by Ben Marney
His tail started wagging faster, then he jumped in my lap and licked my face.
We sat there quietly for almost an hour, watching the water rippling on the lake. As I sat there, Rita’s words kept running through my mind, “You have much more to do.” I wondered what she was talking about.
We walked back to my truck and I slowly drove back to my house with the windows down, so Charley could hang his head out the window biting and barking at the wind blowing in his face. He loved doing that. It was the only time he acted like a real dog.
When I pulled up in my driveway and looked at my front door, I suddenly realized what I needed to do.
Like me, Charley was staring at the front door, wishing Audrey and Rita would come running out to greet us.
He turned his head, looked up at me and made a small, sad high-pitched whine. “Yeah, I know, buddy, I miss them, too.”
Charley was normally anxious to get out of the car, barking and whining until I opened his door, but that day he didn’t make a sound. He sat there quietly beside me staring at the front door.
After a few minutes, I looked over at him. “Charley, there are too many memories in this house. I think we need to get out of here - sell everything but this old truck and just take off, just you and me. What do you think about that? Do you want to go find a new life for us somewhere else?”
“Woof, arrrr, woof!” he said, wagging his tail and giving me that silly smile.
4
The Road Less Traveled
The next day, I got up early, and with Charley by my side with every step I took, we started going through drawers and closets.
Through out that morning, everything I touched triggered a memory of my amazing life with Rita and Audrey. I fought it off as long as I could, but I finally broke down, hugging Charley in my arms as I wept.
When I got off the floor, I realized that I would never be able to do it myself. Not only was it too emotional, there was just no way I could decide between what was expendable or what was a priceless keepsake I couldn’t live without. But I knew in my heart, if I was going to survive and have any chance at finding a new life, it had to be done. That afternoon, I called Marshall and asked him to do it for me. He contacted a realtor to list the house and a company that specialized in estate sales to empty it out.
I was able to get rid of the cars. I called another high school buddy of mine, who worked at a Ford dealership and he gave me a good price for our two SUVs. The only vehicle I kept was my old truck.
I say old because it was. A 1954 Ford F-100 Heritage Ranch pickup, to be exact. It was my dad’s old truck that he loved almost as much as me. So when he died, as a tribute to him, I had a shop in Dallas completely rebuild her, inside and out, add air conditioning and give her a sparkling new bright red paint job. She was beautiful and ran like a top.
Six days later, with the bed of Dad’s old truck packed with three photo albums filled with pictures of Audrey and Rita, three suitcases of clothes, a box filled with Charley’s toys, my old golf clubs, a tent and two sleeping bags, Charley and I jumped in and took off, heading north on I-45.
After about an hour of driving on that freeway, Charley started moaning and growling every time we would pass an exit.
“You have to pee already?” He didn’t bark, so I knew that wasn’t it. “Are you hungry?” He slowly turned his head and looked at me.
I took the next exit and stopped at the intersection. “What the hell is it, Charley?”
He turned his head to the right and barked. “You want to go that way?” He barked again, then turned back toward me and gave me that smile.
I pulled out the map, “You want to go to Palestine? What’s in Palestine?”
“Woof.”
I shook my head, shrugged and slowly headed down the two-lane road. Driving down the highway, we passed several beautiful farmhouses sitting a few hundred yards off the road, surrounded by perfectly aligned rows of lush green crops. We drove past ranches with acres and acres of beautiful green pastures stocked with horses that were grazing close to the white fences that lined the pastures, or that were running and playing in the fields.
Charley had been transfixed at the view, his tail constantly wagging as he stared out the window, occasionally barking at the horses and the cows. He was loving every minute of it. I finally understood what he’d been trying to tell me - it wasn’t where we were going he cared about, it was the route we took to get there that mattered to him.
From then on, we took the scenic route, driving through the many small towns and communities along the way. I had no idea where we were going and honestly didn’t care. As usual, Charley was right. We were in no hurry to get anywhere, so why not take the scenic route? And “scenic” was the perfect description. I had traveled through Texas, Louisiana and Mississippi many times in my life, but never that way. I had no idea of the majestic beauty and charm I had been missing, flying past all those small towns at seventy miles an hour on the freeway.
Every time we’d pull into a small town, I would pay close attention to Charley. Somehow, he always knew where the dog friendly restaurants were, and would start barking when we got close to one.
In those towns, we would spend a few days driving around, checking out the sights. If there was a good place to camp nearby, I’d pull out the tent, set everything up and build a fire. Charley loved camping in the woods. If we couldn’t find a good place to camp, we’d start looking for a La Quinta Inn & Suites. Most of those hotels were dog friendly and Charley didn’t seem to mind staying there.
For the next twelve months, Charley and I lived like a couple of hobo-nomads. In no particular hurry, we traveled from coast to coast, driving down the roads less traveled, discovering hidden gems - small cities and towns throughout the country.
In a few of these small, beautiful little communities, I would pick up a real estate magazine and check out some of the houses for sale. If I found something interesting, I’d drive to the house and Charley and I would walk around it, peaking through the windows. But at every single house, Charley would get bored, walk back to the truck, jump in and wait for me to come back and drive away.
