Babs- Living the Dream
BABS
Living The Dream
(an excerpt from a new novel)
Babs is a 16-year-old Pug/Dachshund mix. She’s my road dog, one tough old girl. We have been through a lot together. She flew with me here to the Keys. Her full name was Babushka Adeline Lane Sue Horton. She will answer to Babs, Babsy, BooBoo, Boozy, Boozer, Boobs, Mema, Obama, Piglet, Pugly, and of late, Pickle Face. BABs stands for Bad Ass Bitch, she doesn’t play well with others. That’s what I tell people when they meet her. It has been quite convenient during Covid. People don’t understand 6 feet away if they see a pet. Kids are the worst; they will run up to any pet they see and try to touch it. Back up booger picker. I don’t want your germs on the dog who’s going to be on my bed later.
Sister girl doesn’t like most people, especially kids. She doesn’t like other animals, not dogs, cats, squirrels, iguanas, birds, crabs, or lizards. She is aggressive and will almost always assert her short fat personality. Old dogs and puppies alike have felt her snap, if they get too close. Out of an abundance of caution on walks and outings, we always keep her on a leash and do our best to keep her away from others. There are always those who have no regard for rules and allow their dogs and kids to run wild. I don’t have that luxury. My bitch bites.
Some people or their pets are determined to make friends. Babs will gladly take a treat from you, but that doesn’t change her feelings about your animal. If you have a treat in your hand, she is your best friend. If you don’t have a treat, she couldn’t care less. If she likes you, she will show her sweet side: you will fall in love with her. Unless there is food involved, for food, Boozy will sit, shake, dance, sit pretty, jump, or whatever trick it takes. Her super special treats are peanut butter, cat food, and frozen broccoli. She has us well trained too; we jump at her every whim, especially Pete. You should hear them argue.
Babs barking and whining while dancing by the front door. Her bark is piercing, annoying.
“I just took you out,” Pete tells her. “Stop it.” He whines back at her.
More barking and jumping and a sideways look toward the door.
“Noooo, you just went out.” He tells her.
She runs to the kitchen and barks at the treat jar. She jumps and barks.
“You’re going to time out if you keep that up.” He says as he reaches for a treat to snap in half. Balancing on her haunches in full on begging mode, she accepts the biscuit like a proper lady.
I roll my eyes.
Babs and I found each other, Easter weekend 2009. I drove my daughter Margot and her best friend Kate, to southeastern Oklahoma, to celebrate Easter and Margot’s 14th birthday. I had just been back home in January of that year, for Mema’s funeral. Mema, my maternal grandmother passed away at age 87 from complications of old age. I am her firstborn grandchild, the daughter of Mema’s youngest daughter Sue. My mom was 17 when I was born, Mema was 48. It was Mema, who I most loved and trusted. It was Mema, who protected us from Mom. Now Mema is gone. Now I don’t need protection from Mom, or anyone else.
Mema kept her original teeth, snaggled as they were. She refused to get dentures, saying, these are all I got left after the bastards got done with me. She had taken beatings from her mother, for being her dad’s favorite and for her smart mouth, but my great grandmother avoided her face, so her husband wouldn’t see what she had done. It was Mema’s first husband, my mother’s father, who broke her teeth with his fists. That’s why my mom beat us, below the shoulders and above the knees. Mema told me all this and more, on her death bed.
At her funeral, the preacher said, Velma was the best cook he ever knew, and if she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t douse your burning body. We all laughed because it was true. She was fiesty to say the least and a damn good cook to boot. Mema was the heart of our family. Her life was filled with friends and family, she went through pots of coffee and a dozen chocolate chip cookies each day entertaining visitors. She prearranged her funeral service down to the last detail. She paid on it for years, wanting to leave her family no burdens. The family respected most of her wishes however they vetoed her red satin pajamas, fearing she would look like a whore in the coffin. People of all ages came to pay their respects, it turns out that everyone loved her as much as I did. Everyone thought they were her favorite. I know I was.
