Main Dock Annie and Wilbur
by Gary Clifton
“Yeeehaaawhuthehell!” Officer Perilli shrieked as Wilbur sprang out of the narrow door of the box. The dog directed a slobbering, teeth-bared lunge at the pudgy officer.
A soft feminine rebuff wafted out of the box. “Bad dog!” A slender woman’s hand, nails immaculate, extended from the small doorway Wilbur had just exited. The big dog hurried over to give the hand a thorough, drool-augmented licking.
Perilli bent to speak into the doorway. “Ms. Annie, that mutt is gonna pull that stunt on somebody who doesn’t know him and get shot.”
“Wilbur is not a mutt, Officer. He’s a thoroughbred German Shepherd, Doberman, Great Dane mix, and everyone who should, knows him.”
The huge animal squeezed back through the doorway. The cloth curtain door dropped into place.
Perilla said, “Ms. Annie, tonight’s forecast is a cold one. Can I rustle up another blanket for you?”
“Thank you, Officer, but Wilbur is my blanket. Good night, sir.”
The elderly Ms. Annie had come to public attention nine years earlier. She’d been discovered early one December morning asleep on the board-floor main dock of headquarters of the Metropolitan Harbor Patrol near where the river flowed into the Gulf. The docks’ proximity to downtown was often a sanctuary for the homeless who flooded the area.
The situation snagged the attention of the media, and Annie — she never provided a last name — became a cause. After weeks of news and a public opinion tsunami, the Chief of Police caved. Annie could sleep on the main dock of the Police Boat and Storage building. The door would be locked at night for security reasons, meaning that she slept on a porch in all weather.
The dock was covered by a roof to a width of twenty-five feet, meaning as long as she stayed close to the building’s wall, inclement weather rarely reached her. The dock exterior was open, however. The media immediately cranked up another blitz. The City Council voted that she could bring nothing more substantial onto the premises beyond a cardboard box.
Firefighters moved a pallet in and mounted a large toilet paper box on it with a small entry door. The media cried out that Annie, an elderly lady, was still cold. The media declared her “Main Dock Annie.” No one knew exactly the contents of Annie’s box.
Then entered Wilbur.
The huge, super-friendly dog showed up one night in Annie’s toilet paper box. Exactly how that came about was never really determined. On the night he lunged at Officer Perilli, he’d shared Annie’s household for eight years. During his stay, he had foiled three burglaries, frightening two thieves long enough for police to arrive. He’d also become an outstanding burglary alarm, as effective as the finest electronic models. Officer Perilli could vouch for his effectiveness.
A delegation from the Water Control Board of a western city visited. One, wandering away from the guide, peeped into Annie’s box. Wilbur took a sizeable chunk from his backside. Wilbur the hero became Willy, the monster. The wolves were quickly at the door to dispose of the menace.
Providence, usually divine, is, amidst other unknowns, definitely unpredictable. On a stormy, windy night, three criminals, all with lengthy records, stole a boat, struggled it upstream, tied up beneath the main dock, and clambered up the muddy bank. All three, killers to a man, climbed onto the main dock several feet from the box where Annie and Wilbur slept.
Officer Perilli, patrolling nearby, received a call of suspicious persons on the main dock. “Damned homeless guys tryin’ to get out of the rain,” he muttered.
Without calling for cover, he used his key to enter the building. On the main dock, the three perps had hidden out of his sight. “Wilbur, where are ya’, boy?”
The three attacked Perilli from behind, knocking him to the floor. His radio and pistol skidded out of reach. Two of the thugs grappled with Perilli for possession of the pistol. Aware that to lose control would be his last mistake, he shouted, “Somebody help me, dammit!”
Wilbur, who had always been basically a non-physical burglar alarm, piled into the mix with the ferocity of a pregnant bobcat. Screams by the men, all suffering from severe dog bites, attracted pedestrian traffic nearby.
By the time help arrived, assistance was unnecessary. All three men were piled in an irregular cluster, pleading for the dog not to bite them again. Perilli was dumbfounded to see Main Dock Annie standing over the pile holding a .38 pistol in her hand. In all the heartache establishing Annie and Wilbur in the police substation, no one had thought to inquire if she was in possession of a firearm in violation of city code.
Police began arriving in groups of five. Perilli, now in control of his own pistol, bragged to oncoming officers of Wilbur’s vicious attack. Noting that Annie still stood by in her nightgown, the .38 dangling in her hand, he took custody of the weapon, stuffed it into his belt and never said anything to anybody about it.
The next day, the media threw a genuine dog and pony show, extolling the value of Wilbur, the giant mongrel. The Mayor granted lifetime rental-free occupancy to Annie and Wilbur. He further decreed that the fire department would construct a wooden replacement for the toilet paper boxes they had used for years.
Main Dock Annie never provided a last name. Wilbur didn’t seem to care if he had one.
The odd couple lived in a box for three more years. Then, one morning, they were gone. Not AWOL but gone, never to be heard from again. Criminals tossing them into the river would have left more damage. One fell into the river and drowned, and the other perished trying to rescue? As good guess as any, but still a guess.
Homicide did their best, to no avail. Annie and Wilbur were and are history.
Copyright © 2026 by Gary Clifton
