It wasn't long after our excellent excursion into the Boca alfresco-dining scene that I found a book in the library t.i.tled No Bad Dogs No Bad Dogs by the acclaimed British dog trainer Barbara Woodhouse. As the t.i.tle implied, by the acclaimed British dog trainer Barbara Woodhouse. As the t.i.tle implied, No Bad Dogs No Bad Dogs advanced the same belief that Marley's first instructor, Miss Dominatrix, held so dear-that the only thing standing between an incorrigible canine and greatness was a befuddled, indecisive, weak-willed human master. Dogs weren't the problem, Woodhouse held; people were. That said, the book went on to describe, chapter after chapter, some of the most egregious canine behaviors imaginable. There were dogs that howled incessantly, dug incessantly, fought incessantly, humped incessantly, and bit incessantly. There were dogs that hated all men and dogs that hated all women; dogs that stole from their masters and dogs that jealously attacked defenseless infants. There were even dogs that ate their own feces. advanced the same belief that Marley's first instructor, Miss Dominatrix, held so dear-that the only thing standing between an incorrigible canine and greatness was a befuddled, indecisive, weak-willed human master. Dogs weren't the problem, Woodhouse held; people were. That said, the book went on to describe, chapter after chapter, some of the most egregious canine behaviors imaginable. There were dogs that howled incessantly, dug incessantly, fought incessantly, humped incessantly, and bit incessantly. There were dogs that hated all men and dogs that hated all women; dogs that stole from their masters and dogs that jealously attacked defenseless infants. There were even dogs that ate their own feces. Thank G.o.d, Thank G.o.d, I thought, I thought, at least he doesn't eat his own feces. at least he doesn't eat his own feces.

As I read, I began to feel better about our flawed retriever. We had gradually come to the firm conclusion that Marley was indeed the world's worst dog. Now I was buoyed to read that there were all sorts of horrid behaviors he did not not have. He didn't have a mean bone in his body. He wasn't much of a barker. Didn't bite. Didn't a.s.sault other dogs, except in the pursuit of love. Considered everyone his best friend. Best of all, he didn't eat or roll in scat. Besides, I told myself, there are no bad dogs, only inept, clueless owners like Jenny and me. It was our fault Marley turned out the way he had. have. He didn't have a mean bone in his body. He wasn't much of a barker. Didn't bite. Didn't a.s.sault other dogs, except in the pursuit of love. Considered everyone his best friend. Best of all, he didn't eat or roll in scat. Besides, I told myself, there are no bad dogs, only inept, clueless owners like Jenny and me. It was our fault Marley turned out the way he had.

Then I got to chapter 24, "Living with the Mentally Unstable Dog." As I read, I swallowed loudly. Woodhouse was describing Marley with an understanding so intimate I could swear she had been bunking with him in his battered crate. She addressed the manic, bizarre behavior patterns, the destructiveness when left alone, the gouged floors and chewed rugs. She described the attempts by owners of such beasts "to make some place either in the house or yard dogproof." She even addressed the use of tranquilizers as a desperate (and largely ineffective) last measure to try to return these mentally broken mutts to the land of the sane.

"Some are born unstable, some are made unstable by their living conditions, but the result is the same: the dogs, instead of being a joy to their owners, are a worry, an expense, and often bring complete despair to an entire family," Woodhouse wrote. I looked down at Marley snoozing at my feet and said, "Sound familiar?"

In a subsequent chapter, t.i.tled "Abnormal Dogs," Woodhouse wrote with a sense of resignation: "I cannot stress often enough that if you wish to keep a dog that is not normal, you must face up to living a slightly restricted existence." You mean like living in mortal fear of going out for a gallon of milk? You mean like living in mortal fear of going out for a gallon of milk? "Although "Although you you may love a subnormal dog," she continued, "other people must not be inconvenienced by it." may love a subnormal dog," she continued, "other people must not be inconvenienced by it." Other people such as, hypothetically speaking, Sunday diners at a sidewalk cafe in Boca Raton, Florida? Other people such as, hypothetically speaking, Sunday diners at a sidewalk cafe in Boca Raton, Florida?

Woodhouse had nailed our dog and our pathetic, codependent existence. We had it all: the hapless, weak-willed masters; the mentally unstable, out-of-control dog; the trail of destroyed property; the annoyed and inconvenienced strangers and neighbors. We were a textbook case. "Congratulations, Marley," I said to him. "You qualify as subnormal." He opened his eyes at the sound of his name, stretched, and rolled onto his back, paws in the air.

