, wagging his tail.

         "Well, either way, I have to get back home now. It's going to get dark soon." The girl turns to leave. She looks back to wave goodbye. "You'd better do the same. It's been nice meeting you, Fitz."

         Before she can walk any further, Fitz darts out in front of her and stops about ten feet ahead. He looks back, wagging his tail, like he wants her to follow him. She lets out a chuckle. "All right, little one." She straightens her tote on her shoulder. "I suppose I can tag along with you for a little while."

         Fitz turns forward and starts to scamper down the sidewalk, looking back periodically to see if the girl is following. They walk through the Front Street crossing and down a couple more blocks past Lakeshore Avenue to the yachting piers lined along Superior's glistening shore. They stop at a gazebo by the docks where Fitz climbs up one of the weather-worn benches and peers out into the lake. He scans the horizon deep into the vastness of the blue waters like he is looking for something.

         The girl also looks out into the lake. The powder blue of the perfect late afternoon sky reflects off of the freshwater a deep azure, attracting both sailor and seagull alike. The wind that sweeps the waters into crests of waves carry with it the refreshing coolness from the Yukon permafrost and the mysterious icebergs floating beyond the horizon. The girl thinks about Fitz's owners and their possible whereabouts in the city. She listens for anyone calling out his name, but only hears the shrieks of the hungry seagulls.

         After a few minutes, Fitz shouts a "Raf" and scurries out of the gazebo and onto the bike path that winds around Superior's shore. She takes one last look at the piers and then follows him to the path. They walk past a scenic post where a father is timing a tripod-mounted digital camera while the family waits posed for a lake-view shot. They walk by beachside park with a fading swing set and jungle gym along with a couple of long-forgotten rocking rams waiting on their springs. They walk into shaded path of oaks and maples where a biking couple rides by, greeting the girl and the pup with a friendly wave. They walk to a beach-front restroom where the girl stops at the drinking fountain with the chipping green paint for a sip of water.

         They continue their journey until they see the power plant on Sugarloaf Avenue; the steel tubes reach out of the plant and sprawl over the street and the bike path like a bridge to the ship port on the lake's shore on the other side. There is an iron ore ship sailing into port to unload the raw materials it has carried across Superior. The massive craft inches its way to the port, its running lights glowing against the twilight sky.

         Fitz sees the ship's lights and sprints off of the path and in the direction of the great boat barking manically all the way. The girl runs after the pup, trying to hold on to her tote. Fitz runs through the grass and into the beach, halting to a dead stop at the shore. The girl slows down to a jog and then stops beside Fitz. She looks at Fitz, catching her breath, and then looks in the direction of Fitz's stare. The iron ore ship, its sheer size comparable to Lake Superior herself, mesmerizes both of them. Fitz begins a barking fit, like he is somehow hoping to catch the ship's attention. The ship reaches a halt at the port and the sounds of people moving rise from its deck. Fitz stops his mad rapping and reconstitutes his gaze back upon the deck and the running lights. After a few minutes of searching, Fitz looks up at the girl with glossy eyes and ambles his way back to the bike path. The girl follows Fitz off of the beach, looking back at the ship once more before reaching the path.

         They walk back together toward the direction of the town. The girl watches the sky darken from a dusty pink to a deep purple. The street lights are beginning to power on and the couples and the sunset watchers are packing up to go home. Fitz looks up and meets the girl's eyes for a final gaze. He then turns away and jogs off into the distance, turning back at the girl for one last "Raf" before disappearing into the night.

         The girl waves goodbye to the pooch and then starts off on her own way. She peers into the dimming sky and realizes that she is still some ways from her own home. She lives on Lincoln Avenue and it is still a good half an hour walk before she will reach her front steps. She sits on a nearby bench to rest for a few minutes before starting her trek home, setting her tote bag beside her feet. She watches a flock of seagulls fight over a piece of stale hamburger bun. An elderly lady with a cornflower vintage felt hat and a quarter-loaf of Wonder bread walks to the bench and joins her for a sit. The lady opens her bread bag offers the girl a slice of bread, "Why don't you go ahead and feed them some of this?"

         "All right." The girl takes the stale slice and starts piecing it apart. "Thank you."

