My Drinking Growing Mean

Like Husker the Pup

I lived along Lake Michigan. After work, I went for long walks at night, up into the hills that were filled with old cottages, half of them vacant during the off-season. The few remaining Stroh’s 16-ounce beer bottles slid perfectly down into the deep pockets of my top coat, still fresh with the scent of my seabag hauled back from Japan and Okinawa Marine Corps air stations where I had been stationed.

Off I went.

I guess the neighbors’ dogs in the hills were lonely too because they followed me along the narrow, cracked concrete street, back down along the dark beach to my rented house, and also an old cottage without insulation or other winter comforts. The half dozen or so dogs hung out for a few minutes before disbanding and heading back up the hill to home until we would meet again if my drinking money held out another day past payday.

It seldom did.

Later that fall, I decided to get my own dog. I picked out a little pup at the county animal shelter. He appeared to be a Husky and German Shepherd rolled into a playful whippersnapper I named Husker. For the first few weeks, I walked Husker along the water, making sure he followed without a leash. He seemed obedient enough, so on payday, I loaded up my coat.