Key West is a great place to be a dog.
Still true today, that statement was particularly accurate in the 1970s and early ’80s.
Back then, when bicycles were the primary form of transportation for most of us, it was perfectly normal to spot dogs riding in bike baskets as their owners pedaled around Old Town.
Ears flapping in the breeze, the furry-faced passengers typically wore wide canine grins, as if to say, “Look at me! I’m somebody special!”
We dubbed them “basket hounds,” and made up a tongue-in-cheek backstory that identified them as a breed found only in Key West.
Around cocktail hour each day, it wasn’t unusual to see people pedaling their basket hounds toward a tiny stretch of sand beside Louie’s Backyard. The restaurant and bar, a beloved hangout on the Atlantic Ocean, drew a clientele that ranged from sunburned fishing guides and local rogues to nationally acclaimed writers.
The “sandlot” next door was known as Dog Beach. That’s where dogs met their tail-wagging pals for shallow-water games of coconut chase, while their people sipped strong drinks and watched them frolic from Louie’s bar.
Louie’s first opened for business in the early 1970s, and one of its prominent patrons was a local mutt named Ten Speed. According to Key West lore, his favorite cocktail was Kahlua and cream — but he wouldn’t start lapping it unless there was a napkin under the glass.
Although I never met Ten Speed (unfortunately), I had many other canine friends in those days. There was the white-furred Zeke, who seemingly believed he was the doorman at the infamous Full Moon Saloon. Owned by Full Moon staffer Deborah Ann Marshall, he lounged outside the bar’s door during her shifts and greeted each arriving customer with engaging friendliness.
Vic Latham, a partner in the Moon, also had a dog: a large black lab named Hooker, who shared a devil-may-care attitude (and an ability to get away with outrageous behavior) with his owner. An experienced escape artist, Hooker eventually disappeared, leaving behind lurid tales of his antics.
One of the Moon’s waitresses was my sister, Joanne Munroe Denning, “mom” to a gorgeous golden retriever called Jefe.
Apparently Jefe was a MENSA-level genius in the dog world. Many times I marveled as he performed his favorite trick: calculating the proper angle of attack, diving into one end of Joanne’s pool, swimming underwater to the other end, grabbing a submerged toy in his mouth and surfacing — all in one fluid arc of motion.
Jefe had other claims to fame besides his diving prowess. He could carry three tennis balls in his mouth simultaneously, until he lost a tooth defending his honor after being jumped by a black lab (not Hooker). Equally important, he was the proud father of Cheeseburger, a golden retriever adopted by Jimmy Buffett during the musical legend’s life-changing Key West era.
Also among the island’s principal pooches was Sam, who starred in the early years of the annual Fantasy Fest Pet Masquerade. Despite his small size, Sam loomed large in the critter-centric costume competition, adorned in lavish ensembles alongside his human cohort Frank Cicalese.
Sam, Zeke, Jefe and their buddies certainly weren’t the last dogs to earn local fame. Today’s Key West is home to canine celebrities including Kate Miano’s pint-sized Tiny, the constant companion of the the vibrant hotelier; Mark Hedden and Nan Klingener’s June, frequent subject of the two writers’ Facebook posts; and Sergio, Gwen Filosa’s sidekick, who seems to know (and like) everyone.
Occasionally, I even spot a basket hound. They’re not as prevalent as they once were, but the sight of a furry representative of the “breed” always makes me smile.