“What was wrong with that one?” I’d ask him. “I liked it and I like this town.”
He would lift his lip, exposing his teeth and growl. “Arrrrrrr.”
We eventually made our way to Florida and discovered that there were several pet friendly camping sites that allowed us to actually set up on the beach and boy, did Charley love that.
In the morning, with him by my side, I would jog up and down those beaches. After my run, we would jump in the ocean, and play and swim for hours. At night, we would lie on the sleeping bags and stare up at the stars.
I’m not sure what it was about Florida, but those beaches, the sound of the surf, the warm ocean water and those stars at night seem to soothe my wounds. The constant aching pain in my heart began to heal. It didn’t seem to hurt as much in Florida, so I began to seriously look for a place to settle.
I began looking for a beach house in the Florida panhandle and found several I could afford and really liked, but unfortunately, none of them were good enough for Charley.
“What about this one? It’s really cool, Charley! And look at that water. Have you ever seen water that blue before?”
He did the same thing at every single house. He would walk around the property with me, turn around and look at the beach, raise his lip, snort and slowly walk back to the truck.
After rejecting fifteen or twenty beach houses up and down the Gulf Coast, I began to think that Charley didn’t like Florida as much as I did. I drove all the way to Key West, with the same results. He didn’t like it there, either, so I quit picking up real estate magazines and stopped looking for houses.
We spent the next few months wandering from island to island in the Florida Keys, then began making our way up the Atlantic Coast.
Driving up A1A, we drove through and explored every beach town from Miami to Daytona
Beach, camping near the ocean when we could or staying in hotels along the way.
The official name of SR A1A is the Scenic and Historical Coastal Byway. It runs for 338 miles along the Atlantic Coast, from Key West to Amelia Island, just a few miles south of Georgia. While we were driving up A1A, Charley never looked at me when he could see the ocean out his window. The only time he looked away was when a large condo complex blocked his view. He didn’t seem to mind the beach houses, but didn’t like the condos. I didn’t like them much, either.
At least once a day, I would stop at a public beach area that had bathrooms and an outside shower and we’d go for a swim in the ocean. Then we’d shower off and drive with the windows down until we were dry. After those daily swims, Charley would usually take a long nap.
I’ve always loved playing golf. I’ve never been any good at it, but I’ve always loved the game. That’s why I had my clubs tucked away in the back of the old truck and was excited to get to our next stop–Saint Augustine. Not just because it’s the oldest city in the United States, but because it’s also the home of The World Golf Hall of Fame.
Charley was asleep, taking one of his naps when we pulled into Flagler Beach. Rather than turning on my blinker and taking the chance of the clicking sound waking him up, I rolled down my window and signaled the old fashioned way with my arm and made the turn toward I-95.
He must have felt the movement of the truck, because he raised his head and looked out his window. Then he looked at me, lifted his lip and grumbled.
“Come on, Charley, it’s getting late. I want to see the World Golf Hall Of Fame before it closes! I-95 will save us an hour getting there.”
He snorted, turned his head and stared out the window. It was his version of turning his back on me in the truck.
“It’s about time you learn that you can’t always have it your way.” He snorted again, still not looking at me. “You know, sometimes you’re a real pain in the ass.”
“Arrrrr. Woof.”
He was still mad at me when we got to the Hall Of Fame and refused to get out of the truck. So I rolled down the windows and left him there to pout alone.
After my tour of the Hall Of Fame, just to aggravate him, when we got to the entrance of the interstate, I turned on my blinker like I was going to get back on the freeway. He stood up in his seat and started barking when he heard the first blink.
“Just kidding,” I said, turning off the blinker. “You want to go check out Saint Augustine?” He smiled and wagged his tail.
It was almost 7:00 p.m. and I was starving, so we pulled into a Burger King and I bought us a Whopper and fries.
“What do you think so far, Charley? Does this look like the oldest city in America to you?”
“Woof.”
“Yeah, I agree. So far all we’ve seen is modern shopping centers, gas stations and fast food joints.”
Our first impression of Saint Augustine changed quickly when we made it to the historic district and drove down King Street. We got lucky and found a parking spot, put money in the meter and started walking down a square called Plaza de la Constitucion. It was more of a park than a typical town square. Four historic churches with very tall steeples that had some of the most beautiful stained glass windows I’d ever seen surrounded it.
Eventually, we made our way to Saint George Street. It appeared to be the main drag, with several restaurants, shops and bars where most of the tourists were walking.
At first, the narrow streets reminded me of New Orleans or Key West, but then I noticed all the children and the dogs. Everywhere you looked were young families walking with their children, pushing baby carriages with their dogs on leashes. Many of the restaurants had outside decks or patios and at almost every one of them, dogs were lying at their owner’s feet.
It had been a long day, so after an hour or so of walking around, I loaded Charley in the truck and started looking for a dog friendly hotel. On a whim, I pulled into the first motel I saw. It was appropriately called the Bayfront Inn. Not only did they have a room available, they were dog friendly, so I checked us in for the night.