I was expecting Woodhouse to offer a cheery solution for the owners of such defective merchandise, a few helpful tips that, when properly executed, could turn even the most manic of pets into Westminster-worthy show dogs. But she ended her book on a much darker note: "Only the owners of unbalanced dogs can really know where the line can be drawn between a dog that is sane and one that is mentally unsound. No one can make up the owner's mind as to what to do with the last kind. I, as a great dog lover, feel it is kinder to put them to sleep."

Put them to sleep? Gulp. In case she wasn't making herself clear, she added, "Surely, when all training and veterinary help has been exhausted and there is no hope that the dog will ever live a reasonably normal existence, it is kinder to pet and owner to put the dog to sleep." Gulp. In case she wasn't making herself clear, she added, "Surely, when all training and veterinary help has been exhausted and there is no hope that the dog will ever live a reasonably normal existence, it is kinder to pet and owner to put the dog to sleep."

Even Barbara Woodhouse, lover of animals, successful trainer of thousands of dogs their owners had deemed hopeless, was conceding that some dogs were simply beyond help. If it were up to her, they would be humanely dispatched to that great canine insane asylum in the sky.

"Don't worry, big guy," I said, leaning down to scratch Marley's belly. "The only sleep we're going to be doing around this house is the kind you get to wake up from."

He sighed dramatically and drifted back to his dreams of French poodles in heat.

It was around this same time that we also learned not all Labs are created equal. The breed actually has two distinct subgroups: English and American. The English line tends to be smaller and stockier than the American line, with blockier heads and gentle, calm dispositions. They are the favored line for showing. Labs belonging to the American line are noticeably larger and stronger, with sleeker, less squat features. They are known for their endless energy and high spirits and favored for use in the field as hunting and sports dogs. The same qualities that make the American line of Labs so unstoppably superb in the woods makes them challenges in the family home. Their exuberant energy level, the literature warned, should not be underestimated.

As the brochure for a Pennsylvania retriever breeder, Endless Mountain Labradors, explains it: "So many people ask us, 'What's the difference between the English and the American (field) Labs?' There is such a big difference that the AKC is considering splitting the breed. There is a difference in build, as well as temperament. If you are looking for strictly a field dog for field trial compet.i.tion, go for the American field dog. They are athletic, tall, lanky, thin, but have VERY hyper, high-strung personalities, which do not lend themselves to being the best 'family dogs.' On the other hand, the English Labs are very blocky, stocky, shorter in their build. Very sweet, quiet, mellow, lovely dogs."

It didn't take me long to figure out which line Marley belonged to. It was all beginning to make sense. We had blindly picked out a type of Lab best suited to stampeding across the open wilderness all day. If that weren't enough, our specific choice just happened to be mentally unbalanced, unwound, and beyond the reach of training, tranquilizers, or canine psychiatry. The kind of subnormal specimen an experienced dog trainer like Barbara Woodhouse might just consider better off dead. Great, Great, I thought. I thought. Now we find out. Now we find out.

Not long after Woodhouse's book opened our eyes to Marley's crazed mind, a neighbor asked us to take in their cat for a week while they were on vacation. Sure, we said, bring him over. Compared with a dog, cats were easy. Cats ran on autopilot, and this cat in particular was shy and elusive, especially around Marley. He could be counted on to hide beneath the couch all day and only come out after we were asleep to eat his food, kept high out of Marley's reach, and use the kitty-litter box, which we tucked away in a discreet corner of the screened patio that enclosed the pool. There was nothing to it, really. Marley was totally unaware the cat was even in the house.

