I Remember The Dog But Not The Girl

I REMEMBER THE DOG BUT NOT THE GIRL

Many years ago, I enjoyed a time of almost reclusive,

bachelor living. A friend had built a boat

in Chicago, navigated the rivers and

waterways of middle America to

the Gulf of Mexico, sailed

to Miami, and looked

me up there.

He asked if I would live aboard and guard the boat

while he returned to Chicago to wrap up a few

affairs. At the time my only possessions

were a hammock and a bicycle and I

inhabited an enormous banyan

tree in Coconut Grove.

The boat, a 42' Alden Ketch, was moored on Watson Island

right next to the Goodyear Blimp. I welcomed the

opportunity of free shelter. The possibility

of Caribbean sailing adventures enticed me.

I readily agreed to stay and

my canine companion,

Root Beer, and I

moved aboard.

My friend, an Englishman, could fall asleep at the drop

of a hat. Up in the bunk he'd go, bam, fall asleep

and wake up refreshed five minutes later.

He had an underground newspaper in

Chicago. "Lick this spot," was

his greatest published line.

He later sent me a girl

from there. I wish I

could remember

her name.

Root Beer was a small reddish brown dog with good legs.

Every day I rode my ten speed from Watson Island to

Coconut Grove to visit my friends. Root Beer ran

the whole ten miles. Often I pedaled back

to the boat for lunch and then bicycled

back to the Grove until evening,

when I made the final journey

back to the boat to be

with my new friends,

the stars.

The bicycle trip took me through downtown Miami and

Root Beer would run alongside on the sidewalk.

I rode on the street and when I stopped

in the flow of traffic for a red light,

Root Beer would stop at the curb

and sit down on the sidewalk.

When I started up again

Root Beer would

follow.

People in the thick downtown pedestrian traffic did not

connect the dog with me. They would just see a dog,

running, darting and weaving through the crowd

until he came to a red light,

sat down at the curb, and waited

patiently for the light to turn

green. Then the dog would

take off running again.

"Did you see that?"

they exclaimed.

So do I.

One day, on a back street, Root Beer got hit by a car while I

was in a bar talking to two scientists about soap. I

carried her to a vet who said there was nothing

we could do. Root Beer died peacefully,

looking up at me with sad eyes,

waiting. Soon after that,

what's-her-name came

from Chicago and

took Root Beer's

place, but only

temporarily.

She had sad eyes, too, and thick curly hair that invited fingers

and a warm smile, but she couldn't run like Root Beer.

And she wouldn't wait at the curb for the light to

change. She was too impatient. People in the

traffic did not connect her with me and

she would run off. Soon I lost her

too. Now I look back, wondering.

How many times must I go

through it. Again and

again, losing them one after another.

Only Jesus lasts.

With Him,

I run,

I wait.