(THE FOLLOWING KEY WEST STORY IS TRUE. BUT BECAUSE THE
STATUTE OF LIMITATIONS STILL APPLIES, ALL NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT
THE GUILTY.)
Call him Howard. Or better, call him Big Howie because he’s built like a
grizzly bear: tall, heavy-set and formidable. He doesn’t walk, exactly. He
lumbers. His voice is gravelly and lubricated by Captain Morgan. Imagine a
middle-aged linebacker with a nasty laugh and a slight paunch. He looks pretty
much past his prime. But who’d want to risk finding out?
Big Howie is a senior agent of the Immigration and Naturalization
Service (INS) and has never been inclined toward kindness or compassion. (Something
to do with having three ex-wives.) So his temperament is well suited to the job
of patrolling the waters off the Florida Keys in search of anyone trying to
sneak into the good ole’ US of A. Big Howie and his partner, Dan the Fan, have
saved the country from more desperate Cubans, Dominicans, Haitians, Mexicans,
Nicaraguans and Hondurans than they can count. Along with the Coast Guard, they
are dedicated enforcers of our strange “Wet foot/Dry foot” policy which – should
you not be aware of it -- says
that if you make it to dry land, the US government won’t send your sorry ass back
to where you came from. But if you’re caught floating –- or even standing -- in
coastal waters, we’ll ship you back to the misery and degradation you’ve risked
your life to escape.
So one afternoon a few years ago, Big Howie is out testing a new
high-speed boat that’s been confiscated from some hapless drug runner and given
to the INS when he spots what looks like a piece of flotsam bobbing in the
distance about three miles off Geiger Key. It’s a hot, clear day and the ocean is
flatter than a drunken tourist singing karaoke. Since he’s not technically on
patrol and also alone (Dan the Fan has taken a sick day to attend a Marlins
game), he decides to ignore whatever it is and powers up the Hawk Channel toward
Palm Island where he spends an hour or more running the boat through its paces
and playing tag with sea buoys.
When he heads back to Key West, he
notices the same piece of flotsam floating in the same place. Unable to
identify it through his binoculars, and mildly curious, he heads toward it
until it materializes into another of what he and his co-workers call ‘Cuban
cruise ships’. It’s smaller than a
rowboat but bigger than a coffin; and made of pieces of old canvas tied to
metal milk cans which somehow support a makeshift engine mount. But there’s no
sign of an engine. Big Howie’ s
seen a lot of homemade ‘vessels’ in his day -- everything from rafted bathtubs
to motorized surf boards -- but
this one takes the cake.
There’s an old man sitting statue-still in the middle, holding a piece
of frayed rope looped around the neck of a grungy dog. Big Howie circles them at a safe distance,
calling out a ‘Hello!’, but the old man remains silent and rigid. Even the dog
doesn’t make eye contact, emitting only a low growl. Maneuvering carefully
alongside, Big Howie tosses a bottle of water toward the old man who reacts for
the first time, picks up the bottle and empties it in one long, thirsty shot.
Suddenly he manages a broken smile and -- with a voice that’s both hoarse and
weak –- breaks into a torrent of Spanish.
Unfortunately, Big Howie’s foreign lingo skills range from
‘adios’ to ‘café con leche’ and end there. So he has no idea what’s being said.
But that doesn’t matter because his duty’s clear. All that’s required of him is
to radio his position to the Coast Guard and wait for them to pick up the old
man. In a few days, he’ll be back from whence he came and the American taxpayer
will be saved from another welfare recipient.
But then, as Big Howie picks up the microphone of the marine
radio, something strange happens. Not being the introspective type, he doesn’t
know how it happens or why it happens. But it does happen. He feels a sharp stab of sympathy for
the old man which confuses him long enough to have an alien –- and unsettling –-
thought which leads to an impulsive –- and illegal -- decision. Looking around
to make sure no other boats are in sight, he throws the old man a line and
gestures for him to tie it to something. But there’s nothing safe to tie it to.
So the old man clutches it like a lifeline – which it is -- while Big Howie
slowly tows him further out to sea, steering with one hand and making calming
gestures with the other.
He heads toward an uncharted shoal a mile away, near the edge of the
Eastern Sambo reef. Although it seems to take hours to get there, there are still
no other boats around; which is just fine because what he’s doing is way out of
bounds. The shoal -- all sand and only
about fifteen feet long -- was
created a year earlier by Hurricane Wilma and barely manages to stay a foot above
the waterline. That means it’s a temporary but indisputable sliver of the good
ole’ US of A. So after he reaches it and makes the radio call, and after a
Coast Guard cutter appears on the hazy horizon, Big Howie – feeling mysteriously
good about himself -- takes off
for home; leaving behind a bent and barefoot old Cuban standing on a spit of
sand with a grungy mutt at his side.
Normally, that should be the end of the
story: a random and impetuous act of kindness from an improbable source. But once the kindness bug bites, all
kinds of itches want to be scratched, and all manner of confusion arises.
*****************
The next day is Big Howie’s day off and -- never one to consider sympathy or
understanding as motives -- he finds
himself in unfamiliar territory. He’s attacked by guilt and wondering why he
did what he did, and why he ignored his sworn duty. At first he tries to tell
himself that it’s probably because he likes dogs. Which is true; finding them more
compatible than women. But that’s
hardly a satisfying explanation because he’s nonetheless curious about out how the
old man is doing. And the grungy dog too, for that matter.
