Listen? Now will you take me seriously?

The dog had a point. Maybe his fear of thunder

had not been so irrational after all. Maybe his

panic attacks at the first distant rumblings had

been his way of telling us that Florida’s violent

thunderstorms, the deadliest in the country, were

not to be dismissed with a shrug. Maybe all those

destroyed walls and gouged doors and shredded

John Grogan

carpets had been his way of trying to build a

lightning-proof den we could all fit into snugly.

And how had we rewarded him? With scoldings

and tranquilizers.

Our house was dark, the air-conditioning, ceil-

ing fans, televisions, and several appliances all

blown out. The circuit breaker was fused into a

melted mess. We were about to make some electri-

cian a very happy man. But I was alive and so was

my trusty sidekick. Jenny and the kids, tucked

safely away in the family room, didn’t even know

the house had been hit. We were all present and

accounted for. What else mattered? I pulled Mar-

ley into my lap, all ninety-seven nervous pounds

of him, and made him a promise right then and

there: Never again would I dismiss his fear of this

deadly force of nature.

C H A P T E R 2 0

Dog Beach

❉

As a newspaper columnist, I was always look-

ing for interesting and quirky stories I could

grab on to. I wrote three columns each week,

which meant that one of the biggest challenges of

the job was coming up with a constant stream of

fresh topics. Each morning I began my day by

scouring the four South Florida daily newspapers,

circling and clipping anything that might be worth

weighing in on. Then it was a matter of finding an

approach or angle that would be mine. My very

first column had come directly from the headlines.

A speeding car crammed with eight teenagers had

flipped into a canal along the edge of the Ever-

glades. Only the sixteen-year-old driver, her twin

sister, and a third girl had escaped the submerged

car. It was a huge story that I knew I wanted to

come in on, but what was the fresh angle I could

John Grogan

call my own? I drove out to the lonely crash sight

hoping for inspiration, and before I even stopped

the car I had found it. The classmates of the five

dead children had transformed the pavement into

a tapestry of spray-painted eulogies. The black-

top was covered shoulder-to-shoulder for more

than a half mile, and the raw emotion of the out-

pouring was palpable. Notebook in hand, I began

copying the words down. “Wasted youth,” said

one message, accompanied by a painted arrow

pointing off the road and into the water. Then,

there in the middle of the communal catharsis, I

found it: a public apology from the young driver,

Jamie Bardol. She wrote in big, loopy letters, a

child’s scrawl: “I wish it would have been me. I’m

sorry.” I had found my column.

Not all topics were so dark. When a retiree re-

ceived an eviction notice from her condo because

her pudgy pooch exceeded the weight limit for

pets, I swooped in to meet the offending heavy-

weight. When a confused senior citizen crashed

her car into a store while trying to park, fortu-

nately hurting no one, I was close behind, speak-

ing to witnesses. The job would take me to a

migrant camp one day, a millionaire’s mansion the

next, and an inner-city street corner the day after

that. I loved the variety; I loved the people I met;

and more than anything I loved the near-total

Marley & Me

freedom I was afforded to go wherever I wanted

whenever I wanted in pursuit of whatever topic

tickled my curiosity.

What my bosses did not know was that behind

my journalistic wanderings was a secret agenda: to

use my position as a columnist to engineer as many

shamelessly transparent “working holidays” as I

possibly could. My motto was “When the colum-

nist has fun, the reader has fun.” Why attend a

deadening tax-adjustment hearing in pursuit of

column fodder when you could be sitting, say, at

an outdoor bar in Key West, large alcoholic bever-

age in hand? Someone had to do the dirty work of

telling the story of the lost shakers of salt in Mar-

garitaville; it might as well be me. I lived for any

excuse to spend a day goofing around, preferably

in shorts and T-shirt, sampling various leisurely

and recreational pursuits that I convinced myself

the public needed someone to fully investigate.

Every profession has its tools of the trade, and

mine included a reporter’s notebook, a bundle of

pens, and a beach towel. I began carrying sun-

screen and a bathing suit in my car as a matter of

routine.

I spent one day blasting through the Everglades

on an airboat and another hiking along the rim of

Lake Okeechobee. I spent a day bicycling scenic

State Road A1A along the Atlantic Ocean so I

John Grogan

could report firsthand on the harrowing proposi-

tion of sharing the pavement with confused blue-

heads and distracted tourists. I spent a day

snorkeling above the endangered reefs off Key

Largo and another firing off clips of ammunition

at a shooting range with a two-time robbery vic-

tim who swore he would never be victimized

again. I spent a day lolling about on a commercial

fishing boat and a day jamming with a band of ag-

ing rock musicians. One day I simply climbed a

tree and sat for hours enjoying the solitude; a de-

veloper planned to bulldoze the grove in which I

sat to make way for a high-end housing develop-

ment, and I figured the least I could do was give

this last remnant of nature amid the concrete jun-

gle a proper funeral. My biggest coup of all was

when I talked my editors into sending me to the

Bahamas so I could be on the forward edge of a

brewing hurricane that was making its way toward

South Florida. The hurricane veered harmlessly

out to sea, and I spent three days beachside at a

luxury hotel, sipping piña coladas beneath blue

skies.

