by Peggy Webb
Elvis and I head down the street past Leonora Moffett’s, whose little shih tzu spies us from the screened-in front porch and barks his head off. Sometimes Elvis barks back just to show him who’s in charge of the neighborhood, but today he royally ignores the shih tzu.
I have to keep track of my walks by time, not blocks. Unincorporated and not likely to get that way in the next hundred years, Mooreville doesn’t have blocks. It has streets, a few paved, most not, with glamorous names such as County Road 1820. Fayrene has up a petition to name our street Honeysuckle Lane, which makes sense considering the proliferation of the heavily scented southern vine.
Some people think the first sign of spring is daffodils, but in this neck of the woods it’s the sound of weed eaters doing battle with honeysuckle. It tries to take over mailboxes, fence posts, dog houses, and everything else that’s standing still and hasn’t already fallen victim to kudzu.
So far the county supervisors (our governing entity) have managed to shuffle her proposal to the bottom of the pile.
At the end of the street where Fayrene and Jarvetis live, we turn into the cul-de-sac. TV 9’s popular weatherman Butch Jenkins (famous because at the first hint Mississppi might get a flake of snow, he does a snow dance) is in his front yard spraying roses. From the looks of things, he might as well have saved his energy. Black spot blight and aphids have already beat him to the punch.
Usually I’d stop to chat—mostly about gardening, which I adore—but today I don’t have time for socializing. I just wave and keep on trotting.
Rounding the end of the cul-de-sac, I head back, but Elvis has other ideas. Lifting his leg on mailbox posts, for one. Nosing around other people’s yards, for another.
“Come on, boy. Let’s get home.”
No matter how I coax and tug, he refuses to budge. Sometimes I think he does this deliberately to show me who’s boss.
“All right, you win. Pup-Peroni treats.”
He comes running, which is not saying much. With his short basset legs and his portly figure, the most he can do is lumber along with his ears flopping.
Suddenly he skids to a halt. Now what?
“Elvis. Come.”
He gives me this look, which I’ll swear he’s been practicing with Mama, then heads my way.
Limping. And bleeding. Holy cow!
He could bleed to death before I get him to Dr. Sandusky’s clinic in Tupelo. Whipping out my cell phone, I call Lovie.
“Quick. Give me directions to that veterinary clinic in Mantachie.” Run by Luke Champion, if memory serves.
Mantachie is only ten minutes from home. Lovie carried Elvis a few weeks ago as a favor to me.
I scoop up Elvis and run while I listen to Lovie. If he’s badly hurt, I’ll never get over it. I’ll have to hit every shoe sale in Tupelo just to make myself get out of bed in the morning.
“Do you need me, Callie? I can meet you at the clinic.”
“Thanks, Lovie. I think I’ve got it covered.”
When I ease my dog into the passenger side of my Dodge Ram, he whimpers. Poor Elvis.
“Don’t worry, boy. We’re going to get help.”
Just out of the driveway I remember poor old Philestine Barber waiting for my magic touch at the funeral home. After I maneuver onto the highway I grab my cell phone to tell Uncle Charlie I’ve been delayed.
Thank goodness the Elvis competition is over (though not the festival), and I won’t be needed downtown to fix pompadours.
“Don’t worry, dear heart. Philestine’s viewing is not until three this afternoon. Is Ruby Nell back?”
This sounds like a throwaway question, but when Uncle Charlie speaks, you’d better pay attention because everything he says has purpose.
“She’s not back yet. But I’m sure she’ll be home in time for the funeral.”
Mama provides the music at Eternal Rest. Even she wouldn’t go so far as to have other things going on when Uncle Charlie needs her.
Strangely, he doesn’t respond to this news of Mama.
“Take care of Elvis. And remember…‘Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words and never stops at all.’”
In times of deepest distress, Uncle Charlie loves to quote the great poets and writers. Usually it’s Shakespeare, but today it’s Emily Dickinson. I don’t know why, but his little quotations always make me feel better.
Elvis’ Opinion #7 on Vets, Cats, and Fate
First of all, let me set the record straight: I did not step on that piece of broken glass to garner sympathy. I don’t like pain.
