Stem to Stern: Best Dog Ever

Prefer to listen? Listen to this article in the player below:

As I struggle through this column, I look down on the floor next to my chair and expect to see him there, patiently waiting for me to finish so we can throw the ball once more before we close up the yard and head for home. After a catch at the end of the day, he had the closing drill down and would run in front of me to wait at each checkpoint. East compressor, Seminole gate, up the stairs to the finished parts room, and down to the rolling gate where he’d look at me as if to say, “Come on, Dad, you’re dragging ass.” Then on to the north roll-up door, the center shed, west compressor, paint shop, carpenter shop, machine shop, and stock room, out ahead of me the whole way, but waiting at each stop. Last stop, the office for one last drink of water, then a swift run to the truck, where he waited for me to open the door so he could leap up into the seat to show me the way home to Mom and supper. I thought that we would be able to do this forever, but forever didn’t last. Tonight, as I shut my computer down and look next to my chair, my best friend is not there. He graduated from this world two weeks ago and left a hole big enough to sail a carrier through in our family’s hearts and the hearts of all the guys and gals at the yard. Our faithful yellow lab and yard dog, Dock, has passed on, just a month shy of his fourteenth birthday, leaving behind an amazing legacy of love and companionship, known by all our crew, captains, mates, vendors, and customers. This was his yard and he made sure we all knew it. I guess it will always be his yard.

Dock came to us as a rescue. When he was just a couple of years old, his original dad passed away suddenly, and his mom sadly wasn’t able to keep him when she sold the house and moved to a smaller place. We caught wind of his predicament through Julia’s best friend, Cory, who lived a street away from Dock. We hesitantly drove over there to check him out. I say “hesitantly,” because Julia had informed me, after saying goodbye to our last dog, Lucy, two years prior, that there would be NO MORE DOGS. But this was Cory calling and, at the very least, we must respond. Upon arrival, we took one look at Dock, and he, at us, and it was done. Julia, the rock, instantly caved to his charms. He jumped up into the back of her car and the love affair began. On the way home, she issued another firm, but humorous directive. “Dock is your dog and will go to work with you every day. I do not want him laying around the house.” I was fine with that. After all, I believe that we should all earn our keep, dogs included. “Alright, honey,” I replied. “He starts tomorrow.”

First day on the job: Dog Heaven. I couldn’t keep him out of the water. Guys were tossing mahogany sticks into the haul-out well right and left, and the girls in the office fell for his charms as fast as Julia. He made the rounds, befriended everyone and all was bliss. Then, out of nowhere, he lifted his leg and pissed on the table saw in the carpenter shop. Not cool. The poor dog got a warning and a write up on his first day at work. He was so bummed. All he wanted was to be what he had instantly become, our yard dog. After a lengthy, consoling but informative discussion with the boss, he never pissed on the machinery again. The first few weeks, Julia would come up with some lame excuse or another to drive down to the yard before she went to work or on her lunch hour. We all knew she was just checking on her dog. Dock had won her over and she just wanted to make sure he was safe and “Attended to”. Attended to, he was. After a few days, he had his job down: Open the yard with Dad. Fetch sticks and tennis balls out of the well. Chase the herons and the ibises off the docks and away from the boats. Fetch sticks and tennis balls out of the well. Chase the iguanas out of the surrounding bushes and into the water. Fetch sticks and tennis balls in the well. Chase the squirrels and crows away from the lunch area under the big banyan tree. Fetch sticks and tennis balls out of the well. Lunch with Dad in the office. Repeat. After several minor lacerations, I began to worry about the sharp metal, barnacles, and oysters in the well causing a real injury. It took a long time to train him to stay out of the well, but he eventually understood that it was off limits. New job: Haul and launch. Something about hauling and launching boats made Dock absolutely sure that he needed to be a part of the operation and it allowed him to be next to, if not in, the well. He would run up and down the center dock, making sure the stern and bow lines were in capable hands and that Alex, in the water, got that boat on and off the timbers just right. When Alex came out of the water, Dock would check him over as if to say, “There are sharp things down there, Alex. Be careful.” Once a boat was on the stands, Dock would cruise in and out of the pressure cleaner mist, cooling off and loving the next best thing to being in the well.

In time, our office manager, Josee, asked me if it was OK to bring her chocolate lab, Baron, to work so the two dogs would have a buddy. “Absolutely,” I said. Now, there were two dogs to throw for, which damn near required Tommy John surgery on my right arm. When they weren’t out in the yard, they were in the office, especially in the (Dog) days of summer. The office became a “meet and greet the yard dog” venue for all the subcontractors, captains, and owners who came in to sign-in or just visit with Dock and Baron. In no time, those two had the girls trained on when it was time for a walk (or run) through the yard and when it was time for a cookie. Lots of cookies. As the years flew by, Dock and Baron became very protective of the office staff and developed the bad habit of barking at anyone who came in the door. Eventually the boss decided that this was a business and not a kennel club and relegated them to part-time. I took a lot of heat for that from the girls as well as from Dock and Baron.

