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Wednesday, August 27, 2025 - September 10, 2025 - Coastal Shopper & News - Page 3

Gregorian Chant By Greg Lockhart Every mayor needs a right-hand man, or in my case, a four-pawed sidekick. Enter Mayzie, our Boykin Spaniel,

office or down to Jacksonville, she rides shotgun, nose pressed to the air vent, ears flapping like flags of approval. When the workday is done, she doesn’t punch out—she clocks in for night duty, curling against my legs on the couch or in bed and sometimes climbing up on the pillow above my head like a warm, snoring crown. I never thought I’d share leadership with a Boykin Spaniel, but truthfully, she may be more popular than the mayor. But even the FDOSM can’t control the weather. After a bone-dry July that had me mowing dust instead of grass, August seems determined to balance the scales with daily downpours. Rain has become the soundtrack of the month, tapping the roof, flooding ditches, and turning my yard into something resembling the Okefenokee Swamp. My normal weekend routines—mowing, edging, and tackling the four lawns I’m responsible for—have been washed away in the tide of August showers. With the rain ruining my mowing schedule, I looked for indoor tasks to keep from going stir-crazy. That’s how I found myself last weekend replacing my father in-law’s garage door opener. Simple project, right? Take down the old one, put up the new one. That’s what I thought, until we drove to Brunswick to buy the model we wanted. There were three boxes in stock. All three had been opened and taped back together like a kindergarten art project. It was as if every curious shopper in Glynn County had taken a peek inside and shoved the parts back in like a jigsaw puzzle. Of course, I picked the least mangled one, only to discover that a few small but critical parts had wandered off, including a clevis pin. For the record, a clevis pin is a little metal piece worth about fifty cents, but without it the whole operation is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

Fortunately, I was able to improvise a replacement, though I had to dig through every drawer and coffee can of spare bolts and washers in the garage to find something that would work. After a fair amount of grumbling, ladder-climbing, and creative engineering, the opener went up, and I pressed the remote with the confidence of a man about to unveil his masterpiece. The door lifted smoothly. Victory! At least it was a productive indoor project, which meant I didn’t have to battle mosquitoes, lightning, or knee deep puddles in the yard. Meanwhile, Mayzie supervised the entire process from her usual post. She has an uncanny knack for lying right where you’re about to step, forcing you into an awkward ballet of tiptoes and sidesteps to avoid disaster. She didn’t fetch tools, but she did keep morale high, which is all you can ask from an FDOSM on a rainy Sunday. So, while August may have drowned out my mowing schedule, it hasn’t washed away the small victories. The grass is long, but the garage door works. The project house is soggy, but the First Dog of St. Marys remains firmly in command of her kingdom. When the rain finally lets up, I’ll be back outside riding the mower across four lawns, probably with Mayzie watching from the window. Until then, I’ll be grateful for our little dog who reminds me that some days are better spent indoors, curled up against the rain, with the First Dog snoring on the pillow above your head.

better known around town as the First Dog of St. Marys—FDOSM for short. She’s small in size but big in sass, a fluffy bundle of brown curls who thinks City Hall belongs to her just as much as it does to me. Some mayors get bodyguards; I get a dog that demands belly rubs from everyone who enters her presence. Most mornings, Mayzie and I make our first stop at City Hall. While I take a moment to say hello to everyone that is in our office area, Mayzie immediately heads to Kimberly for her morning treat that she knows is kept in Kimberly’s desk. Any delay in receiving her rawhide treat will be met with some very vocal noises to make sure Kimberly knows what she wants. Once she has achieved her objective and received her treat, she makes a beeline for her University of Georgia dog bed in my office. But if anyone comes into the executive office area, she is quick to jump up and see who it is, often offering a vocal hello. If anyone forgets to greet her, she lets out a little huff—half sigh, half protest—that makes it clear she’ll be filing a formal complaint. Afterward, we head to the print shop to start the rest of our workday. Mayzie considers herself upper management. She supervises me from the floor, occasionally shifting positions to make sure I don’t slack off. When we travel to our Fernandina

“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole. ” Rodger Caras

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