My Huckleberry Friend Nick trailed his hand in the water. It felt warm in the sharp chill of the morning. (1-4-01) W e were racing down the hypnotic straightness of Phillips Highway, returning home after another skillet-hot Florida weekend trip to the historic city of St. Augustine. We had spent the long midday hours sweating like ice cubes in an empty glass while we walked the old city looking for entertainment in the form of quaint shops, street performers, and wisecracks made at the expense of the endless stream of white-legged, sunglass-wearing tourists that seemed to act as the city's red blood cells when I happened to catch the sight of a small lump of brown hair pocked with black spots passing us on the road (the sad, searching eyes and the requisite left ear folded neatly down while the other stood arrow straight were details that my imagination surely added to the picture after the fact). In reality, you could barely miss the jutting ribs along his flanks at 55 miles per hour; plainly see the spot where the mites, ticks, and chiggers had infested themselves so thoroughly that the only way to escape the horrible itching was for the animal to gnaw a strawberry-red heard: Miles Davis Tutu XTC Skylarking Ice T The Classics Collection The Quintet Jazz At Massey Hall Bo Diddley His Best David Bowie The Hours Stevie Ray Vaughn Blues at Sunrise Winger Winger Sting and Gil Evans Live at Perugia Jazz Festival P.I.L. Compact Disc Radiohead Pablo Honey hole into his side, allowing the vermin into his bloodstream where they would eventually lay their eggs in his intestines, heart, and stomach. Undaunted, my heart brimming with Jack London stories, Little Rascal reruns, and endless Disney movies; I begged my father to stop the car so I could rescue this forgotten rascal, nurse him back to vitality, and share adventure after adventure with him -- all before mom called us in for supper each day. My younger brother Josh and his youthful aspirations of Med School had probably already reached the obvious conclusion to this parable; but the prospect of having a live dog ride home with us was infinitely more exciting than counting the signs advertising 'Real Indian River Souvenirs' and Pecan Rolls at Stuckey's, so he quickly added his own pleas to mine. The ensuing dissonance subdued my father within seconds, and soon afterwards the contents of the tiny ziploc bags that my mother had packed for the car ride were rapidly disappearing between the snapping teeth of a creature that looked like a cross between an easy chair and Boxcar Willie. Despite the creature's healthy appetite for cheetos, triscuits, and rasins, my mother began to offer subtle observations on how unhealthy the animal looked, warning that taking care of him might be a task better suited for a veterinarian. I imagine she wasn't real happy with my father's quick surrender and the introduction of a particularly worldly odor to the interior of her Mazda 626 either, but Josh and I were beyond listening. For the remainder of the ride, we both worked feverishly to gain the mongrel's attention, teach him to shake hands and promise to help us find the secret pirate treasures we knew had to be buried somewhere in the woods behind the 'No Trespassing' signs that marked the entrance to old Mr. Gately's house across the street. We named him something cheery, fed him Gravy Train, and pretended that the other dogs in the house weren't avoiding him like the plague. Then we made him chase tennis balls in the back yard until we couldn't see our hands in front of our faces. When we went to bed that night we dreamt of sticks to be chased, slobber kisses, and the perpetual bobbing wag of the dog's stubby brown tail.   Sometime that night he died in his sleep. It was a bitter pill, but my brother and I recovered from the loss quicker than we might have expected, going on to search for our pirate treasures in Mr. Gately's woods without canine assistance, finding nothing but yellow-brown corn snakes and trees that were good for climbing.