THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, January 17, 1996 TAG: 9601170020
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Larry Maddry
LENGTH: Long : 117 lines
THEY LIVE ON a boat at the Pungo Landing Marina that doesn't go anywhere. And there's a sign posted on the stern that reads:
``I'm not hungry, I'm not homeless, but will work for sex!''
Pete Rose and his dog Rambo just may be the most politically incorrect pair in all of Hampton Roads.
But great balls of fahr, are they having fun or whut?
The maverick and his dog inhabit a two-story ``boatominium'' with a full kitchen, fireplace, satellite dish TV and enough beer stored on the port side to give the Bea-R a list.
Oddly enough, the vessel is named for his mother. (Pity. The Bea-S seemed a natural to me.)
The 36-foot deadrise fishing boat without motor - which Rose renovated after purchase - sits in the shadow of the Pungo Ferry Bridge when there's sunshine.
I stepped on board last Friday as Pete, the unofficial mayor of the marina, was cooking chili to ward off the chill from a freezing rain ticking at the windows.
Pete is a retired Navy chief petty officer who did two tours in Vietnam. ``You look like a man who needs a beer,'' he said, smiling, and cracking a brew faster than it took his namesake to steal second base.
Sitting in a stuffed chair, beer in hand, I admired the skipper's collection of ball caps on a shelf.
One was emblazoned: `Kill 'Em All and Let God Sort 'Em Out''
Another stated: ``I Never Get Lost Cause Everyone Tells Me Where to Go.''
A third proclaimed: ``I Keep Taking My Wife Places. But She Always Comes Back.''
An odd thing happened as I took my first sip of beer. Rambo is not much bigger than a fluffy, black ball cut loose from the top of a ski cap. He jumped up on the chair beside me, spread his legs and pawed briskly at the arm used to hold the beer.
``What's wrong with this dog?'' I asked.
``He wants your beer,'' Pete replied.
I told him the poodle had a lot of brass for a mutt not much bigger than a child's bedroom slipper.
``Yeah, he does,'' Pete said. ``That's because he thinks he is four feet tall and weighs 250 pounds.''
Pete said the dog is macho because Pete raised him that way. ``I never told him he was a poodle,'' Pete said. ``I never told him he was little. I weaned him on Sylvester Stallone. Made him watch `First Blood,' part one and part two.''
It seems to have worked. By the time the beer can was nearly empty, Rambo, still seated beside me, planted both paws on my chair arm. Then he began to growl and bark in my ear. He inched closer with each bark, making a nuisance of himself.
``Maybe you better give it to him,'' Pete suggested.
I plopped the can on the floor. Rambo tipped it over with his paw and sipped the spill. Then he attacked the can with his paws, rolling it over and over, licking inside, the can rattling against the walls. Helluva racket.
Pete said the dog does that with everybody. ``But he's worse today because it's Old Milwaukee, Pete explained. ``That's Rambo's favorite brew.''
Pete claims Rambo is more than a party animal. ``A German shepherd came by here and raised a leg on our tomato box a couple of weeks back,'' he said. ``Ticked Rambo off. He chased that dog all the way down the street and up to the bridge. Rambo thinks he is big and tough. He gives off that aura. Other dogs sense it.''
Pete and Rambo spend their days during the summer fishing off the bow of the boat, crabbing or just goofing off. A handyman, Pete works for a home restoration company when it suits him, keeping his own hours.
The skipper of the Bea-R is a non-stop, born talker, working at it the way Rambo does with a beer can - relentless.
``We've got all kinds of people down here in our Pungo Ferry Yacht Club,'' he said searching through his files for a club logo.
``Here it is,'' he said, handing me a fine drawing of an upside down, dead drunk possum, hanging from a limb. He was real proud of it.
Pete has a reputation for being - like most retired folks - a thrifty kind of person. He smokes generic cigs, drinks cheap beer and never saw a yard sale he didn't like.
Already the talk of the marina, Pete's sneakers became nearly as famous as he was at the marina . . . until they were buried at sea.
``Everybody said they were the most gone-to-hell sneakers they ever saw,'' he said. ``But I loved 'em. When the tongue wore down, I just ripped it out. Put pasteboard in when the soles got holes. And no shoelaces.''
They had a big ceremony at the marina back in December when Pete bought a new pair of dock shoes. ``We draped an American flag over the old sneakers and let 'em slide overboard into the water from a board - like a coffin,'' Pete said.
About 50 people showed up for the ceremony. Kinda sad to part with something that had been so close to you for 15 years, he said.
Pete remarried his former wife, Gwen, on Dec. 30. ``I told her when I proposed that Rambo needed a mother,'' he explained.
The skipper gave me a tour of the boat before I left. He said he bought it for $500 after the previous occupants had sunk it by augering holes in the bottom during a dispute with the boat owner.
The boat had everything someone like Pete would need. An alligator head with open jaws in the bar, a set of deer horns over a doorway, and various message signs stored for posting outside: ``You May Be Right,'' ``S... Happens. Gone Fishing'' ``Taking a Nap . . . Don't Knock Unless You Are an Organ Donor.''
Pete walked me to the dock, still talking a mile a minute. I could still hear the clatter of metal in the boat's galley as Rambo rattled that can against the stove legs, hoping to dislodge a few more drops.
``You know,'' Pete said, ``when I die, what I want to come back as?''
No what?
``As that dog,'' he replied.
I'm pretty sure he meant it. ILLUSTRATION: Color photo by Richard Dunston\The Virginian-Pilot
Pete Rose and his poodle Rambo live on a two-story "boatominium" at
Pungo Landing Marina.
Photo
Rambo the poodle gets the last drops from a can of beer.
by CNB