I had just opened the front door to let Frog in the house; we put him on a lead outside so he can answer natures call, and visit with passersby; if he doesn't get to interact with a least a few strangers on a regular basis, he gets depressed.
As the door swung open, I heard the voice; it was deep and gravely, and I have come to learn that the voice is the product of years of exposure to Marlboro reds and straight, Karkov Vodka.
Cortez, Florida is a unique place. Somehow, right in the middle of civilization as we know it, this little township lives by its own set of rules; golf carts and 4-wheelers make up seventy-five percent of the traffic on the streets, dogs and cats run loose, fireworks are legal, and open containers are not frowned upon, which is how Vodka Bob gets by with walking the streets, a lit Marlboro in one hand, and an open bottle of hooch tucked under his arm.
I see him often, but never as up close and personal as on this day, when I found him hunched over Frog, extolling the virtues of being a dog, and even better, a friendly one.
"Well, yer just a sweet old pucky dog, ain't ya?" he crooned.
Frog, never one to shun a caress, even when in danger of being pickled by the alcohol-laden breath of the caresser, stood like a statue while Bob praised and petted and eventually, sat right down in the grass at Frog's feet.
"What kinda dog is he?" Bob asked, as he allowed Frog to lather his cheek and neck with dog kisses, and I cringed; Frog's breath, as a general rule, would knock a buzzard off a body wagon at a hundred paces, and Jill swears that if he licks her, she gets a rash wherever his tongue touches her skin.
"We're not sure," I replied.
"What with the brindle coat, he might have some pit bull in him, or maybe boxer," Bob mused, more to himself than to me, "but he's fine pucky dog, either way, ain't ya, boy?"
"Mmm hmm," I said, and went back in the house, to peer out the window through the blinds.
"What's goin' on?" Jenny asked.
"There's a guy out there with Frog."
She joined me at the window.
"Who is he?"
"Danged if I know, but he's drunk as Cooter Brown, and I think he's in love with our dog."
"You don't think he'd take him ..." Jenny said.
"Nah, I imagine he reacts like this to most any dog he sees," I said, "but I don't know how to break up this little love affair without hurting his feelings."
"Well, then don't," she replied ... so I didn't.
Amazingly enough, Bob was out there lounging in the grass with Frog for an astounding hour and a half; I know because I burned off a good 300 calories running back and forth to check. Then thankfully, I went to check again, and he was gone, and I didn't see him again until New Year's Eve.
Jill and I were out walking just before midnight, waiting for the inevitable fireworks to start. Off somewhere a few blocks away, a train whistle truck horn blew almost non-stop.
"You'd think he'd get tired of that," I said, and Jill laughed.
"He's probably just stopping long enough to go grab another beer," she said.
Music blared from every street. Golf carts zipped back and forth from marina to marina, carrying boisterous partiers, and leaving propane and alcohol fumes in their wakes. For all intents and purposes it was a typical Cortez Saturday night, but with noise-makers thrown in for good measure.
We ran into Bob outside a restaurant, and he fell to his knees, greeting Frog before wishing us a happy new year, and ambling away, an open bottle, this time, under each arm.
I shook my head sadly.
"What?" Jill said.
"I feel sorry for him."
"Why? He's happy."
I stared at her. "What do you mean -- he's killing himself."
"Aren't we all, in one way or another?"
We stopped in front of a house that had a television set up on the hood of a car, and watched the ball drop in Times Square. Shouts and whistles could be heard as the clock ticked from 11:59 to 12:00, and the noise from the fireworks that are illegal in most other towns, was deafening.
Vodka Bob comes by every few days or so and camps out at the end of Frog's lead. Who knows what his secrets are ... which demons prompt him to live his life from one bottle to the next? Maybe during these whispered conversations, Frog has been enlightened, but if he has ... he's not talkin'.
Reply With Quote
