Baby alligators do not make good pets. They seem cute at 12-14 inches. Margaret thought a collar would be nice. She found a name tag at Renys; “SPIKE” She zip-tied it to a chain dog collar and slipped it over Spike’s long thin jaws and neck. It hung down and dragged along the kitchen floor; scrape, jingle, scrape, jingle. Irritating. Spike liked hot dogs more than lettuce. Snapping at pieces thrown to him. Johnny liked walking Spike around the block to scare his friends. Little boys teasing it, little girls screaming in mock terror. Time goes by. Kids lose interest. Dad loses patience. Mom feels sorry. Little Spike keeps growing.
“Mark, I think he needs more space don’t you?”
“Yeah. So do I. How about the ocean?”
“No! Its a Cayman They like fresh or brackish water right?”
“I don’t think its a Cayman. I think it’s just a small alligator.”
“The kids don’t take care of it anymore and we don’t want to. Besides, I want a dog.”
“OK. Why don’t I take it to the town landfill and drop it in the pond there?”
“Pond? That’s a half-filled quarry! The sides are too steep. How will it live?
“I’m sure it will be fine. I’m going to the dump. Ill check out the pond there”
“Mark, it’s called the Midcoast Transfer Station, not a DUMP”
“Whatever. I’ll take Spike along for the ride as long as it stays in its cage while I’m driving” When Mark gets to the transfer station he starts sorting the trash; plastic here, glass there, cardboard separate from paper, etc..
“Hey Mark! Are you throwing that cage away? My kid just got a hampster and it’s running all over the house. I really need a cage.”
“Sure Fred, help yourself. Just take it out of the back of the wagon and its yours.”
Fred looks in the back of Mark’s wagon and sees the cage but not whats inside.
“Hey Mark. This cage smells horrible! What did you have in it?”
“Take a closer look.’
Fred leans over and sticks his head closer to the cage. Too close for Spike.
Spike lunges at Fred. Fred jumps back, cracking his head on the open tailgate.
Mark laughs hysterically
“Whats wrong Fred? Don’t you want the cage?”
Fred looks but steps back quickly “Whats in there? That looks like an alligator!”
“Naw, thats just a cute little Cayman. Free with the cage. How about it?”
“No thanks. Keep the little monster. I just want the cage.”
“OK.
Seriously, you can have the cage but you have to take Spike,
too.”
“Spike? You named it? Oh right, he has a name tag...
Tell you what. Help me drag Spike and his smelly cage over to the
dump pond and we can DUMP him in so I can have the cage?”
Mark and Fred slide the cage out of the wagon. Fred took the end AWAY from Spikes head and teeth, Mark took the other end but accidentally stuck his finger into the cage. Spike sunk his spikey teeth into Marks finger and Fred got the last laugh.
“Hey Mark, I think he likes you!”
“Thanks Fred. Drop your end and keep a lookout for the Dump Warden while I give Spike his freedom, at last’ Spike stays in his cage long enough to squeeze out a slimy, green lump of poop and then runs for the open cage door. In a minute, he is down the bank, into the water and disappears under the branches of a dead tree floating among a collection of plastic empty bleach bottles and a soggy cardboard box which gave him a perfect hiding place. He pokes his yellow eyes just above the surface of the pond scum and glares at his previous owner. His small brain captures this vision for the future,
Years go by and Spike grows larger and larger in his new watery home. His dog collar gets tighter and tighter, sinking into the scaly flesh of his neck. Slowly, the fish all disappear from the quarry, the slower ducks too. Cormorants and seagulls stopped dropping by after a few of them lost a foot or a friend. Spike got hungry but had to wait until most of the town’s avid recyclers went home.
At 4 pm the dump gate swings shut. After dark Spike could begin his nocturnal dining on mice and rats or the occasional possum. Raccoons and skunks were too cautious and quick. Most town dogs and cats stayed at home, inside or on leashes. The ones that made the mistake of sneaking around the quarry were never seen again. Meanwhile, Spike, who was NOT a Cayman, grew larger, hungrier and more bold in his nightly travels.
One evening in late summer Spike decided it was time to widen his horizons in search of larger prey and slowly lumbered down the driveway from the landfill quarry and all the way to the Yacht Club on Bayview Street. It was quiet and Spike was tired from his long walk/drag. He fell asleep next to the dinghy barn, crawling under an old abandoned skiff and did not wake up until the children arrived noisily, for their Saturday morning sailing lessons and dinghy races. They never looked under the skiff.
