One thing about smoking marijuana in the 60’s was The Munchies. The only thing that cured it was a trip to the minimart to buy chocolate chip cookies. It was at Bird Road (SW 40th Street) and 27th Avenue in Coconut Grove. Outside of it was this sweet looking little stray brown dog. Bought some Milk Bones. ‘Should have known she would follow us back to the hippie crash pad we were staying in.

She was not the reason to relay this story. What my friend Tom said on the way back was! I was still not 21 and could not vote. It was 1968. He was a PhD candidate in US History at the University of Miami. So Tom says:

“I’ve decided who I’m voting for President!”

“Who?” I ask.

“George Wallace!”

I go ballistic, ranting and raving he could even consider something so insane.

“Calm down, Phil, you haven’t asked me why.”

“Why?” I asked.

“If George Walker’s elected President there won’t be anything holding me back from escaping the Selective Service System and this war by going to Canada!”

“Oh.”

Well, what do we do with the dog. Got her some water, enough milk bones for a meal, and left her inside a friend’s jeep for the night. First thing the next morning, well, I had a dog! Years later in graduate school in Boston one night, snow covering the curb confused this southern dog where the street was and she was killed. Like Mr. Bojangles, fifty years later I’m still “grieved.” Lady is the dog in the Post Card story.