Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Dave's Buddies - The Turlingtons' Dog & Curse of the Crayfish

Episode Date: February 17, 2023

“The fragrance of dead crayfish. Mmm-mm.”Two stories about Dave’s buddies. Bert Turlington gets a dog – but not exactly the kind he was hoping for; and Carl, Kenny, Bert and Dave enter a fishing contest where things get seriously out of hand, with hilarious consequences. Also this week, Vinyl Cafe producer Jess Milton recalls a particularly memorable winter visit to Minnedosa, Manitoba and shares a tale of some less-than-glamorous accommodation that she and Stuart enjoyed there. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton, and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Café. Welcome. Today, two stories about boys in the hood. Dave's hood. Kenny Wong, Bert Turlington, Carl Lobier, getting up to no good. We're going to start with this one. This is the Turlington's dog. Dave's neighbor, Bert Turlington, successful criminal lawyer, devoted husband to father of three, has always desperately, passionately,

unswervingly wanted a dog. Bert's wanted a dog his whole life. Wanting a dog is one of Bert's very first memories. But he learned early that having a dog in his mother's house was out of the question. I'm allergic said Mrs. Turlington over and over. Bert believed that until the summer he and his family shared a beach house in Prince Edward Island with Bert's aunt and uncle and their English sheepdog. And his mother, glaringly free from sneezes and sniffles, was forced to reword her objection. It's more of an emotional allergy, she explained.

Bert always thought he would get a dog the moment he left home, but when he left, he left for university and found himself without the money, the time, or space for a dog. After graduation, he dated a woman who owned a golden retriever. His relationship with her was good, but his relationship with the dog was great. He ended up sticking around her for a good year longer than he should have because he was so fond of the dog. And then Bert met Mary. Mary was more direct than his mother. More fuss and bother than they're worth is how Mary described dogs.

She said this more than once, finally with such exasperation that Bert suspected that's how she'd start describing him if he raised the subject one more time. So Bert chose a life with Mary over a life with a lab. Most of the time he felt he'd made the right choice. a life with a lab. Most of the time he felt he'd made the right choice. And as the years unfolded, Bert settled into his dogless life. So Bert was completely surprised when one Saturday morning, Mary strode into the kitchen and said, do you know what I think this family needs? Adam, her son, who was morosely scrubbing the breakfast dishes, was the only one to answer. Paper plates, said Adam. What this family needs, said Mary, ignoring him, is a dog. Bert almost fell off his chair. Bert didn't care why Mary had suddenly softened on the subject of dogs.

He didn't care if she was, as he suspected, subverting her wistful memories of young motherhood under the cloak of puppy love. He didn't care if no one in the family had any interest in her suggestion. Bert was a man who had been granted his three wishes all at once. Burt was a man about to experience his greatest desire. He went straight to his computer and started researching. Plunked in front of a computer screen, Burt dreamed of tough and no-nonsense bull terriers, of lively energetic Dalmatians, of handsome Irish satyrs with their red, silky manes. He could throw Mary a bone.

An Irish satyr would compliment their living room. But Bert knew where he was heading all along. The bull terrier and the Dalmatian were just diversions. Bert was a man who had sublimated his desire far too long not to know its ideal incarnation. Bert was heading to the land of chocolate labs. In Bert's mind, a chocolate lab was the most perfect dog in the world. Bert had just begun compiling his list of Labrador breeders, had just started making phone calls and checking references when he came home from work to discover his kitchen roiling in commotion. The twins jumping around in excitement, Adam and Mary huddled together,

their eyes glued to the floor. There was the sound of squeaking and scratching, and then a small knot of white fur the size of a tennis ball bounced across the kitchen and slid to a stop at Bert's feet. The furry thing was clearly alive, but Bert wasn't sure what life form it was. It looked like a hamster. What, said Bert, confused. It's a teacup Pomeranian, said Mary. What, said Bert. A Pomeranian, said Mary, a very special kind of dog. What, said Bert.

