There was a retirement celebration last night at the television station where I used to hang out. Surrounded by friends, co-workers past and present, and a few dignitaries, J. W. August was lauded with deserved accolades, honors and, because it is television, the inevitable tribute video.

He accumulated an obscene number of awards and honors in his career, but his greatest accomplishment may have been working at the same television station for 32 years. I traveled through seven stations in that time span; leaving some because I wanted to and others because they insisted.

At one time or another he held a lot of jobs and job titles there, but his devotion and his heart is in investigative journalism. And more than once last night I heard him described as a journalistic pit bull who grabs on to a story and won’t let go.

It’s been said of him before and, while it’s true as far it goes, it strikes me as an odd compliment. After all, isn’t that in the definition of the job? Get a lead and follow it to the end, wherever it takes you. The thing is, he does it better than most.

But those who see him only as a pit bull don’t know the same guy I do. They have never been in the newsroom with him when a child walks in. Never seen him drop whatever he is doing, deadline be damned and plop down on the floor in front of the kid, pulling a box of toys and a bag of candy from his desk while magically producing quarters from thin air and giggling and smiling.

They’ve never gone to him with a problem, large or small, real or perceived and had him turn his full attention and energy to them, not to ask what he can do, but to tell you what he’s going to do.

A pit bull? The J. W. who is my friend is a puppy dog. Kind, caring, undyingly loyal and – if you stand next to him – likely to lick you on the cheek.