The Water Keeper(17)
I found coffee and bought Tabby a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, which he devoured in two bites before looking up at me, wanting more, while the egg yolk drained off his jowl. He ate four more before I put my foot down and found a grocery store where I bought him a large bag of food, a five-gallon bucket with a sealable top, a bowl, and a collar.
He didn’t like the collar, but I sat in front of him and tried to explain. “I don’t like this any more than you, but you gotta wear it.”
He whined.
“I know, but . . . you just got to. It’s the law.” He sat up, regal like, and turned his head side to side, refusing to let me put it on him.
“I’m the boat captain, right?” He wagged his tail. “Boat rules. All dogs must have a collar, and that includes you.” He whined again.
“Come on. I’ll keep it loose.” He walked around me in a circle, licked my face, and finally lowered his head. Somebody had spent some time both training and loving on this dog. I felt sorry for whoever was looking for him.
I tried to think like someone who’d lost a dog. I checked with newspapers and social media from Jacksonville south to Daytona and north to St. Simons, but nothing came up. Then I walked down to animal control. They thought he was beautiful, but they told me that if I left him there, his stay would be three days and then he’d take a really long nap.
I told them he wasn’t sleepy.
Not knowing his history, I had no idea what to do about his shots, so I asked them to bring him current without killing his liver and kidneys. They did, which he wasn’t crazy about. Especially the stool sample. He was looking a little puny when they brought him back to me.
To make it up to him, I took him to get one of my favorite things. I can’t leave St. Augustine without it. Gelato on St. George Street from Café del Hidalgo. I ordered an extra-large, and he and I sat on the sidewalk amid the myriad of street performers and shared a cone. When finished, I brushed his teeth, which he tolerated.
This twenty-minute experience mixed with his nearly white coat and willingness to lick every human’s face on the planet—especially those covered in ice cream or gelato—taught me something. Tabby attracted attention like a puppy at a park. Everybody wanted to pet him, and he was only too happy to oblige. We set up camp at the crosswalk of two busy sidewalks—the walking intersection of St. George Street with Hypolita, catty-corner between Café del Hidalgo and Columbia Restaurant. If I was to advertise something in St. Augustine, that street corner was better than FOX or CNN. Over the next several hours, it seemed like every child in St. Augustine had their picture taken with Tabby, and I turned down several offers to sell him. With every picture taken, I asked folks to post it on their social media under the hashtag #findmyowner and #whitelabrador.
All to no avail.
The crowds thinned after dinner, so Tabby and I prepared for our trek back to the marina, both of us tired and hungry. I was in the process of standing up when I heard a voice behind me. While I’d heard voices behind me for the better part of eight hours, this one sounded different. It was distressed. And in pain. I closed my eyes and focused on the sound, trying to hear what the tone gave away. She was saying a lot but not with words.
Her appearance matched the frantic and defeated sound of her voice. Maybe early forties, head down, brownish hair, gray at the roots, quick steps, slight limp, a mission before her. She wore one flip-flop—which had blown out—and the other foot was bare. Both were muddy. Her legs, while beautiful, were scratched along the calves as if she’d run through briars or wiregrass. She was wearing what remained of a uniform. Something a server would wear at an all-night diner. Black skirt, provocative in an institutional sort of way. White oxford, no longer white. And an apron of which she did not seem cognizant. Like either she’d worn it long enough to forget it was there or she just didn’t care what it said about her. A pad of guest checks had been stuck into the right front pocket. Pencils and straws rose up out of the other.
Both her hands and voice were trembling as she held the phone. “But, baby . . . you can’t.” She was unconsciously walking in circles around Tabby and me now. “They just want one thing and they’ll promise you anything to get it.” Another circle. A deep breath while she tried to get a word in edgewise. “I know I did, but . . .”
She passed me a third time, straightened, and began walking toward the marina. Her voice grew louder. More exasperated. “Wait. Don’t—Baby?” Then I heard her say one word. One word I couldn’t deny or overlook. One simple, five-letter word. She was crying as she spoke it. “Angel?”
I shook my head and cussed myself.
Tabby watched her go. Then looked at me. I scratched his head. “Come on, boy.”
A block behind her, we returned to the marina where the woman began jogging along the docks, knocking on all the doors of every boat that seemed inhabited. Her voice echoed off the water. “I just need . . .” “Next marina . . .” “Daytona . . .” “No, I don’t have any—”
Frustrated at another door slammed in her face, she spotted the marina boats. The first-come-first-serve, fourteen-to sixteen-foot runabouts used to ferry people and goods to and from larger boats. She hopped into one tied in the shadows, studied the outboard, flipped a switch, pulled the cord, and the forty-horsepower Yamaha outboard cranked on the first attempt. Something they are known for. She twisted the throttle on the hand tiller, revved the engine, cussed, found the gearshift, and slammed it into reverse, grinding the gears. The boat jerked in the water, tugging against its mooring line, sending waves and froth against the dock.