Mary was beaming. The breeder says they can grow to be as big as seven pounds, but she's pretty sure tissue won't get bigger than six. Who, said Bert? Wow, said Adam. She's so tiny. Is she the runt of the litter? Don't be silly, snorted Mary. You don't pay $1,800 for the small one. What, said Bert? It took a few months for Bert to accept that this tiny creature was the family dog, the only family dog. While the truth gnawed its way into Bert's consciousness, Mary undertook the care and feeding of her newest charge. And it was pretty obvious that Mary had been transported back in time.

There was a feeding schedule taped to the fridge. And there were several leashes, a matching set of food and water bowls, an everyday collar and one for special occasions. What kind of special occasions could a dog have asked Bert in exasperation. Mary even found a recipe for homemade dog biscuits and spent a Saturday afternoon using a tiny cookie cutter in the shape of a bone to punch out miniature treats. The only thing Mary didn't take in stride was the fur. Tissue was a shatter. Mary assigned the twins brushing duties,

but no matter how much grooming tissue underwent, telltale wisps of white fur floated around the house like defiant butterflies. Now, if there's one thing Mary believes in, it's vacuuming. The sound of the vacuum cleaner has long been the soundtrack for the Turlington household. Most dogs, well, I don't have to tell you, most dogs hate vacuums. In the first few days at the Turlington's, Tissue tried to scare the thing away by growling and barking every time it appeared. But the vacuum continued to hove into view every few hours and eventually, like the rest of the family, Tissue began to ignore it. One day, Bert walked into the living room to see Mary holding Tissue while she ran a dust buster over the dog's back.

It was about a month after Tissue arrived when Mary came home from work and handed Bert a small square of plaid wool. What's this, said Bert? Tissue's coat, said Mary, and booties. said Bert. Tissues coat, said Mary, and booties. What, said Bert? She needs to start getting some real exercise, said Mary. You can take her for a walk. You're the dog lover. For all his years arguing in court, Bert has never won one at home. Like it or not, has never won one at home. Like it or not, Bert was going to be taking Tissue for her daily walk. Mary wrestled Tissue in her tiny little coat and boots and then pushed the two reluctant walkers, man and dog, out the front door. Tissue made it to the end of the snowy driveway when she started to whimper. Her booties were too big. Three of them had fallen off. Bert shoved them into his pocket. Tissue refused to take another step on the ice. Bert tried to get her moving.

Come on, he said. Come on, let's go, he said. We're going for a walk. And that's when Ted Anderson drove by. Ted didn't see tissue. Ted thought Bert was talking to his own feet. Jim Schofield passed next. Bert could tell by the smirk on his face that Jim had spotted tissue. Bert knew that Jim was thinking what every self-respecting man would think when he saw Bert leading a tiny tartan-clad Pomeranian down the street. Jim was thinking, there goes another dumb schmuck walking his wife's dog. As Bert slunk home, he wondered why he was feeling so embarrassed.

Jim Schofield had a cat, for heaven's sakes. But Jim's cat was a darn sight bigger than tissue. And he went outside by himself. And when cats go outside, they behave differently, like teenagers. They pretend they don't know you. Cats can be just as embarrassed by you as you might be by them. The next night, Bert decided that he would walk Tissue with Dave and Arthur. He tucked Tissue into his jacket and he headed out. As he got to the bottom of his driveway, Bert spotted Dave and Tissue spotted Arthur. As soon as she did, Bert knew they were in trouble. Dave saw Bert walking toward him and he waved and then he stopped and he frowned. There was something wrong. Bert seemed different. He looked like he was in pain. His mouth was twisted and he was clutching his chest. He looked as if he was trying to hold himself together.