Midway through the cat's stay with us, I awoke at dawn to a loud, driving beat resonating through the mattress. It was Marley, quivering with excitement beside the bed, his tail slapping the mattress at a furious rate. Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! I reached out to pet him, and that sent him into evasive maneuvers. He was prancing and dancing beside the bed. The Marley Mambo. "Okay, what do you have?" I asked him, eyes still shut. As if to answer, Marley proudly plopped his prize onto the crisp sheets, just inches from my face. In my groggy state, it took me a minute to process what exactly it was. The object was small, dark, of indefinable shape, and coated in a coa.r.s.e, gritty sand. Then the smell reached my nostrils. An acrid, pungent, putrid smell. I bolted upright and pushed backward against Jenny, waking her up. I pointed at Marley's gift to us, glistening on the sheets. I reached out to pet him, and that sent him into evasive maneuvers. He was prancing and dancing beside the bed. The Marley Mambo. "Okay, what do you have?" I asked him, eyes still shut. As if to answer, Marley proudly plopped his prize onto the crisp sheets, just inches from my face. In my groggy state, it took me a minute to process what exactly it was. The object was small, dark, of indefinable shape, and coated in a coa.r.s.e, gritty sand. Then the smell reached my nostrils. An acrid, pungent, putrid smell. I bolted upright and pushed backward against Jenny, waking her up. I pointed at Marley's gift to us, glistening on the sheets.

"That's not..." Jenny began, revulsion in her voice.

"Yes, it is," I said. "He raided the kitty-litter box."

Marley couldn't have looked more proud had he just presented us with the Hope diamond. As Barbara Woodhouse had so sagely predicted, our mentally unstable, abnormal mutt had entered the feces-eating stage of his life.

CHAPTER 19.

Lightning Strikes.

After Conor's arrival, everyone we knew-with the exception of my very Catholic parents who were praying for dozens of little Grogans-a.s.sumed we were done having children. In the two-income, professional crowd in which we ran, one child was the norm, two were considered a bit of an extravagance, and three were simply unheard-of. Especially given the difficult pregnancy we had gone through with Conor, no one could understand why we might want to subject ourselves to the messy process all over again. But we had come a long way since our newlywed days of killing houseplants. Parenthood became us. Our two boys brought us more joy than we ever thought anyone or anything possibly could. They defined our life now, and while parts of us missed the leisurely vacations, lazy Sat.u.r.days reading novels, and romantic dinners that lingered late into the night, we had come to find our pleasures in new ways-in spilled applesauce and tiny nose prints on windowpanes and the soft symphony of bare feet padding down the hallway at dawn. Even on the worst days, we usually managed to find something to smile over, knowing by now what every parent sooner or later figures out, that these wondrous days of early parenthood-of diapered bottoms and first teeth and incomprehensible jabber-are but a brilliant, brief flash in the vastness of an otherwise ordinary lifetime.

We both rolled our eyes when my old-school mother clucked at us, "Enjoy them while you can because they'll be grown up before you know it." Now, even just a few years into it, we were realizing she was right. Hers was a well-worn cliche but one we could already see was steeped in truth. The boys were were growing up fast, and each week ended another little chapter that could never again be revisited. One week Patrick was sucking his thumb, the next he had weaned himself of it forever. One week Conor was our baby in a crib; the next he was a little boy using a toddler bed for a trampoline. Patrick was unable to p.r.o.nounce the growing up fast, and each week ended another little chapter that could never again be revisited. One week Patrick was sucking his thumb, the next he had weaned himself of it forever. One week Conor was our baby in a crib; the next he was a little boy using a toddler bed for a trampoline. Patrick was unable to p.r.o.nounce the L L sound, and when women would coo over him, as they often did, he would put his fists on his hips, stick out his lip, and say, "Dos yadies are yaughing at me." I always meant to get it on videotape, but one day the sound, and when women would coo over him, as they often did, he would put his fists on his hips, stick out his lip, and say, "Dos yadies are yaughing at me." I always meant to get it on videotape, but one day the L L's came out perfectly, and that was that. For months we could not get Conor out of his Superman pajamas. He would race through the house, cape flapping behind him, yelling, "Me Stupe Man!" And then it was over, another missed video moment.

Children serve as impossible-to-ignore, in-your-face timepieces, marking the relentless march of one's life through what otherwise might seem an infinite sea of minutes, hours, days, and years. Our babies were growing up faster than either of us wanted, which partially explains why, about a year after moving to our new house in Boca, we began trying for our third. As I said to Jenny, "Hey, we've got four bedrooms now; why not?" Two tries was all it took. Neither of us would admit we wanted a girl, but of course we did, desperately so, despite our many p.r.o.nouncements during the pregnancy that having three boys would be just great. When a sonogram finally confirmed our secret hope, Jenny draped her arms over my shoulders and whispered, "I'm so happy I could give you a little girl." I was so happy, too.

