When Calista, my P.T.S.D. “service” dog, and I are “batching” it at Tybee Island, which is after Miss Kay returns to Kentucky in July, in the afternoons around 19:00 hours, we take our “long” walk of the day.

We start at Three Moore Avenue, turn west, and walk a route of 5,002 steps or 2.13 miles, which burns the calories in two Dewar scotches. Assuming I use a shot glass to make the pours.

Along that route, my Baby Girl will stop an average of 23 times. I know because I have counted them more than once and took the average of the seven days of trekking.

I love listening to the music of my era as I walk. I listen to the Temptations, roll into the Supremes, Arthea, and end with Otis Redding. The same set of songs every night.

That’s the O.C.D. coming out in me.

“When it’s cold outside, I got the month of May.”

The walk takes us past Maco’s house, the kitten rescued by Miss Laura. Laura is the morning-walking blonde wife of one of the island’s legendary surfers. She walks and talks on her cell phone island wide. The kitten was thrown into a dumpster behind Chamaco’s Tacos. Thus, the name.

The cat is fearless, sweet, adorable, and seeking a relationship with my dog. Oddly enough, Calista doesn’t just tolerate this cat; she seeks Maco out whenever we head west. They have more than once touched noses. Dogs and cats living together!

On the way towards Huc-a-poos, the laid-back island pizza joint, we pass Miss Jacqueline, the former history professor living her dream of running Tybee Tours. She always stops to visit. I’m sure it is my svelte 73-year-old bod or, maybe, the cute dog.

Headed toward us on his bike is Mr. Greg Bell, a guitar slung over his back—an Air Force veteran with a gardening wife. Her garden of gnomes and art rivals that of Nana’s and my Mom’s.

When we hit the creek and marsh, the walk slows. I love this time of evening and the setting sun, and the smells here entertain Calista for as long as she desires.

She thinks about pooping, but usually, we must cross Polk and get closer to the dog and cat-populated houses before the deed gets done.

“I’m going to use every trick in the book to try and get you hooked …”

Turning left and south a block before the pizza hangout, we will begin to see people, mostly locals.

The Code Enforcement officer is surveilling Zunzibar’s, another new Tybee restaurant, because a neighbor has complained about the noise level. I think the neighbor is not my age, or they have remarkable hearing aids.

Code Enforcement has been there for months, recording and analyzing the data nightly. I have yet to hear anything on my walks.

Then again, I shot a lot of guns, experienced many loud noises, and played music way too loud in my youth.

I should have stuck to country music. The only decent way to listen to Willie sing Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain is through earphones and low volume. That way, you can hear yourself crying.

Calista poops typically in this neighborhood.

Arthea is mellowing some R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

As we round and return to U.S. Highway 80, the blue highway from San Diego to Tybee, we know it ends here because there is a memorial stating such.

Southerners are inherently friendly people. We wave at folks, whether we know them or not, as they pass by on their way off the island. A full-handed wave for people we know or think we do, and the two-finger peace wave to those we want to know.

It is on Highway 80 that the personalities emerge, and my waving begins.

The dark-haired young girl is carrying a little weight and sporting Sony full-cover earphones. Of course, everybody is younger than me. However, she is young enough that a tank top is still attractive. I speak every time we meet, and she looks up and nods after a week. Calista always sits and waits for her to pass. There is sadness inherent in her walk and demeanor.

There’s Bob. He bought a Tybee parking sticker for his van, tore out the third-row seat, and lives in it. Bob works two jobs washing dishes. He likes dogs and loves the island. Calista sits and listens as we talk.

Now and then, we will see “The Junkman,” a name he gave himself. He is a Vietnam veteran. He pulls to the side and picks up a discarded patio table and chairs. He carries the stuff he collects back to Savannah, cleans it up, and gives it to folks who need it.

One community thing on Tybee: if you don’t need something, set it out, and somebody will pick it up and use it. I wish this had happened in Murray in the 1960s. I could have easily furnished the apartment.

Otis is sitting on the bay dock now.

We head through the cut-through at Lullwater, adorned with a ceramic dolphin, a duck decoy, and a discarded 1950s wooden deck chair. I sit the old chair at the alley entrance; it is still usable. It’ll get collected.

We are back on Moore now.

Mary, Paul’s significant other, is cleaning out her storage pod, and Calista completes her 23rd stop in front of the former mayor’s house.

Then, she acknowledges we are back home. She races to the gate to see Nana.

And in my mind, I am thrown back to 1969 and a Rainy Night in Georgia.