Bert, said Dave. Dave had stopped dead. Bert was sort of staggering toward him. His chest was distended and moving. There was something in Bert's chest, something writhing. And Dave, who had been thinking Bert is having a heart attack, suddenly flashed on that movie with Sigourney Weaver. That horrifying moment when the alien fought its way out of the guy's chest. And it was at that moment when Bert's jacket ripped open and Dave heard the sound of tearing and snarling and saw the flash of tiny alien fangs snapping

and biting at Bert. Dave cried, help! And he leapt backwards without realizing that Arthur was cowering behind him. And there was a tangle of arms and legs, Dave and Arthur flailing in fear and panic as the small ball of fur bounced around them, yipping and yapping. Bert helped Dave off the sidewalk and then, without a word, scooped the furry alien up into his arms and headed back up his driveway and into his house. into his arms and headed back up his driveway and into his house. And so Bert gave up on his idea of walking his dog with Dave. Instead, he took Tissue to the corner and back early in the morning when he was less likely to run into anyone. He fashioned a short dog run in the backyard and enclosed it in chicken wire so that the squirrels wouldn't get to tissue.

He tried not to think of tissue as a dog exactly. He told himself he had a cat that didn't purr. He had a cat that didn't purr. He was sitting at the dining room table on a Saturday morning several weeks later working on a case when he heard one of the twins calling. It was Christina. She sounded desperate. Bert raced upstairs and into their bedroom. The twins were staring at the floor.

Bert noticed the cover of the hot air vent lying on the floor beside them. Exactly. I dropped a toonie, said Chris. We took the cover off to get it. Tissue fell down the hole, said Christina. We can't get her out. There was a tiny yip from the vent. Bert got on his knees, and sure enough, about a foot down the shaft,

there was a patch of white fur and a couple of familiar ears. When she saw Bert, tissue began to wriggle and scrabble, but she couldn't get back up the vent. Bert reached down, but there wasn't enough room to get his hand around the dog. Bert sat back on his heels and sighed. Nothing like this had ever happened with his girlfriend's golden retriever. He looked down the vent again. A small tuft of fur lifted off Tissue's back and floated toward him.

And suddenly, Bert knew what he would do. Stay right there, he said to Tissue, unnecessarily. to Tissue unnecessarily. Now, most dogs would have been terrorized when Bert started up Mary's industrial vacuum cleaner. But Tissue looked at the looming vacuum that Bert was feeding down that air vent and sighed contentedly. Bert kept lowering the hose

until he heard the whoosh of the nozzle making contact with Tissue's fur. He waited until the seal was good and tight, and then he yanked, and there was a... And then Bert was trying to get control of the hose, which was waving around over his head like an enormous fur-top baton. was waving around over his head like an enormous fur-topped baton. When Bert eventually turned the vacuum off, tissue plopped into his outstretched hand. She nuzzled his palm and gave his wrist a sloppy lick. Bert held tissue against his chest and stroked her small back for a few moments, and then he lowered her gently to the floor. The next day, Bert decided to try his hand at making dog biscuits.

Tissue rubbed around his feet the whole time he was cooking. Every once in a while, Bert reached down and scratched behind her ears. When Bert had the cookies in the oven, he picked up the mixing bowl and moved towards the dishwasher, and then he had a thought. He put the mixing bowl on the ground, scooped tissue up, and dropped her into the bowl. She stood there for a second, wagging her tail, and then she began to lick the sides of the bowl with lightning speed. Bert leaned against the counter and smiled. As the months passed, Bert took more and more care of Tissue. Sometimes he gripes about it to his neighbors and friends. Gotta take Mary's dog to the vet for shots, or I was up at six this morning to let Mary's dog outside. To hear Bert tell it, T, tissue was Mary's dog and the next family

pet, if he had anything to do with it, would be a chocolate lab or maybe a Dalmatian. But what Bert doesn't tell us all is that his favorite time of the day is no longer that moment when he walks through his front door at the end of the day. Bert's favorite moment now happens just as the sun peeks above the horizon, the moment tissue arrives at his side of the bed with her leash in her mouth. The moment, a few moments later, when he cracks open the front door

and the two of them, man and dog, head out on their morning walk. Bert's footsteps echoed by the tiny click of Tissue's paws. That was the Turlington's dog, Tissue. What a name. Tissue. I got to tell you, actually, that name, Tissue, came from my friend's parents named their dog Tissue. And when they told me that, I had to suppress laughter. And I immediately knew we had to use it.