Not all our friends shared our enthusiasm. Most met news of our pregnancy with the same blunt question: "Did you mean to?" They just could not believe a third pregnancy could be anything other than an accident. If indeed it was not, as we insisted, then they had to question our judgment. One acquaintance went so far as to chastise Jenny for allowing me to knock her up again, asking, in a tone best reserved for someone who had just signed over all her worldly possessions to a cult in Guyana: "What were were you thinking?" you thinking?"

We didn't care. On January 9, 1997, Jenny gave me a belated Christmas present: a pink-cheeked, seven-pound baby girl, whom we named Colleen. Our family only now felt like it was complete. If the pregnancy for Conor had been a litany of stress and worry, this pregnancy was textbook perfect, and delivering at Boca Raton Community Hospital introduced us to a whole new level of pampered customer satisfaction. Just down the hall from our room was a lounge with a free, all-you-can-drink cappuccino station-so very Boca Boca. By the time the baby finally came, I was so jacked up on frothy caffeine, I could barely hold my hands still to snip the umbilical cord.

When Colleen was one week old, Jenny brought her outside for the first time. The day was crisp and beautiful, and the boys and I were in the front yard, planting flowers. Marley was chained to a tree nearby, happy to lie in the shade and watch the world go by. Jenny sat in the gra.s.s beside him and placed the sleeping Colleen in a portable ba.s.sinet on the ground between them. After several minutes, the boys beckoned for Mom to come closer to see their handiwork, and they led Jenny and me around the garden beds as Colleen napped in the shade beside Marley. We wandered behind some large shrubbery from where we could still see the baby but pa.s.sersby on the street could not see us. As we turned back, I stopped and motioned for Jenny to look out through the shrubs. Out on the street, an older couple walking by had stopped and were gawking at the scene in our front yard with bewildered expressions. At first, I wasn't sure what had made them stop and stare. Then it hit me: from their vantage point, all they could see was a fragile newborn alone with a large yellow dog, who appeared to be babysitting single-handedly.

We lingered in silence, stifling giggles. There was Marley, looking like an Egyptian sphinx, lying with his front paws crossed, head up, panting contentedly, every few seconds pushing his snout over to sniff the baby's head. The poor couple must have thought they had stumbled on a case of felony child neglect. No doubt the parents were out drinking at a bar somewhere, having left the infant alone in the care of the neighborhood Labrador retriever, who just might attempt to nurse the infant at any second. As if he were in on the ruse, Marley without prompting shifted positions and rested his chin across the baby's stomach, his head bigger than her whole body, and let out a long sigh as if he were saying, When are those two going to get home? When are those two going to get home? He appeared to be protecting her, and maybe he was, though I'm pretty sure he was just drinking in the scent of her diaper. He appeared to be protecting her, and maybe he was, though I'm pretty sure he was just drinking in the scent of her diaper.

Jenny and I stood there in the bushes and exchanged grins. The thought of Marley as an infant caregiver-Doggie Day Care-was just too good to let go. I was tempted to wait there and see how the scene would play out, but then it occurred to me that one scenario might involve a 911 call to the police. We had gotten away with storing Conor out in the breezeway, but how would we explain this one? ("Well, I know how it must look, Officer, but he's actually surprisingly responsible...") We stepped out of the bushes and waved to the couple-and watched the relief wash over their faces. Thank G.o.d, that baby hadn't been thrown to the dogs after all.

"You must really trust your dog," the woman said somewhat cautiously, betraying a belief that dogs were fierce and unpredictable and had no place that close to a defenseless newborn.

"He hasn't eaten one yet," I said.

Two months after Colleen arrived home I celebrated my fortieth birthday in a most inauspicious manner, namely, by myself. The Big Four-O is supposed to be a major turning point, the place in life where you bid restless youth farewell and embrace the predictable comforts of middle age. If any birthday merited a blowout celebration, it was the fortieth, but not for me. We were now responsible parents with three children; Jenny had a new baby pressed to her breast. There were more important things to worry about. I arrived home from work, and Jenny was tired and worn down. After a quick meal of leftovers, I bathed the boys and put them to bed while Jenny nursed Colleen. By eight-thirty, all three children were asleep, and so was my wife. I popped a beer and sat out on the patio, staring into the iridescent blue water of the lit swimming pool. As always, Marley was faithfully at my side, and as I scratched his ears, it occurred to me that he was at about the same turning point in life. We had brought him home six years earlier. In dog years, that would put him somewhere in his early forties now. He had crossed unnoticed into middle age but still acted every bit the puppy. Except for a string of stubborn ear infections that required Dr. Jay's repeated intervention, he was healthy. He showed no signs whatsoever of growing up or winding down. I had never thought of Marley as any kind of role model, but sitting there sipping my beer, I was aware that maybe he held the secret for a good life. Never slow down, never look back, live each day with adolescent verve and s.p.u.n.k and curiosity and playfulness. If you think you're still a young pup, then maybe you are, no matter what the calendar says. Not a bad philosophy for life, though I'd take a pa.s.s on the part that involved vandalizing couches and laundry rooms.