We slept a little late and missed the free breakfast, so with a cup of hot coffee in my hand, Charley and I walked across the street and watched the boats puttering up and down the Matanzas River. Across the river, I could clearly see the old historic lighthouse reaching high in the air, still standing after all these years on Anastasia Island.
I was getting hungry and wasn’t sure where we should go, but Charley seem to, so I let him lead the way. We had only walked a few hundred yards when he turned and walked into a place called O.C. White’s. It had a large outside patio and without stopping, Charley started pulling me toward a table.
“Wait, Charley!” I yelled. “We need to find out if they allow dogs first.”
“Of course we do,” I heard a voice say behind me. “You guys look hungry.”
Charley sat up erect next to the table and actually let the server pet him on his head. “You are beautiful,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“Woof!”
“Good,” she said, laying the menus on the table, “because we have the best dog cuisine in town.”
When she walked off, Charley looked up at me and smiled. “Okay, smartass, I don’t want to hear it. What do you want for breakfast?”
I read him his choices from the doggie menu and he selected chicken and rice with carrots. I’m not kidding, he argued with me, because he wanted those carrots.
When we had finished our meal and I was paying at the counter, I heard Charley bark. When I looked down at him, he was poking his nose against a magazine rack. After I got my change, I walked over to him, and he nudged the rack again and barked. His nose was poking a real estate magazine with a beautiful beach house on the cover.
I pulled it out of the rack and looked at it. “This is a beautiful house, Charley, but it’s a bit out of our league.” He barked and growled. “I’m serious. We can’t afford this.” He barked again and growled louder.
The cashier started laughing. “I think he likes that house!” she said, with a wide grin. “If you want to see it, go across the bridge and head south on A1A, it’s only about fifteen miles away on Anastasia Island. Just follow the signs to Saint Augustine Beach.”
I shrugged, held up the magazine and looked at the picture of the house again.
Arguing with Charley was something I did almost every day. It was normal for us, but I often forgot how NOT normal and strange it actually was. When I looked up, everyone sitting around the tables on the deck, including the servers, were staring at us with their mouths open in stunned shock.
I couldn’t really explain it to them, so I didn’t try. Instead, I just looked down at him. “I’m telling you, Charley, I can’t afford this house.” When he lifted his lip, exposing his teeth and growled at me, everyone in the restaurant burst out laughing.
When Charley heard the people laughing, he turned and looked at them. Then he lowered his lip, gave them that goofy smile and wagged his tail. He was loving all the attention. That made them laugh louder and start applauding, like he was doing a standup routine. What a ham.
5
The Beach House
Charley was smiling and his tail was wagging at full speed as we drove across the bridge to Anastasia Island.
I held up the magazine with the picture of the house on the cover in front of his face. “I don’t get it, Charley. Why this house? Why this city?”
He looked over at me. “Woof!”
I petted him on the head. “Why is this one so different from all the others?”
“Arrrrrr, woof!”
“Ok, but I’m telling you, it’s gonna be too expensive.”
He lifted his lip. “Grrrrr.”
I threw up my hands. “Help me, help me! Somebody, please help me,” I said, playing. “There’s a ferocious mad dog in my truck!”
He lifted his lip further, showing me all his teeth. “Woof, woof, woof!”
; “You know, Charley, your mad dog act would be a lot more convincing if you weren’t wagging your tail.”
The cashier was right. The house was only fifteen miles away, but when I pulled into the entrance, I realized it was a gated community. I wasn’t sure I could talk my way in driving an old Ford pickup.
When the guard walked out of the building, he stopped instantly, admiring my truck. “Is this a 1954 Ford 100 Heritage Ranch?”
“Yes, it is,” I said proudly. “It was my dad’s truck.”
“I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid! It’s a real beauty!” he said, walking around her. “You here to see one of the houses?”
I held up the magazine. “I’d like to see this one.”
“Really?” he said, surprised. “It’s been a long time since anyone has come to look at that one.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Why is that? What’s wrong with it?”
“Oh, there ain’t nothing wrong with it except that three million dollar price tag.”
“Three million!” I looked over at Charley, but he turned his head and looked out the window.
“Yep, three million dollars! I keep telling Wilson, that’s the realtor, he’s asking way too much.” He looked around to make sure no one was listening. “You didn’t hear this from me, but I’m pretty sure he’d take anything even close to two and a quarter. But remember, you didn’t hear that from me.”
When we pulled up to the house, Charley started whining and jumping in his seat.
It was impressive and I instantly liked it. It sat in the middle of ten similar beach houses. Most were obviously smaller, but they were all built about three hundred feet behind a ten or fifteen-foot-high natural sand dune, covered with lush green perennial grasses and tall swaying sea oats. It was perched like a castle high in the air, built, I assumed, on several 15-foot-tall concrete posts. I wasn’t sure, because the posts were not exposed like most beach houses - the entire ground floor was finished. It had three garage doors that met the driveway pavers, and there were large windows around the rest of the ground floor structure. The entire second and third floors of the house were surrounded with wide covered wooden decks and handrails. Two winding circular staircases led up to the ornate entry that featured two large cut glass entry doors.