It just immediately felt like a name Mary Turlington would give her dog. And I think we even invented that story to use the name Tissue. And I always felt like a name Mary Turlington would give her dog. And I think we even invented that story to use the name Tissue. And I always felt kind of guilty about that. Like, I was always nervous that my friend's parents were going to hear the show and think I was making fun of their dog's name, which, of course, we were. But so Claire's parents, if you're listening to this, I'm sorry, but it's just too good to pass up. We recorded that story about tissue in Minidosa, Manitoba. Minidosa, for those of you who don't know it, and I'm guessing that's most of you, is a town of like, I don't know, 3,000 people or something, about half an hour north of Brandon, Manitoba.

And Stuart and I spent a week there back in 09. something, about half an hour north of Brandon, Manitoba. And Stuart and I spent a week there back in 09. I have a lot of memories from that trip. But when I close my eyes and think of Minidosa, the first thing I think of is actually a neighboring town called Clan William. We wanted to write about curling. And everyone said Clan William was the place we had to go. And man, were they right. It is incredible. It's the real deal for sure. We arrived in town and couldn't find the curling club. We actually had to stop at the general store to get directions. You know, no cell signal, no Google Maps.

And my God, the store, the general store was incredible. That's a whole other story for a whole other podcast. But I'll give you one little tiny tidbit. There was an itinerant barber that went from town to town, like a roaming, kind of like a traveling salesman, but a traveling barber who went from town to town to cut people's hair. Amazing. That tells you everything you need to know about the place. Anyway, we did find our way to this curling rink and it was tucked in the shadow of a green elevator. And I remember getting out of the car and walking towards the curling rink and feeling like I was walking through a cliche in the best possible way.

There was that crunch of the snow beneath my feet. There was the glow of the moon hanging low in the sky, the big prairie sky. And there was my breath coming out like puffs of smoke in the air. Outside, there was a shinny rink. And inside, inside was two sheets of ice, homemade burgers, and lemon meringue pie. Come on. Come on. As we walked back to the car at the end of the night, neither of us said anything. It was just one of those moments. I knew exactly what Stuart was thinking. He didn't have to say it. He was thinking, this is perfect, and I can't wait to write about it. And I was thinking the same thing. And I actually stopped to take a picture because it was so perfect. I knew I'd want to look back on the moment. I knew it was

just one of those moments that kind of like perfectly captured what my life was like in those days. And even as I took the picture, I knew I didn't have to. I knew it was a moment that I would remember forever. My friend Danny Michelle, Danny, by the way, wrote the theme song for this podcast. And he has this great way of capturing those moments. He says, these are the good old days. And I love that. You all know those moments, those moments where something is just, just feels so good that even as you're living it, you know, you're making a memory. I love that feeling. And I had that feeling that night in Clan William. There's one more thing about that trip,

though, that I remember extremely clearly. And that's the moment we drove up to the motel in Minidosa. It was one of those, you know, single story kind of motor motels that you park in front of. It was January. And we pulled up. And it looked like, I don't know, like it looked like the place had gone up in flames. And it looked like that because it had gone up in flames. We arrived to find half the motel burnt down. A couple of weeks before they lost a bunch of rooms, including ours, but they'd moved us into different rooms and they'd put tarps up on the roof and they'd given us space heaters. And if I were to tell you we were excited about staying there, that would be a lie. We were definitely not excited about staying there, but we did. We, you know, we toyed with the idea of driving back to Brandon and staying in, you know, a Holiday Inn or something,

but it just didn't feel right. So we didn't do that. And thank gosh we didn't, because if we did, then I wouldn't be telling this story like 15 years later. So we stayed in the burnt out motel. The tarp on the roof was fine and the space heaters were fine. In fact, they were better than fine. It was super cozy. And they had this little restaurant connected to the motel and everybody went there for dinner and it was lovely and warm and cozy. And we got a story out of it too. So it's perfect. Speaking of stories, we'll be back in a minute or so with another Dave and Marley story.