"Well, big guy," I said, pressing my beer bottle against his cheek in a kind of interspecies toast. "It's just you and me tonight. Here's to forty. Here's to middle age. Here's to running with the big dogs right up until the end." And then he, too, curled up and went to sleep.

I was still moping about my solitary birthday a few days later when Jim Tolpin, my old colleague who had broken Marley of his jumping habit, called unexpectedly and asked if I wanted to grab a beer the next night, a Sat.u.r.day. Jim had left the newspaper business to pursue a law degree at about the same time we moved to Boca Raton, and we hadn't spoken in months. "Sure," I said, not stopping to wonder why. Jim picked me up at six and took me to an English pub, where we quaffed Ba.s.s ale and caught up on each other's lives. We were having a grand old time until the bartender called out, "Is there a John Grogan here? Phone for John Grogan."

It was Jenny, and she sounded very upset and stressed-out. "The baby's crying, the boys are out of control, and I just ripped my contact lens!" she wailed into the phone. "Can you come home right away?"

"Try to calm down," I said. "Sit tight. I'll be right home." I hung up, and the bartender gave me a you-poor-sorry-henpecked-b.a.s.t.a.r.d kind of a nod and simply said, "My sympathies, mate."

"Come on," Jim said. "I'll drive you home."

When we turned onto my block, both sides of the street were lined with cars. "Somebody's having a party," I said.

"Looks like it," Jim answered.

"For G.o.d's sakes," I said when we reached the house. "Look at that! Someone even parked in my driveway. If that isn't nerve."

We blocked the offender in, and I invited Jim inside. I was still griping about the inconsiderate jerk who parked in my driveway when the front door swung open. It was Jenny with Colleen in her arms. She didn't look upset at all. In fact, she had a big grin on her face. Behind her stood a bagpipe player in kilts. Good G.o.d! What have I walked in on? Good G.o.d! What have I walked in on? Then I looked beyond the bagpipe player and saw that someone had taken down the kiddy fence around the pool and launched floating candles on the water. The deck was crammed with several dozen of my friends, neighbors, and coworkers. Just as I was making the connection that all those cars on the street belonged to all these people in my house, they shouted in unison, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLD MAN!" Then I looked beyond the bagpipe player and saw that someone had taken down the kiddy fence around the pool and launched floating candles on the water. The deck was crammed with several dozen of my friends, neighbors, and coworkers. Just as I was making the connection that all those cars on the street belonged to all these people in my house, they shouted in unison, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLD MAN!"

My wife had not forgotten after all.

When I was finally able to snap my jaw shut, I took Jenny in my arms, kissed her on the cheek, and whispered in her ear, "I'll get you later for this."

Someone opened the laundry-room door looking for the trash can, and out bounded Marley in prime party mode. He swept through the crowd, stole a mozzarella-and-basil appetizer off a tray, lifted a couple of women's miniskirts with his snout, and made a break for the unfenced swimming pool. I tackled him just as he was launching into his signature running belly flop and dragged him back to solitary confinement. "Don't worry," I said. "I'll save you the leftovers."

It wasn't long after the surprise party-a party whose success was marked by the arrival of the police at midnight to tell us to pipe down-that Marley finally was able to find validation for his intense fear of thunder. I was in the backyard on a Sunday afternoon under brooding, darkening skies, digging up a rectangle of gra.s.s to plant yet another vegetable garden. Gardening was becoming a serious hobby for me, and the better I got at it, the more I wanted to grow. Slowly I was taking over the entire backyard. As I worked, Marley paced nervously around me, his internal barometer sensing an impending storm. I sensed it, too, but I wanted to get the project done and figured I would work until I felt the first drops of rain. As I dug, I kept glancing at the sky, watching an ominous black thunderhead forming several miles to the east, out over the ocean. Marley was whining softly, beckoning me to put down the shovel and head inside. "Relax," I told him. "It's still miles away."

