Dawgs. You got yourself a dawg? Everybody needs a dawg.
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It took me three weeks to explain what a dawg was to my Yankee friends here in New York City. They have "dogs," "canines," and "pedigrees" here in Manhattan, but they certainly don't have dawgs.
I've had a lot of dawgs. Hound dawgs. Puppy dawgs. Mongrel dawgs. And even a few dumb dawgs that met untimely ends chasing and Oldsmobile or two. A boy needs a dawg. The pedigree doesn't matter so long as it isn't a pit-bull, Doberman mix.
I have a dog in New York City. Her name is Talulah.
Talulah ain't your typical New York City dawg. That's cause I didn't get her up here. New York, you see, is full of sissy dawgs. If there's one thing I hate more than a cat, it's a sissy dawg. What's a sissy dawg? A sissy dawg is one of them little dawgs with ribbons in their long hair and faces that look like they've run into a wall real fast. Some people even put sweaters and raincoats on their sissy dawgs here in New York. Uhg. For reasons unclear to me and most of the male populous, women seem to love these dern things--hence the name "sissy dawg." When a woman sees a sissy dawg on the street, it is not unusual for her voice to shoot up ten or twelve octaves to a pitch only a dog can hear and say "Boo - boo, woo - woo, little ugums sugar baby waa - waa." Why these little dogs just don't vomit on the spot or at least bite the offending admirer is beyond me. Truly dogs are kind animals.
Unlike cats. Oh, I know, there are now more cat lovers in the United States than dog lovers. I must say, I feel that's a tragedy. Cats are mean. Or at least, that's been my experience with the things. My grandmother says she certainly doesn't want a cat in the house, and would prefer not to have one in the neighborhood. Why? Cats scratch things and claw babies and lick their bottoms. Not to be crude, but frankly I don't want anything that's been lickin' it's bottom to come rubbing up against me. No sir.
And everybody says that cats are smarter than dogs. Well, I'm not buying that. Perhaps cat owners are smarter than dog owners (they always seem to be women and literary types), I can buy that. But what do cats do? What function do they serve? Have you seen a cat that can fetch? A hunting cat? A bob-sled cat? A fire-fighting cat? A drug-sniffing cat? A seeing-eye cat? How 'bout even a guard cat? I'll tell you what cats do: they sit around all day, scratch things, avoid people, and lick their bottoms. Now I know you're probably reading this and saying to yourself, "That stupid columnist has it all wrong. My cat fetches, acts real friendly like a dog, and warned me once when an intruder almost killed my wife." Well I don't know your cat, although I'm sure it's a fine cat. But if I came over, I'll bet "Tiffany" or "Tom" or whatever its name is would absolutely hate me. Cats know when I don't like them--which immediately causes them to come up and rub against my leg. I'll take being slobbered on by a stupid dog any day.
My dawg Talulah is a big hound dawg. Yessir. She routinely threatens to chew up little sissy dawgs on Park Avenue. Talulah grew up on Michalob and fried chicken. That makes her a damn fine dawg. She can suck a chicken bone better than anyone I've ever met. And she slap loves barbecue. You ever see a cat eat barbecue? I thought not.
Talulah is a faithful companion. She's always happy to see me. I can call her a stupid, no count, lazy curr and she'll still think I'm great. I can give her the dark meat and she'll still bring me my shoes without chewing them up (much). Why, I can even move to New York City and have Talulah's unconditional love. She's a good dawg. The one thing I can't do around Talulah is vote Republican. I'm afraid she is a yellow-dog Democrat, in the truest sense of the word. When company comes over I ask Talulah: "Talulah, would you rather be dead or a Republican?" Talulah always drops to the floor, closes her eyes, and plays dead. That's a Democrat for you. I fear the day we run into Al D'Amato
There have been many great dawgs in history. The best story I ever heard about a dog was the pooch at Pompei. Pompei was the city in Italy destroyed by Mt. Vesuvius. Everybody in town was frozen for all time by the ashe and pumice. A little boy and a dog were found. The dog was trying to pull the little boy out of the house and the dog's silver collar read "Thrice this dog has saved his little master. Once from fire, once from flood, and once from theives." Now that's a good dawg. I wonder if it liked barbecue.
So I'll be walking Talulah this weekend and thinking of the days when we used to run and jump through the warm confines of South Alabama. Go pet a pooch for me, T'ville.