This one's called Curse of the Crayfish. Welcome back. Story time. This is Curse of the Crayfish. When Dave's neighbor, Gertle Loebier, finally figured it out, it seemed so obvious to her that she just couldn't believe it took her so long. It struck her in the springtime. Carl, her husband Carl, had gone all distant

and was, you know, acting moody again. You could almost say depressed. I am not depressed, said Carl. It's exactly like last spring, said Gerda. And that's when she put it together. You missed the fishing contest, said Gerda. For 22 years, Carl had organized his company's fishing game. A team, said Carl. I organized the team. I was the team captain.

It wasn't a game. It was a tournament. For 22 years then, Carl had organized the company team in this fishing derby, and then Carl had retired. Well, you make it sound like it was my idea, said Carl. I would have kept working, and that is the rub. Carl never wanted to retire. And when he did, or more to the point, when he turned 65 and was forced to, it never occurred to him that he would be dropped from the fishing derby roster. It was as much his thing as the company's, for heaven's sakes. And it wasn't like this derby was what you'd call business. What was most galling was that he still received invitations to the company's barbecue,

company golf tournament, and even to the fall food drive. Carl suspected Norm Harrison was behind his exclusion. Norm had leapt into Carl's seat before Carl had moved his last box out of his office. Norm had been maneuvering for a spot on the fishing team for years. Derby is a big deal, said Carl. If you knew anything about fishing, you'd know it's a big deal. And during his last five years as captain, we came second, said Carl, twice.

And third, once. We were overdue. But you never won, said Gerda. But we would have, said Carl. Exactly, said Gerda. And that is how Carl, Carl Loebier, and Bert, Dave's neighbor, Bert Turlington, and Kenny Wong, and Dave came to find themselves a few weeks ago, shoehorned into room 24 of the Red Squirrel Motel and Cabins. One of those places where the wafer is soap. The one wafer comes wrapped in pale green paper with a

little picture of a squirrel gnawing on a pine cone. It was the last room and the only place with a room left. Everything else was booked solid. We were lucky to get it, said Carl. Two double beds, Four grown men. Dave and Kenny were sharing the bed next to the door. Bert and Carl had the other one. They arrived late on Friday night. At five on Saturday morning, Carl opened his eyes and saw Dave was already up. It's raining, said Dave. This was more or less the beginning of it.

Five in the morning, in the rain, room 24 of the Red Squirrel Motel, half a mile from Big Lake Boireau. They had two days. They could catch as many fish as they wanted, but each of them were only allowed to keep and submit one to the contest. Rest had to be thrown back. There were two prizes. One for the biggest single fish, the other for the team total, a total by weight.

Registration was at the marina. The marina was about half an hour away. Those are the guys, said Carl when they got there. That's Norm Harrison. I knew it. Carl's old office team. There were four of them on the team loading stuff into a low-profile fishing boat with twin 75 horsepower Mercs. One of those fancy bow riders with chairs, the kind you see on television fishing shows. They were wearing matchy khaki vests and green matching ball caps. Each one of them had so much gear hanging from his belt they looked more like they were heading out to repair phone lines than catch fish.

