Parrothead Ramblings

Jimmy Buffet surveys a load of already cooked (What? You didn't think we'd notice?) lobsters on a dock for this 1973 album cover.

Somebody commented at the Parrothead Club meeting yesterday that the shirt I was wearing was made by some guy named “Spooner.” Hell, even I didn’t know that, and it’s my shirt. Of course, my first reaction was “Hey, isn’t that dog from Death of An Unpopular Poet?” I was a little disappointed that none of the loyal Parrotheads in my immediate vicinity seemed to know just what the hell I was talking about. Not to worry, the Crime Dog is here to help. And to educate.

I can't hear the name “Spooner” without remembering a little misfortune that befell an old Parrothead buddy of mine back in 1979 or thereabouts. I was a young GI at the time, assigned to guard a bunch of nukes at a little outpost in northern Italy. Tim was one of my fellow cold warriors, and a fellow dog lover who had these three mutts: Spooner, Snert, and Farkle. He lived in an apartment, had no yard, and quickly learned he couldn’t leave these three troublemakers home alone for more than a few minutes at a time. So they went with him everywhere he went. Spooner, named after the unpopular poet’s dog, was the ringleader of this gang of incorrigibles. They weren’t vicious, or even mean, just pains in the ass. These dogs were big. OK, “big” doesn’t get it. They were huge. Tim’s old ’61 Fiat was not. There was just barely enough room for the four of them to crowd into that thing. Local Italians were endlessly amused at the sight of his old rattletrap, chugging down the road with this seething, swirling mass of noses, tails, asses and tongues sticking out or smashed up against the windows at every angle, and Tim valiantly jockeying for head position so he could see well enough to drive.

In an attempt to save what was left of his furniture, Tim started taking the pack to work with him. He worked in a highly restricted and sensitive area, and the last thing they needed was this barking, drooling whirlwind wandering around. Spooner and his two underlings were soon banned from the facility, and became relegated to the car during Tim’s shifts. Now, you PETA types need not go getting your panties in a wad. The weather was beautiful, and the windows were down. Hell, the dogs could jump out whenever they pleased. Tim went out several times per shift and looked in on the three malcontents, and everything went well. For a while. Then, an unfortunate coincidence occurred. It was rainy and wet on the same night that we came under a terrorist threat. No kids, terrorism was not invented on 9/11. We were dealing with it back then, too. Anyway, Tim could not get out to check on the mutts, and the mutts didn’t want to get out of the car in the cold rain. Naturally, this hyperactive crew got bored. And trouble began to brew.

By the time Tim’s shift ended, the Fiat’s interior was gone. Not damaged. Not torn up. Not scattered. Gone. Spooner, Snert, and Farkle, engorged but apparently none the worse for wear, were peacefully asleep. What’s a Parrothead to do? You just have to make the most of it. Tim shrugged, climbed in, and drove away. The rolling circus became even more comical, what with Tim losing a good inch of elevation by sitting on bare springs, and the dogs continually stepping through the springs and dropping down to the floor. Those mutts shit vinyl for about a week, but who could expect otherwise? They had, after all, eaten the interior of a Fiat. It all turned out good. With no chewable material left in his car, Tim had less to worry about, and the dogs had the perfect hangout. And anyone who reads this tale will never, ever forget that Spooner was Jimmy’s unpopular poet’s dog, eating his steak and bacon, and living in that huge doghouse. Go ahead. Dig out White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean. You know you want to.

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