When we took time off, Dock was with us all the way. Our cabin on the river in north Florida was his favorite place on Earth. He knew when the duffel bags came out of the closet, that we were headed for camp, and he would run out the door and wait in the grass next to the truck for me to give him permission to board. He would ride patiently in the back seat of the truck, occasionally putting his chin on Mom’s or my shoulder during the five-hour ride, to make sure we were on course and on time. As soon as we pulled off the blacktop and onto the dirt road in, he demanded that I roll the windows down so he could sniff for wildlife. When we arrived, we’d open the door and he’d run straight to the river or the creek while we were unloading and return, just in time, to track muddy paw prints all over the deck, announcing that Dock has arrived, and all is right in the woods. He spent his days up at the camp, visiting with Buster at Jimmie’s place, chasing tennis balls across the river, fetching sticks with Uncle Pete, or playing his K9 version of solitaire at the waterfall in the creek. He’d place the ball at the top of the fall and then run down and around to grab it when it dropped into the pool at the base. I’d be out there with the chainsaw, clearing brush and minding the burn pile while he entertained himself in that creek for hours. We named our place “Dock’s Creek,” after him, and it will always be his place. When Julia and I went fishing or scalloping up there, Dock went with us. He loved being out there on the flats or in the black water and was there for all our banner trout, redfish, and largemouth days. All he needed to hear was “Get in that boat, Dock!”

Dock learned the hard way that you must be careful and pay attention in the woods. We were up there on the river one Fall, with Julia’s sisters and brother. Julia’s sister, Jeanne, had gone down the steps to have a cigarette and returned to inform us that something was wrong with Dock. We went down to check on him and his whole muzzle was swollen, and his eyes were half shut. On closer inspection, Julia saw the unmistakable fang marks on the lower right side of his snout. I looked around where he had been snooping and found a full-grown ground rattler at the base of the steps. I caught the snake and took him out into the woods and turned him loose. Julia was furious with me for not killing the snake, but I had grown up with my brothers in the woods and had my reasons. In our little town up there, the first call in any emergency is to the hardware store. The folks there have all the answers and informed us that the closest veterinary clinic that could handle a snake bite was in Gainesville, an hour and a half away. We called ahead to the clinic and Richard, Grey, and I drove Dock over to Gainesville in the truck where they were waiting for him with the antivenom. He rode next to me in the front seat with his chin on my shoulder, drooling and wishing he was somewhere else. When they took him in, I asked the vet for an estimate of what this thing might cost. Let’s just say it was a big number. I called Julia back at the cabin and asked her: “How much do you love this dog?” “More than you’ll ever know,” she replied. “I don’t care what it costs, you make sure that he’ll be alright!” After a pause, she asked: “How much is it going to be?” “Two thousand dollars,” I replied. “Oh,” she said. “OK, do what you think is best.” We still can’t help but laugh when we remember that phone call. They kept him overnight for observation and I drove back over to pick him up the next afternoon. For the rest of his life, he wore a scar on his nose from the tissue destruction in the bite area. I’m certain, when the pain and swelling receded, he was damn proud of it.

As time went by, Dock began to slow down. His back end, like most purebreds, weakened and his front legs developed a debilitating arthritis. Once the fastest dog I have ever known, on land and in the water, he began to have trouble with the ball, the creek, and the river. In his younger days, I never worried about him in the water. That damn dog could out-swim any gator that might be looking for dog chow. As he aged, I stood watch for him on the bank, locked and loaded. Then, one day several months back, he became stuck in the creek pool he loved so much, and we knew the handwriting was on the wall. He made the trip to camp and Dock’s Creek with us a few weeks ago for the last of the cool weather that Spring had to offer. Julia and I quickly realized that it would be his last. I had to carry him up and down the steps and our daybreak no-leash walks in the woods that he loved so much, listening for the owls, and chasing the deer, were slow and painful. Before we headed south, we took one final walk through the woods he had ruled for years, as I now waited for him to catch up to me, with a look that said; “Wait up Dad, I’m hurting.” Our neighbors could see that it was time and came by to give him one last hug and say farewell. Dock loved everyone and Lord, how he stole the hearts of all my Cracker compadres.

On our next trip up to the cabin, Julia and I will take along his ashes and spread them along the creek and the river. There, he will join my late brother, Tommy, with a new assignment; watching over things while we’re gone and enjoying that everlasting peace in nature, free from pain, in the place they both loved more than any on Earth. We will miss him and remember the good days and the great dog that he was. Can there ever be another dog in our future, after knowing and loving the best dog ever? Julia says: “Absolutely not. NO MORE DOGS.” Yeah, OK. Or, as my brother, Tommy, was fond of saying; “We’ll see about that!”

This article originally appeared in the August/September 2024 issue of Power & Motoryacht magazine.

View the original article to see embedded media.