THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA DOG

    

                                                 

(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.

    

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