Of course, it was Norm Harrison who spotted Carl. Whoa, Carl Loebier, said Norm. I didn't know you were still around. Carl was standing at the far end of the dock, beside a 16-foot tin boat with an old blue 10-horsepower Avinrude. Their boat was filled with six inches of scuzzy brown water Dave picked up a yogurt container floating in the bottom Climbed in, sat on the far gunwale, and began to bail They were looking for smallmouth bass

A relatively small fish Two pounds is a good size Anything over four is a wall hanger Yet said by bass aficionados to be pound for pound the greatest fighting fish in the world. They were heading for a bay that Carl liked. Through a narrows and around a point and then left by a big flat rock at the end of the lake. flat rock at the end of the lake. Lots of low trees shouted Carl over the motor and deadfalls, baths like shade. It was only 7.30 when they got there and raining harder. They took turns, three fishing, one bailing. It stopped raining at 10. 10.30 the sun was out and the lake misty and they peeled off their jackets.

The bugs came out with a sign. They were bad but you know, bearable. Until Kenny opened a pop and it exploded all over Carl. And that turned Carl into a sticky, sugary fly magnet. Five minutes later, five minutes after he had doused Carl, Kenny caught the first fish. It was around noon. Carl said, toss it back. Kenny looked at the fish and shrugged. It was about one and a half pounds. Carl was the boss. So Kenny threw it back. They didn't even take a picture. In the middle of the afternoon, it started to rain again. By four, it was coming down pretty steadily.

Bert looked at Dave. Dave looked at Kenny. Kenny shrugged and pointed to Carl. Carl said, yeah, okay. And they put their rods away and they started the engine and they headed back. Halfway there, Carl's old team passed them in their flat bottom boat. They were almost planing, the bow bouncing up and down ever so slightly, the four of them sitting under the bimini, bone dry. As they skimmed by, Norm Harrison reached down and pulled up a string of fish. Carl eyeballed it. One of the bottoms got to be close to four pounds, said Carl, glumly.

As bad as the day before had been, the next morning was good. As wet and cold as day one had been, day two felt blessed. It was a half hour before dawn when they pulled into the marina. It was still dark as they putted away in their boat. Out in Big Bay, Carl pointed out a moose bull swimming across the lake, his huge head and antlers a shadow against the dark shore. Twenty minutes later, they pulled into their bay and surprised a raft of ducks. Carl heard them before he saw them,

their surprised coughs, and then the beat of their wings on the water as they lifted up and skidded down a safe distance away. The songbirds were only just starting to wake. Carl opened the bag at his feet and handed everyone a cup of coffee, passed around a bag of muffins, and they floated there happily as the sky turned an impossible palette of pinks and powder blues.

By eleven, they had two fish, neither of them huge, but both big enough to keep, both big enough to ratchet up the level of intensity. Maybe they could win this. Kenny began spraying his lure with a little aerosol bottle. Stuff smells horrible, said Dave. Not to a fish, said Kenny. Fragrance of dead crayfish. Mm-mm. said Kenny. Fragrance of dead crayfish. At 1130, Kenny was proved right. At 1130, he hooked his second fish. This one hit hard. Kenny jerked his rod and the fish jumped high, twisting in the air on the way down. Tip down, tip down, said Carl.

Got to be four pounds, said Carl, as Kenny played his line out. It weighed five. Five pounds, four ounces. I don't remember anything over four ever, said Carl. This could be a record. The fish went into the well in the center of their boat, a little built-in swimming pool. They still had six more hours.

They didn't want it drying out. They didn't want to risk losing even a precious ounce of moisture. At noon, they were floating there, their feet up again, eating sandwiches, feeling not smug exactly, but clearly pleased with themselves. One more good-sized fish and we have a shot at this, said Carl. Carl's knee was bouncing up and down. Carl was excited. Take that, Norm Harrison, muttered Carl under his breath. And that is when Dave pointed at a little weedy shallow and said, if I was a fish, I'd hide in there where it