Furthermore, if I wanted Callie’s sympathy I’d think of a much better way to get it. Take last night, for instance. All I had to do was bat my basset eyes and droop my tail a little, and she had me on the couch before you could howl the first bar of “Love Me.”
As for showing her who’s boss, I try to keep that low-key—like looking cute when she gets herself a snack so she’ll give me a treat, even though she’s put me on a diet that wouldn’t sustain one of her dratted, aggravating stray cats. Or showing my teeth to Hoyt when she’s not looking so he won’t horn in on my territory. Callie’s lap is my private domain, thank you very much, and I’ll thank him to keep his dirty paws off.
She’s whizzing north on Highway 371 exceeding the speed limit, which is not like her. I ease over and put my head in her lap so she’ll slow down, so she’ll see that I’m not fixing to haul off and die.
Listen, I’m a young buck. I still have lots of living and loving to do. Not to mention that I have lots left to teach my human mom.
How to hold on to hope, for one thing. Lately she’s been discouraged about the stalemate between her and my human daddy. I want to teach her to pay attention to every single detail of her life every day, not just when things are going great, but on those days when she feels hopeless and lonely, when she believes she’s destined to a future empty of children and the love of a good man.
Revel in the simple joys, I say. Give thanks for slow lazy mornings when you can loll on the front porch in the sunshine and let a breeze blow your ears back. Get excited about rolling in the grass and listening to Jack coax the blues out of his harmonica. Be grateful you can still eat fried chicken and not fart.
Callie’s foot eases off the gas pedal, and I lift my head to watch the scenery. Nothing much is stirring this early in the morning except a few Holstein cows. This is farm county, the kind that makes a dog want to get out and find a cow patty or two to roll in. I’ve done it a few times on Ruby Nell’s farm, but it puts Callie in such a state I’ve decided to forgo bovine cologne in favor of more socially acceptable fragrances. Dirt, for instance. There’s nothing quite as relaxing as tumbling around in a good dusty hole, and Callie’s okay with that.
The clinic rolls into view and she has me out of the truck so fast I don’t have time to get irritated over the cats pictured on Luke Champion’s wooden shingle out front, let alone heist my leg on his petunias.
There’s a cute young chick at the reception desk who looks about the age of my bobby-socks fans (though they’re likely in wheelchairs by now). She’s probably some kid doing summer work till school starts. Chickie baby takes one look at Callie’s stricken face and the blood all over her shirt, then goes running toward the back yelling, “Doc!”
See, I told you she was just a kid.
Luke Champion hustles out, all business till he sees my human mom. You could strike a match on the sparks.
“Let’s see what we have here.” He whisks me toward the back room with Callie trailing along beside us asking, “Is he going to be all right?”
The table’s cold and hard as brickbat (vet’s examining tables always are), but I’m don’t complain. Listen, anybody who can survive being mauled by thousands of screaming fans can endure a bit of discomfort in a town hardly bigger than one of my signature Cadillacs.
Still, you’d think they’d put a blanket or something on the table when they see me coming. It’
s not every clinic in northeast Mississippi that gets graced with the dog who changed the face of music.
“The wound is not deep,” the vet says. “I’ll clean it out, put in a couple of stitches, and he’ll be good as new.”
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am. Thank you, Dr. Champion.”
“My friends call me Champ.”
This man works fast, and I’m not just talking about his medical skills. While he’s swabbing and stitching, he’s eyeing Callie like a Thoroughbred stallion checking out a filly he’s planning to breed. And bless’a my soul, she’s looking right back.
Listen, things in this life don’t happen by chance. Any fool can look at the changing of seasons, the choreography of stars and planets, the movement of tides, and know Somebody Up There is in charge.
For instance, take me meeting my cute little Frenchie. If I hadn’t escaped that day and if Ann-Margret hadn’t been at Gas, Grits, and Guts, we might never have had our romantic rendezvous behind Mooreville Truck Stop.
It looks like fate has just given a great big nod to my human mom and my new vet.
