Filed: July 18, 2025, About Louie
Willie’s Dog, Louie.
An excerpt from MOSTLY TRUE TALE: ROOFIED IN TOKYO. Scene 5, The Maria Incident. Willie rescued him from a shelter in mid Michigan and both their lives changed forever.
…Not your Westminister variety Boston Bull, Lou was thicker-set and blocky. His forty pounds pressed the outer limits of his breed’s blueprint. But he carried that heft like a bluesman carries heartbreak—with swagger and grace. His eyes were steady and deep, like a night watchman’s lantern, and behind them you saw something more than instinct—you saw memory.
When they set eyes on each other it was like it had been written. It wasn’t just love at first sight—it was something deeper. An agreement, maybe. A silent contract forged in the soft space between two misfits who had no business being caged.
They moved through life like a reconnaissance team. Quiet. Calculated. Always together. Willie never trained Louie in any traditional sense because he never had to. Willie said they’d had a few ‘discussions’ early on but Lou seemed to know what Willie was after. Second discussions were never required. They were on the same frequency. Together they moved through crowds, alleys, parades, and dive bars with the precision of Navy SEALs and the calm of a couple monks—never a leash, never a collar. He didn’t own either.
Willie rigged a custom seat on the Kawasaki, where the front of the seat met the rear of the tank—a Frankenstein blend of fiberglass, surplus canvas, and duct tape ingenuity—where Lou would perch, goggles strapped over his eyes and a neck scarf snapping behind him like a battle-flag of freedom. They looked like some cinematic fever dream. Willie at the helm, grin set in place; Louie just ahead of him, unmoved by speed, wind, or stares. It was something to see.
They were a viral spectacle on that vintage steed. Every ride turned heads: windows would roll down, phones would come out, and someone always shouted, “I love your dog!”
Louie didn’t just ride shotgun—he was the shotgun. He was Willie’s compass. His wingman. His conscience. His stillness. On first dates, Lou came along. On whiskey runs, Lou came along. Through the years, through the laughter, heartbreak, and hangovers, Lou was there—an ever-present reminder that loyalty doesn’t bark or beg. It just is.
They were welded together. Man and dog. Not as pet and owner, but as brothers in arms. Co-conspirators. Living proof that sometimes, if you’re lucky, you find the one soul on this earth who already understands you—no training required.
Which brings us to the bars. You knew we’d get there…
Willie and Lou made stories for folks far and wide in all four directions. Like a beacon in the sky, wherever they lived or roamed, they tracked to the gritty, out of the way bars where only locals went. Without fail, they were always welcomed in like returning family. The rhythm of this peculiar united front was ever present and undeniable.
Beaverton had two such establishments, both emblazoned at the entrance with laminated “No Dogs Allowed” signs posted like commandments. But Louie was the exception. Same was true in a handful of other taverns dotting across America. In each of these he had his own stool—an unwritten codex enforced by barkeeps and regulars alike. Locals knew. Adding to their nightly entertainment, they loved the spectacle. But an outsider attempting to slide onto that cushion? The barkeep would smile, point to a naked stool down the bar, and say, “That one’s free. This one’s Louie’s.” No irony. Just fact.
In they’d walk, like a choreographed scene. Willie, all swagger and soft eyes, glad-handing his way through the regulars like a mayor in denim. And just a few steps ahead now, Lou—silent, deliberate—moving with the kind of confidence that didn’t require fanfare. He’d break off, nose pointed straight at his destination, weaving through stools and boots with the grace of a ghost who’d done this all before. No leash. No nod. No need.
By the time Willie made it halfway to the bar, Lou would already be there, at his stool like it was part of the floor plan. He’d pause for a beat, then hop up with a surprising ease for a dog built like a sack of cannonballs. Once settled, he’d square his haunches and scan the room with the quiet composure of someone who’d seen it all and wasn’t terribly impressed. Not in a snide way—Lou wasn’t snide. Just seasoned. Like an old jazz man eyeing the band, waiting to see if they could really swing.
A few nods came his way—”Evenin’, Louie”—as if he were just another old boy at the bar. And maybe he was. He gave no reply, of course. Just a slow blink of disinterest.
If he felt like wandering, he’d slip down from his stool like a shadow peeling off the wall—silent, fluid, entirely on his own terms. He moved like he belonged to the space, not the people in it. Never disruptive, never needy, and never once glancing back to see if Willie was watching. There was no need. Their trust was bone-deep. They always knew where the other one was without ever stopping to look. Their bond felt ancient, like something borne by the gods…
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