was cool, where there'd be stuff to eat, where nothing would eat you. Wasn't such a bad idea. Carl had a pair of hip waders in his pack. Carl put the waders on. They paddled over and put him ashore on a rock. Carl waded into the weeds. He worked at it for about 20 minutes, the water up to his knees, waved at them in the bowl, nothing yet, and he waded out further. The pressure of the lake pressed the waders against his body, felt as if he was being squeezed, like he was wearing pressure socks. It felt like the lake was hugging him, like he was of the lake rather than in it. He moved deeper, from up to his knees to almost his waist, standing there in the weeds, long, slow casts,

long, slow retrieves. The rhythm of it was completely absorbing. Draw the rod back. Throw the line out. Reel the line in. Draw the rod back. Throw the line out. It was like a dance.

One, two, three. One, two, three. A dragonfly landed on a lily pad right in front of him. And time passed. How much? Who knows? There was a splash about 50 yards to his right. Something had broken the water to his right. Whatever it was, Carl sensed it was big. It jumped again. Carl spooled in quickly,

about to wade over when he remembered the spray that Kenny had slipped in his pocket as he was climbing out of the boat. Try this, Kenny had said. Carl pulled the plastic bottle out of his pocket and he shrugged. Gave his lure a few quick sprays. He glanced at his watch. Four o'clock. They had two hours left. Most of the afternoon had passed. It was now or never. On an impulse, Carl gave himself a blast from the aerosol.

He thought it might mask his odor, thought it might keep the fish from being scared away. He sprayed his back, his shoulders, and his arms. Carl was convinced they were one fish away from the championship. That one fish might be one cast away. He was wading over to where that fish had jumped, trying not to splash, trying to glide. When he got to what he figured was 20 yards away,

Carl lifted his rod, drew it back over his right shoulder, and cast out the line. The lure hit the water. He let the lure settle and he began to reel it in. Later he would swear he could feel the Didn't do anything. A second to cast. And then a third. On the fourth, he felt it again. But this time, there was more than just breath. This time there was something. Carl stopped breathing. This was it.

This was his moment. Okay, Norm Harrison,. This was his moment. Okay, Norm Harrison, said Carl under his breath. And he broke his wrists and he jerked his arms back to set the hook. And his rod shook. And there was a flash of silver three feet above the water. The fish twisting against the sky like an acrobat. He felt the weight right away.

It was almost as big as Kenny's. It was four pounds if it was two. And that is when Carl saw the bear. It was sitting on the shore, maybe 30 yards away. The bear was watching Carl's fish as intently as Carl was. The fish jumped. The bear stood up. Carl wasn't sure who he should pay attention to. The bear and the fish answered that for him.

The fish broke towards shore. The bear stood up and charged the fish, which was still attached to the end of Carl's line. Carl watched in horror as the bear flicked his fish into the air and caught it in her mouth. Possession, as they say, is nine-tenths of the law. But possession can do strange things to a man. That was Carl's fish. The notion that he no longer actually had a fish on his line hadn't sunken in. The notion that he had a bear on his line didn't sink in till later. Carl set his legs and jerked the line.

The bear, who had been loping for the shore, stopped dead and glanced over his shoulder. A look of amazement clouded her face. She stood up on her back legs, her body swaying slightly, her snout in the air testing the wind. Carl and the bear realized what she was smelling at exactly the same instant. Her favorite thing in the world Dead crayfish The bear was looking at the largest crayfish She'd ever seen

It was Kenny who spotted them Or more to the point, spotted the bear. On all fours, leaping through the water towards Carl. It was Kenny who barked at Bert to start the motor. And while Bert fumbled with the engine, it was Kenny who realized they weren't going to make it in time. Kenny who scooped his five-pound champion bass out of the wet well. Oh, yes.

I'm sorry, but that's just the way it has to be. Kenny picked up that five-pound bass, and he held it over his head, and then he threw the fish as hard as he could, hit the bear right on the snout, just as the motor roared to life. The bear snatched the fish right out of the air, just as they drove by her at full speed, no more than ten yards away. Closer, said Dave later that night. I swear I could smell her breath.