I know she loves Jack, but what red-blooded woman who thinks she’s been ditched for a motocycle wouldn’t perk up under the admiring scrutiny of a handsome blue-eyed man? Besides being vulnerable, Callie’s biological clock is ticking and she’s just stumbled onto prize-winning daddy stock.
If Jack knows what’s good for him, he’ll get his shot-up butt on a plane and hightail it back to Mooreville. And if he doesn’t start taking my love advice, he’s likely to find himself outside Callie’s fence looking in.
Which reminds me, I’m going to find myself in the same predicament if I don’t dig a hole to freedom and mosey on down to check on Ann-Margret. Just because a French poodle’s not in heat doesn’t mean she wants to be ignored by her personal hunk ’a burning love.
After my paw is all bandaged up, Doc gives me two doggie bones, further proof he’s trying to get on Callie’s good side. When he sets me back on the floor, a sneaky Siamese minces around the corner and gives me the evil eye, then switches her tail like she’s queen of the walk.
Doc calls her Puss and Callie calls her precious. I’d call her history if Doc hadn’t filled me so full of medicine I’m seeing double and walking wobbly.
One thing I can’t abide is an uppity cat.
I’m about to call for a wheelchair and get the heck out of Mantachie when Doc scoops me up and escorts Callie back to her pickup.
If he wants to be my personal slave, that’s all right with me, Mama.
“Nice chassis.” He puts his hand on the hood, but take it from me, he’s not talking about her truck.
As we head back down the road, Callie looks over at me and says, “Champ’s a really nice man. Don’t you think so?”
How can I not agree? Doc has gentle hands and a kindly manner. In addition, he understands that if he wants to get on Callie’s good side, he’s got to bribe the boss. That would be yours truly.
I thump my tail but get distracted when I spot a hawk circling over the oak trees on our right. If I could sneak off down here, maybe get my old pal Trey (Jarvetis’ best redbone hound) to go with me, we’d have a high old time. That hound’s got a nose like Jimmy Durante; he can smell a fat rabbit a mile. I howl a bit of “Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog” just on general principles.
“After all, I’m not really married,” Callie says. “Of course, legally I’m still Jack’s wife. But we’ve been separated a year. Well, almost.”
I can tell she wants me to agree, but much as I like pleasing my human mom, I’m not about to be a party to a love triangle that involves my human dad.
Though, come to think of it, having another man in the picture might not be such a bad idea. Maybe if Jack sees another man going after the woman he still considers his, he’ll come to his senses and start revving up the charm he used to win her in the first place.
Belatedly I thump my tail again and inch over to lick her hand so she understands that if she wants the vet’s slippers under her bed, I won’t pee on them.
“I knew you’d agree with me. Not that I’m planning on doing anything with Champ. For goodness’ sake, he hasn’t even asked me out. But it never hurts to plan ahead.”
Happy now, Callie whips out her cell phone to tell Charlie we’re on the way to Eternal Rest after she takes care of her eleven o’clock beauty shop regular. I’m always happy to go to the funeral home. Not only does Charles Sebastian Valentine understand my finer qualities, but he’s a straight-up man.
Callie wheels by the house to ditch the bloodstained clothes, but I notice she doesn’t ditch the gun. Thanks to my tutorial skills, she’s beginning to learn that she’s a precious person worth spilling a little blood and guts over.
Jack gave her the weapon, and she hated the target practice he insisted on, but since then she’s been down to the farm more than once to sharpen her skills.
The beauty shop regular is Roy Jessup, owner of Mooreville Feed and Seed, who’s not ashamed to let it be known he prefers a sophisticated cut at Hair.Net to the skinned-neck look he’d get at a barbershop. Just between you and me, I think he comes here mostly to pick information out of Callie about his girlfriend, Trixie Moffett. Like her cousin Leonora, she’s not the “Stand by Your Man” type. (Now, there was a big talent, that Tammie Wynette. She put Tremont on the map. Of course, it was nothing like what I did for Tupelo and Memphis.)
After we finish at Hair.Net, we head to the funeral home, where Charlie carries me downstairs so we can keep Callie company while she pretties up Philistine for her journey into Glory Land.
