Dockside Chatter 
 
 

      On a recent rainy afternoon I stopped at a local shrimp dock for no other reason than to catch up on the latest news. Not the news, mind you that one can catch on the 6 or 11 o’clock programs like, ‘Drive by shooting claims life of innocent bystander’ or ‘Martha Stewart says Prison life was enlightening’. I’m talking news you can use.

      My life long buddy and piano teacher Hunter Forsyth was holding court from his favorite spot. An old padded reclining chair that is usually occupied by a dock dog. Dock dogs get first pick on places to sit.

      Whatcha reckon it’s gonna do? Asked one shrimper who was waiting to unload his catch.

      “I don’t know” said Hunter, “but it better hurry up or I’m going to the house.”

      “You tink da storm’s gonna come dis way?

      “No, it’s too late in the year. And beside I done made plans to go on the rail.”

      “Captain Chris say he gonna shut down da railway if tings don pick up.”

      “He better not shut it down till I get through wit my bottom job. I got barnacles the size of horseshoe crabs on the bottom of my boat. It won’t hardly move. It used to be so powerful that I could hook it up to the back of a D-9 Caterpillar and drag it off the bluff. Now it ain’t got enough power to drag the try-net.”

      “Don’t matter no way. Da prices are so low a po man cain’t make a living on a boat no mo. A gallon of diesel fuel cost mo dan a six-pack of Nat Lite.  Peoples be growing shrimp in a pond. Who ever heard of such a ting. Dey had a pond in Glennville and wuz growing shrimp. At least dat’s what dey tell me. I wonder what kind o seed dey plant to grow a shrimp?”

      “Well I don’t know fo sho, but it looks like a shrimp and it feels like a shrimp and if’n you drag it through enough horseradish and Tabasco it even taste kinda like a shrimp, but it ain’t a shrimp, cause it came from Glennville, and even a cracker like me knows that a shrimp comes outta da ocean. I done tol all dem peoples dat if dey don fools wit no shrimps, I won’t fools  wit no onions.”

      The dock dog got up off the floor and walked outside to stand in the rain for a while. A wet dog smells like nothing else in the world except another wet dog.

      A lady who happened to be visiting the area from Montana sat in silence and wondered what language these men were speaking. It sounded a bit like English but back home on the range people said things like “Howdy Partner, and I’ve got horse poop on my boots.” Words like ‘try-net’ and ‘dockdog’ completely eluded her sensibilities. In the back of her mind the lady from Montana was thinking that this scene was about one midget shy of a Fellini  movie.

      Hunter got up from the chair and went into the office to answer the phone. The wet dog came back inside and crawled back in the chair.

      When the phone call had ended Hunter came back out and ran the dog off. Sitting back down in the chair he turned to me and said. “Man you smell like a wet dog.”