The words had barely left my lips when I felt a previously unknown sensation, a kind of quivering tingle on the back of my neck. The sky had turned an odd shade of olive gray, and the air seemed to go suddenly dead as though some heavenly force had grabbed the winds and frozen them in its grip. Weird, Weird, I thought as I paused, leaning on my shovel to study the sky. That's when I heard it: a buzzing, popping, crackling surge of energy, similar to what you sometimes can hear standing beneath high-tension power lines. A sort of I thought as I paused, leaning on my shovel to study the sky. That's when I heard it: a buzzing, popping, crackling surge of energy, similar to what you sometimes can hear standing beneath high-tension power lines. A sort of pffffffffffft pffffffffffft sound filled the air around me, followed by a brief instant of utter silence. In that instant, I knew trouble was coming, but I had no time to react. In the next fraction of a second, the sky went pure, blindingly white, and an explosion, the likes of which I had never heard before, not in any storm, at any fireworks display, at any demolition site, boomed in my ears. A wall of energy hit me in the chest like an invisible linebacker. When I opened my eyes who knows how many seconds later, I was lying facedown on the ground, sand in my mouth, my shovel ten feet away, rain pelting me. Marley was down, too, in his. .h.i.t-the-deck stance, and when he saw me raise my head he wiggled desperately toward me on his belly like a soldier trying to slide beneath barbed wire. When he reached me he climbed right on my back and buried his snout in my neck, frantically licking me. I looked around for just a second, trying to get my bearings, and I could see where the lightning had struck the power-line pole in the corner of the yard and followed the wire down to the house about twenty feet from where I had been standing. The electrical meter on the wall was in charred ruins. sound filled the air around me, followed by a brief instant of utter silence. In that instant, I knew trouble was coming, but I had no time to react. In the next fraction of a second, the sky went pure, blindingly white, and an explosion, the likes of which I had never heard before, not in any storm, at any fireworks display, at any demolition site, boomed in my ears. A wall of energy hit me in the chest like an invisible linebacker. When I opened my eyes who knows how many seconds later, I was lying facedown on the ground, sand in my mouth, my shovel ten feet away, rain pelting me. Marley was down, too, in his. .h.i.t-the-deck stance, and when he saw me raise my head he wiggled desperately toward me on his belly like a soldier trying to slide beneath barbed wire. When he reached me he climbed right on my back and buried his snout in my neck, frantically licking me. I looked around for just a second, trying to get my bearings, and I could see where the lightning had struck the power-line pole in the corner of the yard and followed the wire down to the house about twenty feet from where I had been standing. The electrical meter on the wall was in charred ruins.

"Come on!" I yelled, and then Marley and I were on our feet, sprinting through the downpour toward the back door as new bolts of lightning flashed around us. We did not stop until we were safely inside. I knelt on the floor, soaking wet, catching my breath, and Marley clambered on me, licking my face, nibbling my ears, flinging spit and loose fur all over everything. He was beside himself with fear, shaking uncontrollably, drool hanging off his chin. I hugged him, tried to calm him down. "Jesus, that was close!" I said, and realized that I was shaking, too. He looked up at me with those big empathetic eyes that I swore could almost talk. I was sure I knew what he was trying to tell me. I've been trying to warn you for years that this stuff can kill you. But would anyone listen? Now will you take me seriously? I've been trying to warn you for years that this stuff can kill you. But would anyone 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 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, ceiling fans, televisions, and several appliances all blown out. The circuit breaker was fused into a melted mess. We were about to make some electrician 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 Marley 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.

CHAPTER 20.

Dog Beach.