It was in this vein of journalistic inquiry that I

got the idea to take Marley for a day at the beach.

Up and down South Florida’s heavily used shore-

line, various municipalities had banned pets, and

for good reason. The last thing beachgoers wanted

Marley & Me

was a wet, sandy dog pooping and peeing and

shaking all over them as they worked on their

tans. NO PETS signs bristled along nearly every

stretch of sand.

There was one place, though, one small, little-

known sliver of beach, where there were no signs,

no restrictions, no bans on four-legged water

lovers. The beach was tucked away in an unincor-

porated pocket of Palm Beach County about

halfway between West Palm Beach and Boca Ra-

ton, stretching for a few hundred yards and hid-

den behind a grassy dune at the end of a dead-end

street. There was no parking, no restroom, no life-

guard, just an unspoiled stretch of unregulated

white sand meeting endless water. Over the years,

its reputation spread by word of mouth among pet

owners as one of South Florida’s last safe havens

for dogs to come and frolic in the surf without

risking a fine. The place had no official name; un-

officially, everyone knew it as Dog Beach.

Dog Beach operated on its own set of unwritten

rules that had evolved over time, put in place by

consensus of the dog owners who frequented it,

and enforced by peer pressure and a sort of silent

moral code. The dog owners policed themselves

so others would not be tempted to, punishing vio-

lators with withering stares and, if needed, a few

choice words. The rules were simple and few: Ag-

John Grogan

gressive dogs had to stay leashed; all others could

run free. Owners were to bring plastic bags with

them to pick up any droppings their animal might

deposit. All trash, including bagged dog waste,

was to be carted out. Each dog should arrive with

a supply of fresh drinking water. Above all else,

there would be absolutely no fouling of the water.

The etiquette called for owners, upon arriving, to

walk their dogs along the dune line, far from the

ocean’s edge, until their pets relieved themselves.

Then they could bag the waste and safely proceed

to the water.

I had heard about Dog Beach but had never vis-

ited. Now I had my excuse. This forgotten vestige

of the rapidly disappearing Old Florida, the one

that existed before the arrival of waterfront condo

towers, metered beach parking, and soaring real

estate values, was in the news. A pro-development

county commissioner had begun squawking about

this unregulated stretch of beach and asking why

the same rules that applied to other county

beaches should not apply here. She made her in-

tent clear: outlaw the furry critters, improve pub-

lic access, and open this valuable resource to the

masses.

I immediately locked in on the story for what it

was: a perfect excuse to spend a day at the beach

on company time. On a drop-dead-perfect June

Marley & Me

morning, I traded my tie and briefcase for swim-

suit and flip-flops and headed with Marley across

the Intracoastal Waterway. I filled the car with as

many beach towels as I could find—and that was

just for the drive over. As always, Marley’s tongue

was hanging out, spit flying everywhere. I felt like

I was on a road trip with Old Faithful. My only re-

gret was that the windshield wipers weren’t on the

inside.

Following Dog Beach protocol, I parked several

blocks away, where I wouldn’t get a ticket, and be-

gan the long hike in through a sleepy neighbor-

hood of sixties-vintage bungalows, Marley

leading the charge. About halfway there, a gruff

voice called out, “Hey, Dog Guy!” I froze, con-

vinced I was about to be busted by an angry

neighbor who wanted me to keep my damn dog

the hell off his beach. But the voice belonged to

another pet owner, who approached me with his

own large dog on a leash and handed me a petition

to sign urging county commissioners to let Dog

Beach stand. Speaking of standing, we would have

stood and chatted, but the way Marley and the

other dog were circling each other, I knew it was

just a matter of seconds before they either (a)

lunged at each other in mortal combat or (b) be-

gan a family. I yanked Marley away and continued

on. Just as we reached the path to the beach, Mar-

John Grogan

ley squatted in the weeds and emptied his bowels.

Perfect. At least that little social nicety was out of

the way. I bagged up the evidence and said, “To

the beach!”

When we crested the dune, I was surprised to

see several people wading in the shallows with

their dogs securely tethered to leashes. What was

this all about? I expected the dogs to be running

free in unbridled, communal harmony. “A sher-

iff ’s deputy was just here,” one glum dog owner

explained to me. “He said from now on they’re

enforcing the county leash ordinance and we’ll be

fined if our dogs are loose.” It appeared I had ar-

rived too late to fully enjoy the simple pleasures of

Dog Beach. The police, no doubt at the urging of

the politically connected anti–Dog Beach forces,

were tightening the noose. I obediently walked

Marley along the water’s edge with the other dog

owners, feeling more like I was in a prison exercise

yard than on South Florida’s last unregulated spit

of sand.

I returned with him to my towel and was just

pouring Marley a bowl of water from the canteen

I had lugged along when over the dune came a

shirtless tattooed man in cutoff blue jeans and

work boots, a muscular and fierce-looking pit bull

terrier on a heavy chain at his side. Pit bulls are

known for their aggression, and they were espe-

Marley & Me

cially notorious during this time in South Florida.

