Dixie Dawg

DIXIE DAWG
Copyright 2004, Michael LaRocca

I met Lisa when I was 21 years old. She was 15. Her father took us to their house. Meeting the family cats may not sound like a big deal to you, but it was to Lisa's family. One cat was Siamese. Her name was Dusty.

Here's what I knew about Dusty.

When Lisa was a baby, crying in her crib, Dusty tried to shut her up by biting her. This was an ancient family pet, full of pride and dignity, greatly loved by all.

Here's what I didn't know about Dusty.

She hated people. Lisa's mother was her best friend in the world. Lisa and her father were tolerated. Lisa's older brother and sister were glared at from a distance. All others were attacked on sight.

I walked into the house and sat on the sofa. Dusty entered the room and breaths were held. She crept toward me, eyeing me suspiciously. She stealthily approached like a leopard stalking an impala. She sniffed my leg. She pounced upon my lap and then she...

She lay on my leg and purred. I rubbed her head. The spectators' fears gave way to total shock. Then they told me how hateful Dusty was.

I saw Dusty approach many visitors after that day. Without exception, she viciously attacked them. And yet, she didn't attack me. She loved me.

"Animals are excellent judges of character," I explained.

Dusty died several years after Lisa and I married and moved to Watha, North Carolina. Dusty was well over 20 years old.

We hadn't been in our new house for very long before Lisa visited the local Humane Society. She saw a female Siamese cat who was the spitting image of a young Dusty, and we all know how this story ends. Lisa named the new cat Witchie.

Witchie had two rather nasty scabs wrapped around her neck, courtesy of a dog. Guess what waited for Witchie at her new home? My new puppy, Spooky. As in, he who spooks at everything. He was such a harmless little wimp, but Witchie still lived atop the highest cupboards for about a week before warming up to the little mutt. Then, well, he died. Breaking my heart and setting the stage for the real story here.

"Free puppies, Dalmatian mix." That's what I saw in the newspaper. I went to the house and saw six positively adorable black puppies, all fat and energetic, wrestling vigorously beneath a heat lamp in a garage.

"We had to take them from their mom because she kept trying to bite everyone who wanted one. She's on the porch. Her name's Molly."

I looked to the fenced-in porch, where the barking had been non-stop since my arrival. I saw a healthy, gorgeous, angry Dalmatian.

I wanted a girl. In theory, less likely to wander out onto the highway. The biggest puppy in the litter leaped at my face and bit my nose. I checked, and she was a she. I took her home and named her Dixie.

As a pudgy little puppy, Dixie burrowed to the bottom of any bowl of canned food without stopping for air, then raised her head and sent food flying. Then she emptied the bowl, cleaned the floor, and licked the food from her face.

Dixie slept with me on every day except one, which comes later. When the alarm clock rang on that first morning, Dixie growled at it. I hit the snooze button. When it rang again, she growled again. She did this every time it rang, every day of her life. How can you not love a dog like that?

Witchie descended from the top of the kitchen cabinets to beat the pure crap out of that pudgy puppy. Well, she tried to. When Dixie got larger, Witchie returned to the kitchen cabinets for a month or so. As I watched how fast this puppy grew, finally losing her fat belly to sheer length and muscularity, I wondered when she'd stop. I'd unknowingly brought home a monster.

As an adult, Dixie weighed seventy pounds. She was built like a Rottweiler. I tried to put my shirts on her, which she did enjoy, but I could never button them around her massive neck. Her chest stretched my T-shirts more than mine did.

I thought of her as a Dalmatian wearing a tuxedo. All four paws were white