Charlie puts me in his lap and scratches my ears while he reads The Dream by Edna St. Vincent Millay. He believes he’s merely entertaining us with good poetry, but I see the heartbreak behind the words, hear his longing for Minrose and the long, sweet summer days when the fish were jumping, his blood was singing, and his true love was only a heartbeat away.
All the more reason he should forget about trying to keep Ruby Nell out of trouble and find a good woman of his own.
Maybe I’ll sniff out one for him. After all, I’m a stellar judge of character and the best sleuth in the family.
Chapter 13
Guns, Perps, and Poison
Thank goodness nobody has noticed the gun strapped to my leg, not even the incredibly appealing Luke Champion.
I’m glad Uncle Charlie’s was occupied with poetry because I never expected to have a new man on my mind, and I need some time to ponder. While I’m applying pancake to Philistine’s remains, I picture Champ’s hands on Elvis.
My philosophy is that you can tell a lot about a man from his hands. Champ’s were suntanned and strong, but at the same time gentle. (I love his nickname. Reminds me of heroes.)
Unlike Lovie, who enjoys speculating about how a man’s hand will feel on her erogenous zones (according to her, all her zones are erogenous), I like to imagine how a man’s hands will look cradling a baby, pushing a carriage, changing a diaper, giving a 3:00 a.m. bottle.
“Well, looks like you and Elvis got into trouble while I was gone.”
Mama sashays through the door wearing one of her notorious caftans designed to make her look like the queen of a small island. Bound for her to throw us off the scent of her own escapades by making a big todo over Elvis’ bandaged paw.
Uncle Charlie doesn’t ask about the dance or even why she stayed out overnight. Another twist in their newly cool relationship.
He says hello without adding dear heart, and she flounces into a chair without saying a word to him. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this.
“I guess Philistine’s funeral’s tomorrow.” Mama’s looking at a wall sconce and might as well be addressing Elvis.
“Two p.m.,” Uncle Charlie says.
“I guess you want me to do the music.”
“It’s up to you.”
“Since when has anybody else played the organ at Eternal Rest? It would be sacrilege.” Mama pulls o
ut a cigarette and crams it into a holder that would have been right at home with Greta Garbo, then deliberately starts smoking just to get our goats. She never smokes unless she’s upset or mad at us.
There goes a quiet time of poetry and peace down the drain. To make matters worse, some woman has sneaked in upstairs and started pitching a hissy fit. Since the only corpse we currently have is Philistine, it has to be somebody looking to bury the newly deceased.
Uncle Charlie seems disinclined to get out of his chair (brand-new behavior for him) so I ask, “Where’s Bobby Huckabee?”
“Running errands. Can you see who that is, dear heart?”
I’m finished with Philistine, anyway. It won’t hurt me to handle business upstairs while Uncle Charlie and Mama work out whatever’s eating them.
You’ll never guess who’s storming around the foyer acting like she’s grieving over a beloved but very dead Dick. Bertha. Sporting widow’s weeds—a black skirt and black buttoned-up jacket. Also a bad haircut glued to her skull with so much cheap hairspray I feel like I’m running along behind a mosquito truck.
“I thought I was going to have to call out the National Guard to get some attention around here.”
Bertha pulls a handkerchief out of a purse as big as Pennsylvania and starts squalling her crocodile tears. Considering that she’s been sleeping with every man who owns a sequined jumpsuit and probably knocked off her husband, to boot, I don’t jump to comfort her.
As a mater of fact, I may have to shoot her. I’m glad I’ve got my gun.
“May I help you?”
“My husband’s body has finally been released.”
Which means the forensic specialists have found what they need for toxicology reports. Not that I’m getting involved; I’m taking Uncle Charlie’s advice and getting back to normal. Still, it won’t hurt to find out what she knows.
“I want to pick out caskets,” she says. “Something cheap.”
Bertha snorts into her handkerchief again. Probably to cover her last remark. Well, naturally she wouldn’t want to spend much money on a man she’s been cheating on right and left.