They were the dog breed of choice for gang mem-

bers, thugs, and toughs, and often trained to be

vicious. The newspapers were filled with accounts

of unprovoked pit bull attacks, sometimes fatal,

against both animals and humans. The owner

must have noticed me recoiling because he called

out, “Don’t you worry. Killer’s friendly. He don’t

never fight other dogs.” I was just beginning to

exhale with relief when he added with obvious

pride, “But you should see him rip open a wild

hog! I’ll tell you, he can get it down and gutted in

about fifteen seconds.”

Marley and Killer the Pig-Slaying Pit Bull

strained at their leashes, circling, sniffing furiously

at each other. Marley had never been in a fight in

his life and was so much bigger than most other

dogs that he had never been intimidated by a chal-

lenge, either. Even when a dog attempted to pick a

fight, he didn’t take the hint. He would merely

pounce into a playful stance, butt up, tail wagging,

a dumb, happy grin on his face. But he had never

before been confronted by a trained killer, a gutter

of wild game. I pictured Killer lunging without

warning for Marley’s throat and not letting go.

Killer’s owner was unconcerned. “Unless you’re a

wild hog, he’ll just lick you to death,” he said.

I told him the cops had just been here and were

John Grogan

going to ticket people who didn’t obey the leash

ordinance. “I guess they’re cracking down,” I said.

“That’s bullshit!” he yelled, and spit into the

sand. “I’ve been bringing my dogs to this beach

for years. You don’t need no leash at Dog Beach.

Bullshit!” With that he unclipped the heavy chain,

and Killer galloped across the sand and into the

water. Marley reared back on his hind legs, bounc-

ing up and down. He looked at Killer and then up

at me. He looked back at Killer and back at me.

His paws padded nervously on the sand, and he let

out a soft, sustained whimper. If he could talk, I

knew what he would have asked. I scanned the

dune line; no cops anywhere in sight. I looked at

Marley. Please! Please! Pretty please! I’ll be

Good. I promise.

“Go ahead, let him loose,” Killer’s owner said.

“A dog ain’t meant to spend his life on the end of a

rope.”

“Oh, what the hell,” I said, and unsnapped the

leash. Marley dashed for the water, kicking sand

all over us as he blasted off. He crashed into the

surf just as a breaker rolled in, tossing him under

the water. A second later his head reappeared, and

the instant he regained his footing he threw a

cross-body block at Killer the Pig-Slaying Pit

Bull, knocking both of them off their feet. To-

gether they rolled beneath a wave, and I held my

Marley & Me

breath, wondering if Marley had just crossed the

line that would throw Killer into a homicidal,

Lab-butchering fury. But when they popped back

up again, their tails were wagging, their mouths

grinning. Killer jumped on Marley’s back and

Marley on Killer’s, their jaws clamping playfully

around each other’s throats. They chased each

other up the waterline and back again, sending

plumes of spray flying on either side of them.

They pranced, they danced, they wrestled, they

dove. I don’t think I had ever before, or have ever

since, witnessed such unadulterated joy.

The other dog owners took our cue, and pretty

soon all the dogs, about a dozen in total, were run-

ning free. The dogs all got along splendidly; the

owners all followed the rules. It was Dog Beach as

it was meant to be. This was the real Florida, un-

blemished and unchecked, the Florida of a forgot-

ten, simpler time and place, immune to the march

of progress.

There was only one small problem. As the

morning progressed, Marley kept lapping up salt

water. I followed behind him with the bowl of

fresh water, but he was too distracted to drink.

Several times I led him right up to the bowl and

stuck his nose into it, but he spurned the fresh wa-

ter as if it were vinegar, wanting only to return to

his new best friend, Killer, and the other dogs.

John Grogan

Out in the shallows, he paused from his play to

lap up even more salt water. “Stop that, you

dummy!” I yelled at him. “You’re going to make

yourself . . .” Before I could finish my thought, it

happened. A strange glaze settled over his eyes

and a horrible churning sound began to erupt

from his gut. He arched his back high and opened

and shut his mouth several times, as if trying to

clear something from his craw. His shoulders

heaved; his abdomen contorted. I hurried to finish

my sentence: “. . . sick.”

The instant the word left my lips, Marley ful-

filled the prophecy, committing the ultimate Dog

Beach heresy. GAAAAAAAAACK!

I raced to pull him out of the water, but it was

too late. Everything was coming up.

GAAAAAAAAACK!I could see last night’s dog

chow floating on the water’s surface, looking sur-

prisingly like it had before it went in. Bobbing

among the nuggets were undigested corn kernels

he had swiped off the kids’ plates, a milk-jug cap,

and the severed head of a tiny plastic soldier. The

entire evacuation took no more than three sec-

onds, and the instant his stomach was emptied he

looked up brightly, apparently fully recovered

with no lingering aftereffects, as if to say, Now

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 641