Spike woke up hungry as usual, his collar tight around his neck, he had to eat soon.
The Optimist prams were launched first. Budsy lowered them into the harbor wth a chain hoist. Kids jumped into them before they hit the water, raised their little sails and shot away from the club to start the day. Spike opened one yellow eye, saw floating food, and slipped into the harbor unseen. COLD!
The water was so cold! Much colder than the quarry pond. He had to swim fast and stayed high near the surface while the sun warmed him up. No one noticed the scaly, 10 foot log floating along with the outgoing tide. Budsy stopped, looked up and across the water and made a mental note “got to get the launch and drag that thing out of the harbor before a boat hits it.”
Spike followed the noisy splashes and screaming sailors, eyes just above the surface, gliding quietly, no wake, closer and closer.
“Hey John! Bet Elizabeth and I can beat you to the first mark!”
“No way! Margaret and I are speed demons on the water. Let’s do it!”
Mark sat on an old adirondack chair on the club lawn, binoculars around his neck and a coffee resting on the arm of his chair. He heard his kids voices, raised the binoc’s and confirmed that they were alright. Fred sat down heavily next to him. “Hey Mark, when you get up, get me a coffee. OK?”
Mark rolled his eyes, got up and walked over to the club’s coffee urn which was set up outside the clubhouse every Saturday morning. He saw Budsy getting into the launch.
“Hey Budsy, whats up”
“Nothing special. I have to drag that log out there up on shore before some idiot runs over it or the kids decide to climb on it and somebody gets hurt.”
“Mind
if I come along?”
“Sure, bring your coffee. Use the company.”
They got into the launch, Budsy expertly backed it out of the slip and glided over towards the log. As they got closer, Mark was making small talk to Budsy, while Budsy looked straight ahead, all business when he was in the launch. He was staring at the log but watching every small sailor within 100 yards of it. Something was wrong with the log. It was mostly submerged, probably waterlogged, two strange knots were just above the waterline.
“Mark, hand me that boat hook and grab that coil of line under the deck at the bow” He wasn’t ready to talk about the “log” yet. He never wasted words.
“Let me hook it. I’ll bring it in and we can lash it alongside”
“Better wait”
Two prams were sailing closer to the log, racing each other but not looking ahead, just joking with each other as the wind picked up. Budsy knew the kids; Johnny and Margaret in Optimist 7, Tommy and Elizabeth in O-5. He was calculating their speed and distance from the suspicious log. They were only 25-30 yards away from it when it turned.
Budsy sped up, thinking “Turned?” logs don’t turn.
Spike’s eyes were now bulging out of his head as the collar tightened every time he moved his tail but he was hungry and sensed food or prey nearby. He turned towards the sounds. Splashing, voices, something moving closer. I hope its food. He thought.
A sudden gust of wind drove the prams faster, healing them over until Johnny’s leeward rail just touched the water. Margaret stayed low in the boat, dipped her hand into the water and watched the small wake it made. Then, she screamed.
“Johnny! Look back! Something is following us! What is it?”
Johnny did not want to lose the race, but turned around to see what the heck Margaret was yelling about. As he did, he pulled the tiller towards him, causing the sail to catch the wind the wrong way and the pram to jibe, tossing both of them in the water.
Budsy was watching everything; prams racing, log moving, inexplicably, TOWARDS the prams, when he saw them capsize. Then, simultaneously, the “log” went under and to his horror, he saw the back end rise above the surface, it looked like the tail of a huge alligator! He shoved the controls forward, driving the launch faster, and aimed it between the flipped pram and the log.
“BANG! CRUNCH! - the launch hit the log and rose up out of the water pressing the thing deep underwater. He then pulled the tiller towards his body moving the bow towards the log and kicking the stern closer to the sunken pram. Knowing all of these actions and potential consequences was second nature to Budsy so he straightened up, passed over the log, and turned the launch around in a tight circle to rescue the kids, all the while looking out for the log.
“Budsy! What the hell? I almost fell in! Why did you….”
“DAD! Help us!”
Mark turned away from Budsy, now facing forward and saw his two children floundering around next to their boat! Budsy never answered. Focusing automatically on his task. Now back to his usual routine on Saturday race day; “pulling kids out of the water”. However, this time was “different”.