After a four hour drive with two 14-year-old girls, I pull into the long driveway of my cousin’s home and cutting-horse enterprise, Double Diamond Ranch. A quarter-mile of red dirt, leads to a double-wide mobile-home and a couple of barns, sitting on forty or so acres. Surrounding the house are pastures and training pins filled with horses at varying stages of breaking and skill. Kids of all ages running around the dirt yard, chasing chickens, hooting and hollering. Tormented birds, squawking in protest, running for their lives. The family mutt, named Chicken, ran toward us barking and howling, announcing the arrival. Nearby there are a half dozen or so men, training young coon dogs. The noise is ungodly.
Stepping from my Maxima into this scene, was like going back in time and place. The rules are different down here. On the drive, I told the girls stories from my childhood. Margot warned her friend, that she would probably hear the N-word, the R-word, and who knows what else. Kate was intrigued to meet the country cousins. She herself, was what my kinfolks refer to as a city slicker. Country folks don’t trust city slickers. For Kate, this was a foreign culture, completely unknown to her. She was on safari, taking in every word, sight, and sound. Unbeknownst to me, Margot was in crisis.
As a teenager, I had escaped to the city, to live with my dad and stepmom. It was marginally better. At nineteen, I married Margot’s dad and escaped again. Margot hadn’t grown up around my family. Only recently, when Mema got sick, did I start going back home at all. The last time I saw these people, we were all dressed up and crying over her dead body. Mom took care of Mema for the last several years of her life. It was Mom, who Mema called out for when she was scared. She hadn’t been a great mother, but she was a good daughter to Mema when it mattered. That redeemed Mom for me. I told her so and we held each other and cried for the most significant loss either of us has ever had.
The kids, chickens, and horses are all welcome sights and sounds. The baying dogs and screeching raccoon overwhelmed me. Upon further investigation, I found a caged raccoon surrounded by a half dozen or so dogs, snarling, biting, attacking. The poor thing was fighting for its life, scratching, hissing, biting. The men were laughing, goading, proud. Margot and Kate were horrified. Bubba D., my only cousin on Mom’s side explained, this is the way you train a coon dog. Now they know what they’re after. They got the scent and their blood is hot for it. It’s cruel, the girls cried. What’s going to happen to it? Watch and see, Bubba D. suggested. He never explained “why” you want to hunt raccoons.
Women, young and old began pouring out of the house, to greet us. Someone yelled at the kids, to quit making so much racket, and leave the damn chickens alone. Bubba D.’s wife Lisa, gave us hugs and showed us where to put our bags. Margot and Kate distracted a couple of would-be dog trainers and they disappeared on four-wheelers. I was always nervous about bringing her to back home. Bad things happen down there. I told her some of the things, just enough to put caution in her. Don’t be alone with anyone, was the mantra.
Before long I noticed a small black animal, hiding under a pickup truck. It looked like an otter or a baby razor-back pig. Bubba D said “that’s Obama, it came up yesterday.” They weren’t happy about the election, to say the least. I called Obama over and she instantly laid on her back wanting a belly rub. She followed me around all day. I asked, what would happen if someone doesn’t claim her. Bubba D said he would shoot her, it’s the humane thing to do. He gets strays all the time and can’t afford to feed them all, he told us. Again the girls were horrified.
Late that night a terrible storm blew in. Thunder, lightning, rain, and hail battered the metal house. A terrifled Obama cried at the door for an hour and Lisa finally let her in. Wet and filthy, smelling like something dead she slept quiet and still in the crook of my arm for the rest of the night. Almost from the beginning, I felt she was Mema reincarnated. They have the same personality, snaggled teeth, she’s afraid of storms, loves me fiercely and it was Easter. Resurrection was in the air.
“We’re taking her home,” I announced. Margot was mortified by the ugly little dog and didn’t want to keep her. Kate fell in love with her and suggested we rename her Babushka, a Russian word for grandma. Kate had seen and heard things in those three days that she couldn’t unsee or unhear. Babs would be a constant reminder for all of us.
Three flea and tick baths and two worm treatments later, she was clean enough for the car ride home. On the way back to the city, Babs laid perfectly still on her blanket in the back seat, next to Kate. Margot was nervous about how Elsie would receive Babs. She is a much smaller dog and an interloper. The Reverend Elsie Faye Horton was our sweet, beautiful, American Pitt Bull Terrier. She had been a birthday gift for my second husband Jim after he had three separate “visions” that God wanted him to have a pitt bull. In the ’90s, I had her ordained online to prove a point. We even received an ordination certificate. Her green eyes were like nonother; her soft brown and white coat, like Elsie, the Borden cow. She was an angel and loved by all who knew her.
