When I arrived in Key West in the late 1970s, my belongings fit into a couple of suitcases and a box or two. That free-and-easy, low-possession lifestyle lasted for almost a decade — until my then-boyfriend Gerry moved in, bringing enough paraphernalia to satisfy an aspiring hoarder.
Since its volume overwhelmed my little apartment, we soon found an upper Whitehead Street cottage to rent. None of our cohorts had a pickup truck at the time, so we hired a local moving company (whose owner was nicknamed Clyde the Magic Mover) for our crosstown relocation.
Shortly before the move, Clyde called and asked how many boxes we had. Gerry was not fooled. He had moved his possessions before. So he did what any other semi-hoarder would do: he lied.
The next day, Clyde and his partner Ezell arrived. In their mid-50s, they had enough energy to joke as they lifted Gerry’s overflowing boxes into their moving van — a vehicle seemingly large enough to hold all of Sloppy Joe’s Bar.
An unexpected island deluge began as we drove across town. It ended quickly, but left our new cottage’s attractive tropical yard filled with unattractive tropical mud.
Unfortunately, we had to cross the mud to get the furniture and boxes in the back door. But we were not daunted. Like Key West residents often do, we improvised. We placed a large board from the moving van over the worst of the mud, and Clyde and Ezell speedily unloaded our household goods and departed (with their board).
That evening, I biked over to the Half Shell Raw Bar to pick up some dinner while Gerry stayed home to unpack.
Our backyard, however, was still a mud puddle. Bringing a few remaining belongings in from the car, Gerry removed his favorite cowboy boots and left them outside the cottage’s back door so he wouldn’t track mud inside.
Shortly afterward, he spotted a floppy-eared dog racing past the kitchen window with something in its mouth. At first he thought the object was a rag — but then realized it was one of his boots! Frantically, he gave chase, but couldn’t catch the culprit.
When I got home, Gerry was pacing the kitchen (barefooted) muttering to himself. The remaining boot sat in lonely splendor on the counter.
Indignantly, Gerry related the boot-snatching episode. I collapsed into a handy chair, laughing uncontrollably.
Later, as we dined on the Half Shell’s wonderful Key West pink shrimp, Gerry said, “I’ve heard that animals do only what they need for survival. So why did that dog need my boot? He can’t wear it!”
We fantasized briefly about a local dog pack indulging in boot worship on nearby Higgs Beach. I tried to finish my shrimp, but was laughing too hard.
After a night of fitful sleep, Gerry started the day in his flip-flops. He was not amused when I hummed “These Boots Are Made for Walking.”
Outside, savoring Key West’s tangy salt air, I started chatting with two kids trying to crack a coconut on the sidewalk. Gerry unobtrusively searched the area for his missing footwear.
Finally one of the kids said, “Mister, are you looking for something?”
Gerry related the whole sorry tale.
The older kid grabbed Gerry’s sleeve and urged him down Whitehead Street. There, behind the giant painted buoy that marked the southernmost point in the continental U.S., lay a boot. It was muddy, bedraggled and appeared to have a few bite marks.
Gerry snatched it up with a glad cry.
That afternoon, as I biked over to Fausto’s for groceries, I spotted a dog that looked suspiciously like the boot thief Gerry had described. He was carrying something in his mouth … but nevertheless, he managed to give me a wide canine grin.
