The town we used to live in on Colorado’s Front Range, was small enough, about 2,000 people, to have THE town drunk. His name was Arnie, or at least we called him Arnie, and he had a dog, Butch, a pitbull mix. Arnie and Butch would wander, or stagger around, the town, trying to bum money. Of course Arnie was filthy and smelled to high heaven, like a two-day-old ripe onion.

No one knew where Arnie lived. It was rumored he had this or that hovel down by the tracks or behind the Legion. He seemed to move around a lot, like the Bible’s Wandering Jew, and ostracized just as much.

“He’s disgusting,” fine ladies in the tea shop would say, as he wandered by the store front, and hold their noses. “That dog of his is mean, too, I’ve heard. If Arnie’s passed out in the gutter, that dog will be standing guard over him.”

There were a few business owners, men, who trusted Arnie. Arnie would stop in to bum money. “I’m doing real good, haven’t had a drink in two days,” he’d say, holding up two dirty fingers in a fingerless glove, real proud of himself.

One store owner in particular, a veteran, trusted Arnie. “He was a Ranger you know. Korea. Went through hell. Killed a man with his bare hands, I heard. He gets a pension, I think, and always pays me back. I know he’s taking that money and going straight to the liquor store. Buys cheap wine. But that’s okay.” The store owner holds his hands palms up, raises his shoulders and scrunches his face, as if in a question. “Maybe it keeps his demons at bay?”

Arnie worked occasionally, odd jobs or for the garbage company, picking up trash. He was real strong through the shoulders and could empty trash cans into the back of the garbage truck before it hardly got stopped, if he was sober enough that is. The garbage company wouldn’t let him work if he was drinking.

Arnie loved dogs. Butch was usually running along behind the garbage truck, getting all the other dogs in the neighborhood or alley barking. Arnie saved food scraps, like old pizza and meat bones on one side of the garbage bin. He threw these food scraps over fences into yards to quiet dogs down. Dogs got to know he was coming by the sound of the garbage truck, which made them bark and howl all the more, knowing food was at hand, creating quite a ruckus. This did not endear property owners to Arnie.

What really got some property owners upset, if they had a dog or dogs, was Arnie feeding their dogs garbage. Calls were placed to the garbage company owner complaining about Arnie. “I do not want my pedigree dog fed garbage!” The garbage company owner would apologize, and explain that Arnie just loved dogs. This did not appease the property owners, and Arnie was fired.

Arnie was found dead one day in the alley behind the Legion, Butch standing guard over him. He died of “unknown causes”– probably alcoholism. The police had to tranquilize the dog before they could touch the body, wearing gloves and masks of course. No one came forth to claim Arnie’s body or the dog. Arnie was given a small veteran’s salute when he was buried. Butch was put down.

The position of town drunk was now open, like a beauty contest. Three viable candidates stepped, or stumbled, forward vying for the position. They crossed streets in zigzag fashion in front of traffic, tried to bum money in the grocery store, and practiced sleeping in doorways. They worked hard at not bathing and smelling ripe. The winner however was the only one who had a dog.

The town was now satisfied. They had their town drunk once again.

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Have a good story? Call or text Curt Swarm in Mt. Pleasant at 319-217-0526 or email him at curtswarm@yahoo.com. Curt is available for public speaking.