June 22, 2011:  This story isn't about B'ville this week.  It's about my new friend, Ike--a tale of a second chance for "Man's Best Friend."

I drove down to Palm Beach the other day, not to hobnob with the lime green country club set, but to show a client a home in horse country.  I took Ike with me down miles of badly rutted dirt roads that could have necessitated the replacement of shocks for the Explorer along with four car washes.  Still, it was a very interesting trip.

The area was like driving back to old Florida in the late forties.  The Ford 150s were newer, and there was a noticeable lack of telephone polls, but the ranch houses and miles of livestock enclosures seemed unchanged from the way I remembered them as a kid.

The smells brought back memories of driving old military trail--the sniff of hard water wells pumping into the animal drinking tanks, blooming flowers, a distant brush fire, the pungent odor of manure in the air as we bounced over the natural speed bumps called a road.  I think I lost three fillings and cracked a bridge.

I was headed to meet a client who had placed earnest money on a three-acre plot unseen with three out buildings, listed as a foreclosure for $80k.  I tried to warn him it was too good to be true; however, my concerns went unheeded.

It turned out that I was right.  The place looked like a hideout for a South American guerrilla band attending a tenth anniversary of a foiled revolution reunion.  Lots of empty wine and beer bottles rested in unkempt fields, and the pool looked like they had hosted a pig roast in it.  He withdrew his offer, and I was released from any future possible guilt.

Still, the trip was worth seeing what I consider the ever-dwindling coastal region of old Florida.  It was hard to believe nine miles west of Palm Beach this back country area has remained unchanged from the way I remembered it to be in the early fifties.

I enjoyed the jarring adventure, and best of all, so did my new friend, Ike.  Ike is my new rescue pal, and a ride in the truck is his favorite hobby.

Ike was very attentive to the grazing livestock passing by the open backseat window.  He displayed keen interest in the cows--either they were just other four-legged critters or giant bacon bits on hooves.  We are still trying to map each other out.  His thoughts are still a mystery to me.

Ike has had a rough time since he was born fourteen months ago.  Like my former pal, Buck, Ike was also abused, but Ike endured a far worse beginning.  The story is a great case for adopting rescued critters languishing in kill shelters or from an owner who has been witnessed abusing their pet.

His original owner never let Ike in the house, and he was forced to fend for himself as a pup in the direct Orlando sun with little shade.  The only shade was under a few wrecked cars in the backyard.  The result was a sun-damaged nose, which now requires application of baby sunblock every morning by me.  By the way, human sunblock has zinc, which is toxic to dogs.

One day Ike had had enough and escaped the slam.  While walking down the street, workers from animal control nabbed him, returned him to the unemployed owner, and charged the owner a $200 fine.

Later in the day, after polishing off a few half quarts, the owner appeared with his trusty 9 mil and started shooting at Ike.  The neighbor witnessed this and spirited Ike away to his house.

Ike freaked out and began throwing up unwrapped Snickers bars, which was what he had been fed that day.  Brutal story; it certainly has my Irish up.

Here's the good news.  He is sitting beside me as I write this column, calm and happy, but he can't help me with spelling yet.  He's studying, however.  He's wonderfully smart and, despite his beginnings, an extremely good-natured puppy.  He's a full white shepherd who, at fourteen months old, already weighs 89 lbs.