This all started when my buddy
RichardGerald
kidnapped my dog and put him in a story. It was the usual RG masterpiece. But the ending was somewhat provocative (meaning a classic RG tale). Folks know I'm a friend of his and so they asked me to talk to him about a sequel. We discussed it, and RG rightly felt that the story ended exactly where it should. He's the author, he ought to know.
Instead, he suggested that I write a companion piece, like we did with "The Empire Builder." Now, I respect RG's artistic integrity and his awesome ability to rile-up you folks. But that put me in a bind since, with the exception of my weird fascination with Hemingway, I don't recycle other people's work - particularly something from a guy as talented as RG. So let me make it clear here, this is neither a "reinterpretation" of RG's original piece, nor is it an attempt to leverage the killer angst that he generates. This is just a continuation of David and Buster's tale in my style.
For those of you who expressed concern about Buster, he appreciates your messages. He'd be here to thank you personally. But he's outside right now rolling in something disgusting. Still, he hopes you enjoy his story - DT.
WHERE'S BUSTER - REDUX
The sun comes up like thunder in the Tropics. The big red disk cracked over the horizon and painted the ocean clouds in purples and golds. David Taylor was just making the turn off Greene onto Front and he paused to gaze at the glorious sight.
David's home was his Catalina-38, which he'd sailed down the Intercoastal from New York. It was moored at the Key West Bight Marina, which gave him easy access to the delights of old town. The Cat was an ideal bachelor pad -- spacious, wood trimmed interior, real leather couches, a cozy galley and eating area and clever centerline bunks fore and aft.
Every morning David would fix an egg sandwich for himself and pour a big bowl of food for his pal Buster. Buster was the only relic of David's former life. He was a browndog. Browndogs aren't an AKC breed. But for every pampered pug or poodle in the house, there are two or three browndogs out in the street tipping over garbage cans.
Buster's mom must have had one hell of a night: St, Bernards, wolfhounds, pit bulls all lining up for a shot. Maybe there was even an ambitious Chihuahua - they're really macho, you know. The product of that mixing was the classic nondescript brown coat, with a huge head, a muscular body and the sweetest, gentlest, and most faithful heart ever bestowed on man's best friend.
The Key West Marina's a small town and Buster was its mayor. He was so good natured that the boat people all knew and loved him. Residents saw him everywhere, panhandling his way up and down the docks, tongue hanging out, panting from the heat.
Buster was David's guardian. Most days you would find him sprawled lazily in the shade of the cockpit, drool oozing from his dewlaps. But any hapless intruder would see a much more unpleasant side of the protective breeds if Buster ever needed to flash the badge.
Buster was an ex-pound dog. He'd been inside. He'd seen things. He'd landed in the joint when his prior owner took him on the ride from which no browndog ever returns. And he was so ugly that the screws promptly stuck him on the Green Mile. The warden just assumed no one would adopt him. It was David who saved him from the Chair.
Being inside had taught Buster a lot about life and loyalty. He and David would sit in the cockpit on a humid Key West evening and philosophize. David would pour out his heart, while Buster would somberly watch him, love, and sympathy in his big liquid eyes. It was like he was saying, "That's true boss. Life's tough. But I've always got your back."
Anybody who owns a dog knows that they communicate. Buster didn't say much, but he was a great listener. So, he would lay his huge head on his paws and watch while David exorcised his personal demons, most of which were put there by his wife's infidelity.
Kipling said it best, "If you can watch the things you gave your life to broken, and stoop and build 'em up with worn out tools -- then you are a man my son." David lived by that axiom and he had indeed become much more of a man.
It takes courage and personal integrity to move past a failed marriage. In that respect then, David had made the sensible decision to stop obsessing about something that was irretrievably lost and instead dedicate himself to living a new and better life. He felt regret at the loss. But he had the strength to only look ahead now and he was uplifted by what he saw going forward.
David worked for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. He was an education specialist there. NOAA oversees the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary and his classroom experience made him the perfect person to supervise teaching about reef conservation at the Eco-Discovery Center.
David's job at the Discovery Center was to take what the researchers had learned and translate it into easily understandable material for public consumption, both at the Sanctuary on Key West and also at the Aquarius Support Base on Islamorada. That required him to master the principles of marine biology. So, David read voraciously, and he was a frequent participant on the dive teams that gathered data in the conservancy area.
Better yet, the teaching involved children who'd arrive at the Center wide eyed and eager. That was the polar opposite of David's old job. He used to teach ninth grade, which is the age where bubbling hormones make kids wilder than hoot owls. So every day in David's old classroom was like the worst kind of trench warfare.
Now, David's life was as close to ideal as he could have ever imagined, and his sense of happiness and fulfillment was a daily reminder that he'd made the right choice. It was one of life's paradoxes. He had the job of his dreams because he'd jettisoned the love of his life.