         The girl starts tossing the pieces into the flock of seagulls. The birds stop fighting over the stale bun and start battling each other over the pieces of bread she is tossing their way. She tosses one piece a little too close to the bench and the gulls attack the spot, almost taking out its patrons.

         "Be careful now, dear", the lady says. "If you're not they'll peck our eyes out."

         "Sorry about that." The girl says, blushing. She feeds the gulls more bread, tossing the pieces a little further out this time.

         They sit there for a few minutes in silence, tossing out the bread pieces and watching the gulls compete for the crumbs. Through these moments, all the girl can think about is poor Fitz wandering around the city all alone. After she finished giving away her slice to the gulls the girl turns to the lady and asks "Do you know anything about the Scottie that has been wandering around here by the shore?"

         The lady pulls out another slice of bread for the girl. "What was that, dear?" She leans forward so she can hear the girl when she asks her question again.

         "Oh, thank you." She takes the bread offered to her and starts piecing it apart. "There's a little black Scottish terrier that's been wandering around the shore alone all day. I think it might be lost. Do you know of anyone it might belong to?"

         "A Scottie, eh?" The lady sits up and looks out towards the gulls. "I haven't seen a Scottie around here in who knows how long." The lady pulls out a slice of bread for herself. "I'll ask around for you though. Let them know that you found a Scottie wandering around these parts."

         "Thank you." The girl says.

         They sit in silence for a few moments feeding the seagulls before the lady speaks again. "My first husband and I used to have a little terrier, back in seventy-five. We lived over towards Duluth back then, over in Iron River. The Wisconsin one." She tears off a couple more bread pieces and then continues. "I thought the little thing was annoying as hell, but they were his favorite type of dog so I didn't win no way. They are mad little barkers too, those terriers. At least his was."

         The girl listens motionless while the lady speaks. The lady finishes off her last slice of bread and then gazes out into the lake. "That dog ended up living a long time after Tom died. Tom was my husband, you see. He lived until he was almost eighteen years old. That's quite a long time for any terrier. I think he was just waiting for Tom to come back home. You can only wait so long until time takes a toll."

         The girl digests all the words that the lady spoke. She lets her thoughts roll around in her head for a moment before she asks "How did he die?"

         "Who? The dog or Tom?"

         "Tom, I suppose. You said that the dog died of old age, didn't you?"

         The lady chuckles at her own oversight. "Yes, I suppose I did. Tom wasn't so old, as you can imagine." The lady turns to the girl and looks her in the eye. "Actually I bet you can figure out how he died, living up here. You can't go anywhere around here and escape ol' Lightfoot's song about that wreck."

         "He was on there?" The girl asks louder than she had anticipated out of surprise. Growing up in northern Michigan she had heard Gordon's song more times than she could count. Her fifth-grade class even studied the Edmund Fitzgerald as a social studies unit; she received an A- for the diorama she made depicting the wreck. But never did she have the chance to meet anyone who lost loved ones in its sinking.

         "He sure was. He was as excited as anyone when that ship was built. He looked forward to the job prospects of it. He even named that dog after the ship, you know." She sits back on the bench, rolling up the empty bread bag and setting it beside her. "Ah, right up until the dog died he would run up and down the shores when we'd visit here. Ol' Fitz would run up and down them shores looking for Tom."

         "Fitz!?"

         "Fitzgerald. That was the dog's name." She can't help but notice the shocked look on the girl's face. "I know. It's a horrible name. Anyways, he would run out to the shoreline and just stare out there in that lake for the longest time." The lady gazes back out into the darkening horizon and sighs deep. "I think he really did take Tom's loss as hard as any of us. Some say dogs don't have feelings like us humans have but I don't believe that at all. Not for a minute. I would bet all my casino winnings that his spirit is still out there, ol' Fitz's. I bet that he's still running these shores looking for Tom to come home."

         Both the girl and the lady are looking out into the waters now. The sun is completely gone and the thin mists of the night are creeping up from the horizon, into the lake and toward the shore like the mournful specters of the deep. The lady shakes her head. "No, Lake Superior is not a place for those who can't take the ghosts."

Thank you, Princess Megan Rose , for the lovely ribbon!