Loss and the Love of a Dog

Steinhatchee, Florida

I was in my office alone and lost. My brother had just died. I didn’t know what to do, but I had to look the part because it was my first day back at the firm.   

I called a high school buddy who lived on the Gulf Coast in a little fishing town called Steinhatchee. I don’t remember much of our conversation, but Scott invited me to his house: “Come on down; it’ll clear your mind.” I walked to my boss's office and said, “Stan, I need to go to Florida.” To his credit, he warmly replied, “I understand. Call me when you get back.”  

I drove from Atlanta to Florida the next day in a psychological fog. I was as empty as I was exhausted. My nerve endings were vulnerable and raw. 

Scott owned the quintessential Gulf Coast dive: replete with dollar bills stapled to a low ceiling, locals getting their fill of cheap draft beers (at nine in the morning), and that oddly comforting smell of cigarette smoke trapped in decades-old walls.  

I arrived at the bar, asked if Scott was around, and was told, “He’ll be here sooner or later, honey.” The gal behind the wooden taps poured me a beer and asked how I was doing. I softly replied, “Fine, ma’am...I’m doing fine,” without making eye contact. “You sure, darlin’?” I looked up, trying to hide the awful truth in my eyes: “Just a long day, that’s all.” 

Scott eventually showed up and hugged me. He doesn’t know this, but I damn near fell apart in his arms. Sometimes a man needs the love of a friend without anyone making a fuss of it.   

He lit a cigarette, and I lit a cigar as we settled into a bottle of Seagrams. Tom T. Hall was singing “That’s How I Got to Memphis” on a run-down jukebox, seagulls squawked, and the occasional sound of a cue ball cracking came from a pool table that had seen better days.  

I spent most of my time at Scott’s bar with the locals. Usually, I was the only guy wearing shoes. Some wore flip-flops, but most were barefoot, along with threadbare tank tops and cut off jean shorts. Everyone was treated as family, jokes were at the expense of the guy sitting next to you, and the only arguments came from someone’s selection at the jukebox: “Christ almighty Clyde! Nuff’ of that David Allen Coe shit already!” 

When the Michelob Light tap broke, an unshaven older fellow walked behind the counter and fixed it with a wrench he had in his back pocket. He turned down a seventy-five-cent glass of beer for payment, insisting it was the right thing to do. 

Occasionally, someone’s wife, who, coincidentally, was drunk too, would show up asking where her drunkard of a husband was. 

“I’ve been runnin’ all over hell’s half acre lookin’ for that half-wit…and I ain’t in thá mood for any ah’ y’alls boowlshit, so FESS up! Where’d he go? They ain’t no use in spoutin’ lies!”  

One of the guys would inevitably run point on Operation Save Our Buddies Ass, “I reckon I saw em’ scallopin’ down yaawn-da’.” 

“Ya reckin, huh!? Well, I reckin yur’ coverin’ for that horses’ ass, and it ain’t scallop season yet, ya damn fool.”  

Eventually the bartender would step in, “Damn it Darlene, quit makin’ a ruckus and drink a beer.” 

“Yeah, OK, f*ck it...a beer never hurt no one. But I’m still gonna rip thá bark off that boy when I find em’.”  

Scott had a home on a two-acre island with a rickety wood bridge that looked like it was straight from the set of Swiss Family Robinson. I don’t know how I got home every night, but I always woke up to Scott’s black lab sleeping with me. He’d burrow beneath the covers and get as close as he could. 

That puppy knew I wasn’t well, and as only a dog can do, he loved me unconditionally.  

Scott was long gone by the time I’d roll out of bed. He ran a fishing charter during the day, so I was left to myself on his little island. I started my days with a bowl of cereal and a little “hair of the dog” to get right. Well, there ain’t no use in lying; it was never a “little” - more like a plastic cup from Sanford Stadium full of ice and Canadian whiskey. 

I was listening to a lot of George Jones, so I’d put one of his albums on as the pup and I got wrapped up in a blanket on the couch. I drank my morning whiskey to “The Grand Tour” as he lovingly took care of me. I get a tear in my eye just thinking about that little rascal.  

Part of me wanted to stay in Steinhatchee forever. I had a friendly dive, brackish water, and a dog that loved me. At that time in my life, I didn’t want anything else.  

But I came home. That’s the thing about loss; you can’t hide from it. Jeff was gone. He went home to the Lord. But his big brother didn’t. All I wanted was to hug him like Scott hugged me. I wanted my little brother back (all 6’ 4” of him). For 27 years he was mine, and I was his, as only brothers know.  

It’s been fifteen years since I lost him. Most of the time, I’m OK, but I occasionally still break down, like I am as I write this.  

I wish grief was a one-and-done thing. I wish Jeff had met my kids. I wish we could play a round of golf. I wish we were partying together in Savannah and reminiscing about our summers in Jackson Hole.   

I wish Scott’s dog was lying with me now, but he’s since gone to the Lord too.