Jim and Margot agreed about Babs. He was pissed because he had told me no. He didn’t often tell me no. The girls and I hatched a scheme to introduce the dogs. Margot and Kate would go in and greet Elsie, let her get Babs’ scent; then I would go in and greet Elsie. After that, Margot would bring Babs, wrapped in a blanket, and give her to Elsie, as her baby. This all made perfect sense to us. Babs wasn’t excited about the arrangement when she got a look at her new sister, but they were fast friends and a funny-looking pair. Elsie wore her out, and she would hide under Jim’s chair to rest. Quickly he was won over by her personality and let her on his lap. Those were good times. Sadly Elsie passed a few years ago, at the age of fifteen. She died at our home of old age, Babs was there. We said our goodbyes together and buried The Reverend in the back yard, marking the spot with a large handmade cross.
Now here we are in paradise with the man of our dreams, about to go on a luxury vacation. Mema would have loved Pete, hell everyone loves Pete. He’s smart, handsome, kind, a great dancer, what’s not to love??? He is adventurous, generous, amorous, hard-working, and he’s taking me on a cruise! Poor Babs will have to stay in “puppy jail.” Sorry, not sorry.
Then, the last walk of the night, Babs got into a fight with another dog. This is the first time she wasn’t the aggressor. Our neighbors have two old dogs about the same size and Babs. She growls every time she sees them. This time the girl dog lunged away from her owner and attacked Babs. It was comical. I pulled away, but the little shits were tenacious. Maria-the-attack-dog’s owners rush toward us and picked up the beast. They apologized, I apologized, we scolded our own dogs, and went different directions. Later Babs jumped up on the bed and laid close to me all night, without moving a muscle. I felt like she knew something was up, that we were leaving her.
One day before the cruise, the day we drive up US 1 through the Keys to Miami. We will meet up with Leanne and Nick and stay in a hotel tonight. In the morning we will take advantage of a complimentary breakfast and head to the cruise terminal. Only one problem, Babs woke up with a hurt leg; she wouldn’t jump off the bed or walk up or down the stairs. Pete had discovered the issue, on their early morning walk. He had carried her down two flights of stairs then back up one, he tearfully informed me when I woke up. He felt even more guilty for having to leave her with strangers.
Usually, Babs is spry as a cat; she can jump onto a stool, chair, table, bar top, and back down in seconds. It’s as if she was trained by a circus. This morning I tried to get her to take the stairs and she just looked at me like girl, please. She wouldn’t budge. I figured she was sore from the scuffle with Maria-the-attack-dog. Carrying her downstairs, I loved on her, telling her I’m sorry for not protecting her. Also, she probably had it coming. Pete babied her even more, telling her he was sorry Mama was putting her in puppy jail. I knew it was the best place for her to recuperate, they have no stairs and she will have staff at her beck and call. For her comfort, we took her bed, hoodie that goes in the bed, a toy, food and water bowls, a chewy, her food, and treats. Sherry, the kennel mom, came out and we explained the altercation from the previous night. She made fast friends with Babs, encouraging us to call anytime to check on her. It was hard leaving her, but we were eager to set out on our adventure.
Babs
That’s one of the stories Mama likes to tell about me. Why do I call her Mama? Everyone calls her mama. She’s always so bossy but takes care of us with all her might. I have stories too, you know. My name was Obama; can you believe that shit? Now that I’m black, my people are being ugly to me. I was so excited to see my family again, I expected them to greet me with open arms. Nope. And Gawd, that poor raccoon screeching its head off, made me want to kill it myself. I like killing things, I like bitings things too, especially kids and puppies. Everyone else loves them; I just want to bite em.
