So a couple of years ago Mike Leach and I are out in the Gulf of Mexico aboard his sailboat, the "Four Roper," along with my chocolate lab, Charmin (long story, don't ask). Well, we're about 50 miles offshore when Leach, he just grabs my fuckin' dog and chucks it in the water.

"What the fuck, Mike?" I yelled as I took off my clothes to go pull him out of the cold gulf waters.

He just stared at me, this absent look on his face. I dove in, and swam out to ol' Charmin, who was clearly panicked, paddling frantically in the wrong direction. He's fighting me the whole way back to the boat.

We get there, and the ladder to get back aboard is gone. Leach is just standing on the deck, holding the ladder, staring at me with that same absent look.

"What are you doing, Mike?" I asked. Charmin was still kicking against me.

"Let him go," Mike said softly.

"Wh...what?" I stammered. "Fuck you, this is my dog!"

"Let him go," he said. He was looking straight through me. Charmin was whining.

I stared at him, treading water for what seemed like thirty minutes, little waves slapping against the sailboat's hull. I was getting tired.

"Let him go," Mike said finally.

I did.

Charmin immediately began swimming away from the boat again, south, toward Cuba. I watched him go, and found myself oddly at ease. Mike lowered the ladder again, and I climbed aboard the boat, shivering. I realized suddenly that it was dusk.

Mike didn't say anything the rest of the trip. I don't know what he could have said, anyway.

Well, about two months later, I see this photo in an article about Fidel Castro of the old dictator sitting on a couch at his house, and sitting next to the guy is Charmin, looking happy as can be.

The dog was a communist all along.

And Mike Leach knew.

He fucking knew.