David hadn't seen or heard from his wife since that fateful Friday. He imagined she was doing okay. He'd left a polite note. It conveyed nothing of the hurt he'd felt. Then he'd loaded Buster aboard his new sailboat and motored out into the Hudson. Oliva was a lawyer. She could draw up the divorce papers.
Ava Martinez was the primary reason why David had his new outlook. She was his best friend and companion. Ava was a rarity in Key West, a native. She had been raised on Sunset Key in one of its multimillion-dollar mansions. Hence a career at the National Sanctuary was practically a given once Ava had gotten her doctorate in marine biology.
Ava was a classic Latin beauty with the oval face, long, thick silky black hair, huge dark eyes, and sensual mouth of a Spanish Bailaora. She was tall and lithe, with big round tits and hard muscle packed on her supple female frame. Her legs were her most unique feature. Her sleek thighs were longer than average. So, with her dive fins on, she looked like a mermaid in the water.
Ava was David's liaison with the underwater team. She was a full-fledged scientist-aquanaut with multiple missions living and working sixty-two feet underwater at the Aquarius Habitat. In that respect, she traveled back and forth between the Center, the Aquarius Support Base, and the Habitat itself, which lies next to Conch Reef five miles offshore from Islamorada.
Ava was very knowledgeable in every aspect of marine science. David envied her jaunty self-confidence as she put on her gear to fin down to the Habitat. David had gotten his C-card. But he was still working on the ANSI/ACDE certification that would let him follow her below thirty feet.
Cuba is by far the closest place to where David was standing. So, Key West is more Havana, than Miami. The Marine Sanctuary building was gleaming white, and the tropical heat was already starting to build as David arrived at work.
David had evolved from the sad man who had boarded his new boat and voyaged out into the southbound current of the Hudson. Until that tragic January day, he had led a sedentary life in a part of the U.S. where the appearance of the sun is worshipped like a celestial miracle. David's slightly pudgy body and his pasty complexion reflected that.
Now, after months of rigorous outdoor work in the blazing tropical sun David had bronzed into ripped perfection and his shock of dirty blond hair was bleached almost white. He was still only thirty-three and a bit of a hunk now. Nevertheless, he had no interest in coupling up.
He DID enjoy the evenings that he spent with Ava at Captain Tony's. Ava had tuned him on to the fact that that nondescript shack, which is down the street from the tourist trap at the corner of Greene and Duval, was the real Sloppy Joe's of Hemingway fame.
Captain Tony's building had a history. In 1898, it was the telegraph office from which the news of the sinking of the battleship Maine was telegraphed to the nation. After that it was a whorehouse and a speakeasy among other things. Then in 1937, the landlord raised the rent. So, the guy who owned the original bar moved it a half block down Greene to the place that is now called Sloppy Joe's.
Hemingway and the regulars stayed with the original building. Hemingway was an old-fashioned newspaper man. Every night he would walk seven blocks down Whitehead street to the same old spot and drink cheap scotch, not sip daiquiris like he's portrayed.
The bras hanging from the rafters are perhaps the most prominent décor feature of Captain Tony's. Those have been donated over time by female visitors. Most of them arrive discretely in paper bags. But the true test comes when the woman whips off her shirt and contributes her bra right there on the spot.
Ava had not one, but two of her bras hanging in the hall of fame. David had to admit that she had beautiful tits. Of course, Ava was a free spirit. It was an aspect that David liked the most about her. Yet, even with all of her fantastic sex appeal, she was a close drinking buddy, not an object of lust.
Ava was five years younger than David, more of a Gen-Z than a Millennial. And like a lot of very attractive women, she had an active sex life. Still, she preferred to hang out with David when she wasn't actually on a date. She said she could only relax around him.
David for his part had no problem being best pals and father confessor for a woman who treated men like they were put on earth strictly for her personal pleasure. He didn't miss the irony that he had left a wife who'd indulged in a weekend of carefully planned sex with one man, while he was best friends with an equally beautiful woman who had casual sex with various men.
Yet, although David and Ava were different on the outside, their attitude about life was exactly the same. Both were smart, intellectually curious and driven by the belief that there was a lot to learn and achieve before they shuffled off this mortal coil. Hence, they could usually be found engrossed in conversation about benthic ecology in the middle of the chaos of a rowdy night at Captain Tony's.
The conclusion of most of those evenings was on David's nearby boat. That would normally presage sex. But in David and Ava's case, all those late-night sessions ever involved was comfortable talk in a gentle Key West evening.
Ava was aware that David had a history. She was wary of asking him about it because she was certain that she wouldn't like the answer. The last thing she wanted to do was to say something that would upset the balance of their relationship. But Ava knew she would eventually have to pose the question.
So, one spectacularly hot and humid night, they were talking about the next day's schedule of reef ecology classes -- while sitting on the upholstered couches in the cockpit well. It was normal for them to sit close to each other in a friendly fashion. Buster was snoring at their feet.