Do you want to hear a story about me biting a fat guy on the ass? Of course, you do. Once upon a time, there was a fat guy making a terrible racket in our living room. It scared me! Sooo, I launched myself at him and sunk my teeth into his derrière. I understand he was doing his job, but I don’t regret biting him. It made him stop making that noise. Also, I don’t regret biting Peggy, a family friend, who did nothing to deserve it. She was afraid for no reason, I gave her a reason. The end.
I narrowly missed a guy’s balls once, but his inner thigh showed teeth marks for a month. He got too close to Mama. I warned him with a snarl, just as I lunged. LMTO you should have seen his stupid face. I wonder what his wife thought about his new beauty marks? I’ve had to bite a few people who got too close to my Mama. I peed on at least two of them and shit in one guy’s shoe. I protect her. She’s the Mama. She’s little and cute; people always want to touch her. It’s as if they think some of her magic will rub off on them. Truth is, it does kind of rub off. When you’re around goodness, you feel it.
Mama isn’t perfect, but she is good. The jar of marbles is mostly full, Brene’ Brown would say. Mama’s biggest problem is her mouth; she doesn’t have much of a filter. I have heard her say some embarrassing inappropriate things that make people think badly of her. Of course she’s the “writer” so maybe she won’t tell things about herself, about the relationships that were damaged or ruined because of her words and actions; but I was there. I know what she’s capable of. I love her anyway; she’s my mama.
You’re not going to believe what’s she’s gotten us into now; we are living the dream. We live in a swank island community, right on the ocean, complete with swimming pools, boat docks, private beaches, a gym, kayaks, boardwalks, and a bar within walking distance. There are lots of other dogs here. I hate them all, especially the puppies. I hate the boats, the water, the iguanas, lizards, sharks, octopuses, jellyfish, key deer, military planes, and the brats.
I hate the cats, I know there are cats in the neighborhood, I can smell them. They wreak to high heaven and their owners are weird. I’ve seen at least two cats on fucking leashes. LMTO, I hate cats more than puppies and kids and water, but not as much as I hate thunder, fireworks, or someone knocking on the door. I tolerate it all, because Mama is happy and because I like Pete. He feeds me all the time and he’s good to us. He makes us smile all the time. Pete is our boyfriend, he lets me sleep on his feet. He loves us; he tells us so.
Sometimes we lay together on the floor and he tells me how smart I am and that I’m the best girl ever. He rubs my head and tummy and gives me treats. That’s my top priority, I’m a slut for food. Hot dogs, ice cream cones, peanut butter, lamb chops, french fries, icy Coke, thick shake, sundae, and apple pie.
As she said, I’m a dog, half Pug-half Dachshund. I know I’m ugly and mean and I don’t give af. Don’t get it twisted; I don’t want to be a better “person.” As if I want to be a person at all. Dog spelled backward is God. People worship and adore us. Just accept our superiority and we will all be happier. Dog is mans’ best friend. We live for you! The lucky ones of us are housed, fed, and adored. I am one lucky dog.
I am her Mema reincarnated, come back to life to save her. We keep rescuing each other. She is my soul mate, my person, my sister. I’m her grandmother and friend. I was there the day she was born. I carried her inside of me, as an egg inside her mother. She is my very heart; my firstborn grandchild. That’s why I protect her so fiercely. We were together in the beginning and we will be together in the end. It’s complicated; it’s deep.
While I’m laying some dog knowledge on you, dogs don’t go to heaven, we come from heaven. We are like angels on earth here to bless you, work for you, protect you. All we want in return is food, shelter, love, and affection. Maybe pets are like the souls of your loved ones, come back to take care of you. Being the pet of a loved one is the highest level you can reach, it’s the ultimate life. So being her Mema is my greatest pleasure. You know the poem by Paul C. Dahm, The Rainbow Bridge, where pets are waiting to escort loved ones into heaven? What if that’s where butterflies come from. What if butterflies are the souls of pets who have passed over the Rainbow Bridge. Maybe that’s why butterflies only live a couple of weeks. If all of them lived at once, their wings could lift us out of this solar system.
