Barefoot Storm

Chapter 6: Day 5, Zeb

Chapter 6: Day 5, Zeb

A white-and-gold collie shows up for breakfast the next morning at the bungalow. I’m seated on the verandah, shaded by twin palms. The daily newspaper is on my lap, but I’m not really reading it. The dog makes his way from the beach to my side. He sniffs my left knee and gives it a quick lick, obviously liking me. I ask him, “Where did you come from?” and the mongrel wags his tail.

Wheat toast drizzled with honey sits on a bamboo tray to my right. I place the newspaper next to the tray, find a corner of toast, and feed it to the canine. In doing so, I ask, “Who owns you?”

The collie eats up the toast, licks its chops for more, and continues to wag its tail. I see a brown leather collar around its neck, reach for it, and find three bone-shaped pieces of metal hanging from an aluminum loop. The red tag proves the dog has had its rabies shot. The blue one identifies its state’s license. The green one labels the dog Zeb and provides its owner’s name, address and phone number. After reading all three tags, I pat the dog on his head, and share, “Zeb, the Arnolds love you and are probably wondering where you’re at.”

To my right, along the beach are two young men. Both are about eighteen with buzzed heads, wear trunks, and have bare chests. The college freshman are delicious looking and whet my appetite. One of the young men, the taller of the two with spirals of coal-black hair, carries a Frisbee. I hear the shorter one call out Zeb’s name. He whistles, alerting the pooch, but Zeb ignores him.

“You should be going,” I tell the dog. “Your hot and sexy owner is looking for you.”

Zeb wags his tail. Saliva drips from his muzzle.

“Woof,” I say, staring at the canine.

The dog simply gazes at my toast, completely transfixed by the food, and wants to be fed.

The shorter young man calls out the dog’s name again, continuing to walk the beach. The taller guy with the coal-black spiral of hair on top of his cute head finds the ocean in his bare feet and wades through the coastal salt water. Again the shorter guy whistles for his dog, which finally alerts Zeb. The dog turns away from me, bolts to its owner, wags its tail the entire way, and seems happy with its canine life, his two male companions, and a beach run.

Eventually, I find the newspaper again, skim through a couple of sections, enjoy the morning sun and wind. My eyes drift close for a few seconds, maybe even longer, and I’m awakened by my cellphone, which sits on the bamboo tray, next to the toast. I find the cellphone, place it up to my right ear, and hear Barbara on the other end, “I see you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m on the Gulf in a yacht. Can you see me?”

I can see the yacht, but not Barbara. The vessel is sixty-plus feet long, white and blue with a smear of yellow, and absolutely sleek. It’s miniscule in the distance, but obviously there. “Wave to me.”

“I’m doing that right now.”

“I can’t see you.”

“I’m here.”

“How can you see me?”

“Binoculars, darling.”

“Of course. Shame on me.”

Bored with me, Barbara decides to end her call. She tells me, “Don’t get too much sun.”

“I won’t. Thank you for your concern.”

“We should do dinner together some evening.”

“Yes. I’d like that. I have an open schedule. Just let me know.”

She doesn’t respond. Instead, the line we use goes dead and I lose her. Or, maybe she loses me on purpose, hanging up on my ass; I’m not really sure.

For the next half hour I enjoy more of the tranquil morning, newspaper, and a light doze. Eventually I make my way back into the bungalow for the rest of my day.