As a newspaper columnist, I was always looking 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 ca.n.a.l along the edge of the Everglades. 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 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 cla.s.smates of the five dead children had transformed the pavement into a tapestry of spray-painted eulogies. The blacktop was covered shoulder-to-shoulder for more than a half mile, and the raw emotion of the outpouring 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 received an eviction notice from her condo because her pudgy pooch exceeded the weight limit for pets, I swooped in to meet the offending heavyweight. When a confused senior citizen crashed her car into a store while trying to park, fortunately hurting no one, I was close behind, speaking 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 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 columnist 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 beverage in hand? Someone had to do the dirty work of telling the story of the lost shakers of salt in Margaritaville; 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 sunscreen 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 could report firsthand on the harrowing proposition 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 victim 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 aging rock musicians. One day I simply climbed a tree and sat for hours enjoying the solitude; a developer planned to bulldoze the grove in which I sat to make way for a high-end housing development, and I figured the least I could do was give this last remnant of nature amid the concrete jungle 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 pina 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 sh.o.r.eline, various munic.i.p.alities had banned pets, and for good reason. The last thing beachgoers wanted was a wet, sandy dog p.o.o.ping and peeing and shaking all over them as they worked on their tans. NO PETS NO PETS signs bristled along nearly every stretch of sand. 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 unincorporated pocket of Palm Beach County about halfway between West Palm Beach and Boca Raton, stretching for a few hundred yards and hidden behind a gra.s.sy dune at the end of a dead-end street. There was no parking, no restroom, no lifeguard, 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; unofficially, 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 violators with withering stares and, if needed, a few choice words. The rules were simple and few: Aggressive 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 visited. 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 intent clear: outlaw the furry critters, improve public access, and open this valuable resource to the ma.s.ses.

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 morning, I traded my tie and briefcase for swimsuit 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 regret 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 began the long hike in through a sleepy neighborhood of sixties-vintage bungalows, Marley leading the charge. About halfway there, a gruff voice called out, "Hey, Dog Guy!" I froze, convinced I was about to be busted by an angry neighbor who wanted me to keep my d.a.m.n dog the h.e.l.l 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 pet.i.tion 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) began a family. I yanked Marley away and continued on. Just as we reached the path to the beach, Marley 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 sheriff'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 arrived too late to fully enjoy the simple pleasures of Dog Beach. The police, no doubt at the urging of the politically connected antiDog 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 especially notorious during this time in South Florida. They were the dog breed of choice for gang members, 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 challenge, either. Even when a dog attempted to pick a fight, he didn't take the hint. He would merely pounce into a playful stance, b.u.t.t 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 going to ticket people who didn't obey the leash ordinance. "I guess they're cracking down," I said.

"That's bulls.h.i.t!" 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. Bulls.h.i.t!" With that he unclipped the heavy chain, and Killer galloped across the sand and into the water. Marley reared back on his hind legs, bouncing 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. 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 h.e.l.l," 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. Together they rolled beneath a wave, and I held my 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 running 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, unblemished and unchecked, the Florida of a forgotten, 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 water as if it were vinegar, wanting only to return to his new best friend, Killer, and the other dogs.

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 fulfilled the prophecy, committing the ultimate Dog Beach heresy. GAAAAAAAAACK! GAAAAAAAAACK!

I raced to pull him out of the water, but it was too late. Everything was coming up. GAAAAAAAAACK! GAAAAAAAAACK! I could see last night's dog chow floating on the water's surface, looking surprisingly 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 seconds, and the instant his stomach was emptied he looked up brightly, apparently fully recovered with no lingering aftereffects, as if to say, I could see last night's dog chow floating on the water's surface, looking surprisingly 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 seconds, and the instant his stomach was emptied he looked up brightly, apparently fully recovered with no lingering aftereffects, as if to say, Now that I've got that taken care of, who wants to bodysurf? Now that I've got that taken care of, who wants to bodysurf? I glanced nervously around, but no one had seemed to notice. The other dog owners were occupied with their own dogs farther down the beach, a mother not far away was focused on helping her toddler make a sandcastle, and the few sunbathers scattered about were lying flat on their backs, eyes closed. I glanced nervously around, but no one had seemed to notice. The other dog owners were occupied with their own dogs farther down the beach, a mother not far away was focused on helping her toddler make a sandcastle, and the few sunbathers scattered about were lying flat on their backs, eyes closed. Thank G.o.d! Thank G.o.d! I thought, as I waded into Marley's puke zone, roiling the water with my feet as nonchalantly as I could to disperse the evidence. I thought, as I waded into Marley's puke zone, roiling the water with my feet as nonchalantly as I could to disperse the evidence. How embarra.s.sing would that have been? How embarra.s.sing would that have been? At any rate, I told myself, despite the technical violation of the No. 1 Dog Beach Rule, we had caused no real harm. After all, it was just undigested food; the fish would be thankful for the meal, wouldn't they? I even picked out the milk-jug cap and soldier's head and put them in my pocket so as not to litter. At any rate, I told myself, despite the technical violation of the No. 1 Dog Beach Rule, we had caused no real harm. After all, it was just undigested food; the fish would be thankful for the meal, wouldn't they? I even picked out the milk-jug cap and soldier's head and put them in my pocket so as not to litter.