Dave and Kenny dragged Carl over the gunnels on the fly as the bear turned and carried the prize fish to shore. They watched from the water as she ate the fish on the beach and then as she stood up and melted into the forest. Later that night, later on Sunday night, they were standing in a little group in their motel parking lot. They'd come in two cars. Both cars were parked and They were ready to go. The sun was down. Carl's defeat by Bayer had been somewhat mollified by the thrill of escape. I swear we were close enough that I smelled her breath, said Dave, for maybe the tenth time. Their defeat had also been mollified by the calamity that had befallen Norm Harrison

and the team representing Carl's former workplace. I don't, said Carl, like to, you know, celebrate someone else's calamity, said Dave. Yeah, said Carl, but when they're the agents of their own decline, said Dave, it's hard not to, you know, said Carl, gloat, said Dave. Norm Harrison's team had been caught using a worm blower, a little device that inflates worms and makes them float off the bottom and into the strike zone. A flagrant transgression in this feel-good derby. Norm Harrison's team

had been disqualified. And so Carl and his team went home. Not exactly champions, almost champions, said Carl, and not altogether unpleased with themselves. They got together to celebrate a month later at Kenny's Cafe after closing. The four of them sitting in the booth in the corner, a platter of crispy spring rolls, a whole steamed fish with garlic and ginger, a broccoli and a spicy pepper sauce, a bottle of red wine. To the bear, said Dave, holding up his glass. I swear I smelled its breath. They all hoisted their glasses, and when they'd drunk, Dave looked at Kenny and nodded ever so slightly, and a few moments later, Kenny got up and disappeared

through the swinging doors into the kitchen. And when he came back, he was carrying a package wrapped in brown paper. Shoved the brown paper package in Carl's hands. It's from all of us, he said. Carl looked at the package and then at the three of them sitting there. Go ahead, said Bert, unwrap it. They got their hands on a perfect fish skeleton and they had the skeleton mounted on a plaque like a taxidermy trophy. Carl laughed. Bones of the bass, he said. There was a gold plaque screwed onto the trophy. Carl read the plaque out loud. Many people go fishing all their lives without knowing that it's not fish they're after.

Thoreau, said Bert. Never read Thoreau, said Carl. Thoreau said Bert never read Thoreau said Carl then Carl said well maybe we should try again next year that's the idea said Dave we've already reserved a room one room said Carl all for one one for all said Dave and he reached out with his spoon and scooped the last of the ginger garlic sauce off the plate. I swear, he said, I swear I smelled her breath. Thank you.

That was Curse of the Crayfish. We recorded that story in North Hatley, Quebec in 2011. Time for a quick break. We'll be back soon. That's it for today. We'll be back next weekend with two more Dave and Morley stories, including this one,

a story about Dave's neighbor Eugene, or more to the point, his dentures. Eugene, with a pure joy of childhood, reached out and picked up the first ear of corn, and he held it in front of him for a second. It had been 17 long years. He breathed in the rich smell of the melted butter, and he sighed, and he opened his mouth, and when he opened his mouth, there was a far away click, like a car door unlocking, or a mouse trap going off in the night. Or a spring beginning to unravel. There was a click and another click and then another, and Eugene put the corn back on the plate. The clicks, which seemed to be coming from inside him, had begun to click so fast, they were more of a whirring than a clicking now.

And as Eugene sat there trying not to move, his mouth began to open. He was not trying to open his mouth. His mouth was opening on its own. Wider and wider. Wider than Eugene believed possible. So wide it felt like he was going to swallow his old head. And then the teeth reached their maximum open position and Eugene was standing in the middle of his own kitchen, his mouth wide open, looking like a desperate birdling waiting

for a worm. That's next week. You can hear the whole story next week on the podcast. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Theme music is by Danny Michelle. The show was recorded by Greg DeCloot and produced by Louise Curtis and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.