So he calls the INS detention
center and learns that the old man has been shipped to Miami where, according
to the records’ clerk, he has a grandson and various other relatives who are
happy to welcome him and who are very grateful he’s alive.
“So how about the dog?
“asks Big Howie.
“We sent
it over to the pound.” says the clerk. “They’re gonna’ put it down.”
Big Howie is shocked. “Whaddaya’ mean they’re gonna’ put it down?”
“You know, bubba … put it to sleep. Euthanize it.”
“They can’t do that!” says
Big Howie loudly. “I mean … it’s the old guy’s dog!”
“Yeah? Well, ain’t
none of my business, man. You got a problem .. take it up with them.”
And with
that the clerk ends the call.
“Asshole.” Big
Howie says; and with his usual assessment of people he’s never met adds:
“Shitheads … every fuckin’ one of ‘em.”
Indignant,
and anxious to take corrective action, he then jumps into his Ford 150 and
drives out to the animal shelter on Stock Island. It’s still early and the only
person there is an elderly female volunteer. He overwhelms her with official bluster,
his badge and his size; and then wings it. He tells her the dog entered the
country illegally and has to be sent back to Cuba. The poor woman is reduced to
speechless confusion as he ‘confiscates’ a portable kennel and manages to get
the dog – trembling and snapping – into the back of his truck.
Only then does he recognize
he’s given himself a problem. He knows what he wants to do, only he’s not sure
how to do it. But since he’s an action kind of guy, he takes the dog by the
horns, so to speak, and brings it to a vet he’s met a few times at Bare Assets.
The guy’s not happy to see Big Howie at his place of business, which has
several people and pets in the waiting room, and even less happy to see a
defensive, flea-infested mutt with no license or papers. But he eventually
agrees to examine the dog and to give it its proper shots on condition that Big
Howie makes no mention of their favorite strip joint. He even arranges for the
dog to be bathed and groomed the following day by his new fiancé, also with the
understanding that Bare Assets is off limits conversationally.
So now Big Howie has a clean,
healthy and somewhat calmer mutt who speaks no English; but is ready to be reunited
with its rightful owner and its native language. (For the sake of convenience
Big Howie calls the dog Pedro, the name he applies to all male Hispanics.
Females, of course, are Chiquitas, as in bananas.)
After getting the number and address of the old man’s grandson, he calls on the phone and introduces
himself. The conversation goes like this:
“ We got your grandfather’s dog down
here. You can come and get it anytime.”
“What chu’ talkin’ about? What dog?’
“The dog he came over wit’, bubba .. in the boat.”
“Hang on.” says the grandson. A
muted conversation is held in Spanish, with only the word ‘gringo’
recognizable. Then the grandson comes back on:
“He says it’s not his dog.”
“Whaddaya’ mean it’s not his dog? It
was in the boat wit’ him! Whose dog is it?”
“He don’t know. He says he picked it
up on the beach near Matanzas.”
“He WHAT? Big Howie is dumbfounded.
“Jesus Christ, man! What’s up with that? He need company or somethin’?”
“Naw, nothin’ like that. He
says he figured if he ran out of food, he could eat it.”
“The fuck you say! You be serious?
He was gonna’ eat the dog?”
“Thas’ what he say, man.
What can I tell ya’?”
Big Howie is rendered silent
until the grandson says: “You still there?”
“Yeah .. yeah.” he answers.
“So he don’t want it?”
“Hell, no. We awready got two
kids, two cats and a dog. Don’ need another one.”
“You sure? REAL sure?” Big
Howie asks in desperation.
“Yes boss, fer damn
sure. But thanks for pickin’ up the abuelo. He’s a little nuts sometimes, but
we love ‘im.”
“Ye’re welcome.” answers Big
Howie, as he hangs up. And then, addressing the general situation as he sees
it, he shouts “Aw shit!” because
he accepts that the dog, like it or not, is now his and his alone.
And that, my friends, is the
best story I’ve ever heard about how to adopt a dog in this lovely, eccentric
and unpredictable place called Key West.
*************
AFTER DINNER MINTS
I ran into Big Howie recently in Fort Lauderdale airport. He
eventually resigned from the INS and now runs a charter fishing boat out of Key
Largo. He says he’s found a woman who, while much younger, understands him and
is happy to live with him. Her name is Maria and she’s Cuban American. He
showed me a photograph and – I must say – she’s quite beautiful; and Howie’s
opinions of people and the world seem to have mellowed.
Pedro, he told me, is still alive, still nervous and
skittery around people, but is now bi-lingual. He’s sired six puppies ‘out of
wedlock’ with a neighbor’s Labrador, and Howie and Maria have kept one. Howie
named it Tonto after the Lone Ranger’s ever-loyal sidekick.
I think it’s a great name, but I can’t help but wonder whether
Maria has ever told Howie that ‘tonto’ in Spanish means ‘stupid’. If she hasn’t,
she’s wise beyond her years.
Finally, the ‘wet foot/dry foot’ policy remains in effect,
despite the renewal of diplomatic relations between Cuba and the United States.
It was and is an ill-conceived attempt to offer freedom and to deny it at the
same time. Let’s hope our policy makers come to their senses sometime soon, and
figure out that liberty cannot be both a carrot and a stick.
If you enjoyed reading this blog, please share it with your
friends. It can be accessed at http://keywestwind.blogspot.com
or by googling keywestwind. Many thanks and best wishes for a happy and
satisfying 2015.