"Listen, you," I said sternly, grabbing Marley around the snout and forcing him to look me in the eye. "Stop drinking salt water. What kind of a dog doesn't know enough to not drink salt water?" I considered yanking him off the beach and cutting our adventure short, but he seemed fine now. There couldn't possibly be anything left in his stomach. The damage was done, and we had gotten away with it undetected. I released him and he streaked down the beach to rejoin Killer.

What I had failed to consider was that, while Marley's stomach may have been completely emptied, his bowels were not. The sun was reflecting blindingly off the water, and I squinted to see Marley frolicking among the other dogs. As I watched, he abruptly disengaged from the play and began turning in tight circles in the shallow water. I knew the circling maneuver well. It was what he did every morning in the backyard as he prepared to defecate. It was a ritual for him, as though not just any spot would do for the gift he was about to bestow on the world. Sometimes the circling could go on for a minute or more as he sought just the perfect patch of earth. And now he was circling in the shallows of Dog Beach, on that brave frontier where no dog had dared to p.o.o.p before. He was entering his squatting position. And this time, he had an audience. Killer's dad and several other dog owners were standing within a few yards of him. The mother and her daughter had turned from their sandcastle to gaze out to sea. A couple approached, walking hand in hand along the water's edge. "No," I whispered. "Please, G.o.d, no."

"Hey!" someone yelled out. "Get your dog!"

"Stop him!" someone else shouted.

As alarmed voices cried out, the sunbathers propped themselves up to see what all the commotion was about.

I burst into a full sprint, racing to get to him before it was too late. If I could just reach him and yank him out of his squat before his bowels began to move, I might be able to interrupt the whole awful humiliation, at least long enough to get him safely up on the dune. As I raced toward him, I had what can only be described as an out-of-body experience. Even as I ran, I was looking down from above, the scene unfolding one frozen frame at a time. Each step seemed to last an eternity. Each foot hit the sand with a dull thud. My arms swung through the air; my face contorted in a sort of agonized grimace. As I ran, I absorbed the slow-mo frames around me: a young woman sunbather, holding her top in place over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with one hand, her other hand plastered over her mouth; the mother scooping up her child and retreating from the water's edge; the dog owners, their faces twisted with disgust, pointing; Killer's dad, his leathery neck bulging, yelling. Marley was done circling now and in full squat position, looking up to the heavens as if saying a little prayer. And I heard my own voice rising above the din and uncoiling in an oddly guttural, distorted, drawn-out scream: "Noooooooooooooooo!" "Noooooooooooooooo!"

I was almost there, just feet from him. "Marley, no!" I screamed. "No, Marley, no! No! No! No!" It was no use. Just as I reached him, he exploded in a burst of watery diarrhea. Everyone was jumping back now, recoiling, fleeing to higher ground. Owners were grabbing their dogs. Sunbathers scooped up their towels. Then it was over. Marley trotted out of the water onto the beach, shook off with gusto, and turned to look at me, panting happily. I pulled a plastic bag out of my pocket and held it helplessly in the air. I could see immediately it would do no good. The waves crashed in, spreading Marley's mess across the water and up onto the beach.

"Dude," Killer's dad said in a voice that made me appreciate how the wild hogs must feel at the instant of Killer's final, fatal lunge. "That was not cool."

No, it wasn't cool at all. Marley and I had violated the sacred rule of Dog Beach. We had fouled the water, not once but twice, and ruined the morning for everyone. It was time to beat a quick retreat.

"Sorry," I mumbled to Killer's owner as I snapped the leash on Marley. "He swallowed a bunch of seawater."

Back at the car, I threw a towel over Marley and vigorously rubbed him down. The more I rubbed, the more he shook, and soon I was covered in sand and spray and fur. I wanted to be mad at him. I wanted to strangle him. But it was too late now. Besides, who wouldn't get sick drinking a half gallon of salt water? As with so many of his misdeeds, this one was not malicious or premeditated. It wasn't as though he had disobeyed a command or set out to intentionally humiliate me. He simply had to go and he went. True, at the wrong place and the wrong time and in front of all the wrong people. I knew he was a victim of his own diminished mental capacity. He was the only beast on the whole beach dumb enough to guzzle seawater. The dog was defective. How could I hold that against him?