That all sounds great but I don’t really believe that crap. I don’t think dogs believe in God. We believe we are gods. Incidentally, we think cats are the Devil and squirrels are demons. We find humans endlessly fascinating. It’s in our very makeup, to protect and please you. If we didn’t tear stuff up and piss on the carpet, we would be the perfect companions. I myself haven’t torn up anything in a long time, but if someone leaves a bag of trash within my reach, I will happily and without remorse, rip it open and peruse the contents. I will eat every rotten disgusting thing in there, scatter it all over the house, hide some for later, and be shocked that you’re mad at me. I’m a dog.
Just like humans, all dogs are unique. Everyone has their own personality, stomach issues, sleep habits, favorite shitting spots, what have you. I don’t speak for all dogs, just myself. I don’t even like other dogs or most people for that matter. I’m only interested in Mama, Pete, a few friends, and FOOD. Now I’m getting old, but I’m still quick on the draw. They say 16 by human years, however much that is. I still wanna chase lizards and bite kids and I’m having the time of my life with Mama and Pete in Paradise. I’m told, I’m cuter now with my white face and white paws. I have some highlights in my black hair. Pretty fly for an old chick.
Admittedly when I was young, when Mama and I first found each other again, when the raccoons were screaming, and the kids were chasing and kicking me, I looked like hell. I had worms, I had fleas, I smelled like death. Because I had just come back from the dead. I had been rolling in cow shit and dead animals. There’s nothing I love better than a good old role on a dead animal. Oh, happy day! Lately, I’ve been finding fish heads and shrimp tails on the docks. Last night we were walking on the dock and saw five huge sharks. I can see them up close through the boards. Two of them had to be at least 8 feet long. Mama had me on a short leash as if one of them would jump up snatch me out of thin air. She wouldn’t let me shit on the beach, which is my favorite shitting spot. I love walking down the docks smelling all the smells along the way. If I’m lucky, I find bait and gobble it up before Mama or Pete can yank me away.
Mama yanks harder than Pete. He sort of coaxes and suggests. She gently tugs a couple of times, then pulls me away by force if I refuse to come. So when I find dried up jellyfish on the beach and try to eat it, I usually get a hard yank. The frigging leash is a pain. I’d run free as the wind if I got the chance, but they never give me the chance. When we’re outdoors, I’m tethered to them at all times. Something about someone getting bitten or hit by a car. At night when the big sharks aren’t underfoot, we take long walks on the beach. I get right up to the edge of the water; not close enough to get my feet wet, look out over the ocean, and shit. It’s glorious.
Sometimes I can’t make it to the beach and have to crap in the grass. Not my fave, but what’s a girl to do when you’ve been locked up all day and fed copious treats. That’s one of my favorite things about Pete; he feeds me everything he eats. Just little bites here and there. Mostly we eat meat, potatoes, and bread, sometimes ice cream too. Mama finally gave up, saying me and Pete are old so we should have some fun.
He’s a real sweetheart, Pete is. Best boyfriend I ever had. When Mama is away doing whatever she does, he talks to me, he pets me, he tries to hold me, I don’t like being held unless it’s my idea. I like to lay next to him on the couch or the floor by his feet and listen to his constant chatter. Sometimes he lays next to me on the floor and we touch noses. I give him a big wet kiss and he likes it. He tells me I’m a good dog, the best dog ever; but mostly we talk about Mama. He tells me she’s beautiful and kind and she’s the best thing that has ever happened to him. He worries about her when she’s driving; she’s a good driver, but the highway is narrow and there are crazy people to watch out for. It’s our job to worry about her at all times. When Pete is on watch, I can relax a little. We both know she is special, she’s our girl.
Pete and I are happiest when Mama is home. We know she’s safe and she cooks for us and loves on us. She stays busy, rarely sits down; always arting, cooking, swimming, or biking. Pete works outside raking the beaches or fixing things, but he’s always nearby. Mama is in her art studio and I’m sunning myself on the balcony. It’s pretty sweet. They leave the door to the balconies open so I can keep a lookout for dogs I like to bark at. They tell me to hush, then when we’re out of earshot they say good girl Babsy.
Pete was appalled when she started calling me Pickle Face. He said sympathetically, “She’s no Pickle Face.” They laughed, but a week later, he was calling me Pickle Face too. It’s just catchy I guess. Now the damn neighbors are calling me Pickle Face. Call me whatever you want, just remember to give me treats.