There was an alligator under the water and he was probably hurt but still dangerous…
Mark leaned over the side, grabbed both kids by the neck handles on their life jackets and dragged them aboard in one swift, adrenaline-induced motion. Dumped on the deck, freezing from the ice cold Penobscot Bay water, they complained anyway.
“What the heck happened”
“We lost the race!”
“Who cares, I’m cold and want to go home.” Margaret was crying now. Mark hugged them both close to warm them up but to feel then close, safe, in his arms.
Budsy was not talking. He turned the launch towards the club dock and moved as fast as he could, but safely watching for the rest of the fleet. The other boats had watched the capsize and as they were taught in safety class, let their sheets fly and ended the race, waiting for the sailing instructor to arrive in her whaler to tow them back in.
The children safe on shore. Mark, Fred and the rest of the parents gathered around as Budsy briefed them all on what had happened. He left the part about the possibility that the “log” may not be a log at all. Mark had not seen what he had and that part could be saved for a second meeting.
“Everything is fine. The kids bumped into a log and capsized. That’s all. Just a usual Saturday morning” Take them home, dry them off and I will head out to capture that log.”
“CAPTURE?” What do you mean? CAPTURE? It’s just another old, waterlogged tree trunk washed down from the Megunticook River, right?”
“Of course, of course, I meant I will just drag it ashore over by Laite Beach and make sure no one hits it again.”
The crowd collectively breathed a sigh of relief, thanked Budsy for his usual but exceptional care of and for their children, and turned back to their children and the clubhouse where they were all wrapped in warm blankets and drinking hot chocolate.
Budsy waited until most of the parents were gone and turned to the sailing instructor and a young deckhand volunteer. Then, he told them what he THOUGHT he saw. He was pretty sure he knew what he saw.
Every winter for the past ten years, Budsy and his wife, both retired, drove their RV to their favorite RV camp in Bradenton, Florida. They set up the RV as usual, waited a few days, and then Budsy, still hyperactive at age 66, would drive his truck over to St. Petersburg, where he worked at the St. Petersburg Yacht Club as the backup launch driver. It was the perfect winter job for him. He could sit around at the club and wait for his services to be needed as a relief launch captain, to rescue sailors, or to clear the waters around the harbor of floating debris. Sometimes, it was to gently nudge huge manatees away with the bow of the launch. However, sometimes it was to chase or move alligators sunning themselves on the club beach away and follow them until they were far away and no longer a danger to anyone, at the club at least.
Accordingly, he KNEW what he had seen and was trying to decide what and how to share this news with his club team. As they gathered around, waiting patiently for Budsy to speak, Richard Tucker walked up. Tucker was a retired Naval Vice Admiral and this year became the club’s Commodore.
“Budsy. Let’s take a walk and talk.” There was nothing casual about the Commodore. He was polite, well spoken and friendly. However, when he had something to say, you listened.
“Of course Richard (only Budsy could call him Richard) what’s on your mind?”
“Whenever I am at the club, I always go up to the small balcony upstairs and through my old binoculars, watch the children sail. Of course I watch every boat coming in or going out of the harbor out of habit. I was using them today when I saw you go out. Nice job rescuing those children. Tell me Budsy. What did YOU see out there? I know what I saw but I want to hear what YOU saw.”
They spoke for only 15 minutes but that was enough for them to devise a plan. Get a small team of young men together, Budsy and 2-3 others, and get out there and kill that alligator. That was the Commodore’s plan. Budsy had another idea but kept that to himself.
“Good idea Richard. Want to come along?”
“No thanks. I will be watching everything from the clubhouse balcony. Good luck. Better get started now.”
END FOR NOW
IDEAS FOR THE REST OF THE STORY ----
They go out, find Spike wounded, eyes bulging,
floating at the end of the pier, near Laite Beach
The chain dog collar is sunk deep in his neck
He is breathing but barely alive
They slip a rope noose around his jaws, to be safe
tow him to the beach
Fred has a shotgun, wants to shoot it
Budsy’s not sure he wants to kill it
On shore, they use bolt cutters to cut away the chain
They pour fresh water on his neck
Spike recovers but is calm
THEN BUDSY TELLS THEM HIS PLAN:
I WANT ALL OF YOU TO TELL ME WHAT BUDSY’S PLAN SHOULD BE
WRITE BACK BY EMAIL AND I WILL FINISH THIS STORY
LOVE,
GAGA // GRANDAA
