Kudzu Queen

By Tamara Ducote

It’s not like I can’t get into enough trouble all by myself. But then, in what must pass for a rollicking cosmic joke, God sent me these two dogs. (“Hey, St. Peter and Gabriel. Ya’ll watch this.”)

More often than I like, I am asked to explain some outrage my dogs have committed against decent society. At those times, I feel a pang of empathy for Charlie Manson’s mother. (“Sure, he’s not perfect, but he’s still my baby,” I imagine her saying, in the exact same defensive tone I adopt when talking about my pups.)

Both of my dogs were rescues, which absolutely proves that old adage “No good deed goes unpunished.”

My blonde Chihuahua, Neurosis, has the distinction of being Banned For Life from the local municipal park due to her proclivity for snapping at under-supervised White Trash toddlers. This almost got my ass royally kicked by a scary coterie of young, uneducated white women in too-tight cheap fabrics, bright blue eyeshadow and forests of heavily lacquered, bleached-blonde hair.

Every one of the chicks was at least 25 pounds too heavy to realize her dream of being crowned Miss Skoal, Miss Tractor Rodeo or Corn Dog Queen…I suspect that’s the REAL root of their anger. Neurosis and I thought maybe we’d mistakenly wandered into the midst of a casting call for the newest “Charlie’s Angels” sequel – you know, the one where the Angels masquerade as illiterate sluts who dropped out of middle school due to pregnancy, subsequently birthed a series of fetal alcohol syndrome brats they don’t want and can’t manage, and spend the rest of their blighted existences bouncing from one abusive male to the next.

Neurosis also enjoys biting trick-or-treaters. The smaller and cuter, the better. This almost got my ass arrested, but luckily I managed to melt into the darkness and run like hell, Neurosis tucked under my arm like a squirming, snarling football. I don’t let Neurosis out on Halloween night any more. I’m too old to be sprinting across yards and hiding in shrubbery.

To be fair to the dog, I should have known what I was getting into. Neurosis’ first family wanted to get rid of her due to her overly aggressive tendencies. When I heard about the dog, I was enchanted. “Hmmm…she’s neurotic, self-sabotaging and has aggression issues,” I thought. “That’s the dog for me, all right. I’ve found my soul mate.”

My other dog, Lowrider, is a dachshund. He was a stray. I was sitting out in the yard one day listening to one of my subnormal neighbors tell lies about his new job with the FBI.

“Dude,” I said, remembering last week’s lies, “You mean you don’t work for the CIA anymore?”

“Damn straight,” my neighbor replied. “Too much paperwork. The FBI’s a lot better.”

Suddenly a mangy, scabrous dachshund gimped up to me and settled himself in my lap. It was as if he belonged there, and was coming home from a long and arduous journey.

My neighbor recoiled.

“That there dog’s got the mange,” he said.

“Sure does,” I answered. “It’s real contagious, you know. I hope you don’t catch it. Having the mange would play hell with you romancing all those buxom underworld chicks, wouldn’t it?”

My neighbor fled the contagion. In gratitude, I adopted the dog and nursed him back to health.

Once he was healthy, it became apparent Lowrider’s most Christianly attribute was his profligate thievery. I used to sometimes take him to the beach with me. Low stole so many sand shovels and toy boats and Little Mermaid dolls that he frequently ended up running for his life, thundering across the white sands with a posse of irate parents and screaming toddlers in pursuit. Low would try to seek sanctuary on my beach towel, but I have a strict personal rule: I only do my OWN time.

“Is this your dog?” I’d ask the posse. “Shouldn’t he be leashed?”

Soon as we got to the beach, Low would disappear, off to commit larcenies. He is not the kind of dog who will frolic in the surf with you or chase a ball down the beach or even just hang out and keep you company. Low had a bad stealing itch that he couldn’t help scratching. Being very cute, he could trot up to any toddler on the beach and cock his head and hypnotize the tot with his big brown eyes. The tot would drop the beach toy to pet Low, and BAM! Like a bolt of lightning, Low was racing across the sand with a new toy in his mouth.

This wasn’t any kind of “fetch” game, because Low had no intention of ever bringing the toy back. He’d quickly, surreptitiously bury the toy somewhere in the dunes and then race back to the beach to commit another crime against toddlerdom.

I didn’t mind covering for Low’s larceny and even enabling him back when my own daughter was young enough to appreciate the purloined toys. (Me: “Hey, little boy. That’s a great sand-sifter you’ve got there. Want to pet this cute puppy?”). My daughter amassed a kickass collection of beach toys. We overlooked the tooth marks. But unless and until Low figures out how to steal stuff which my kid places a premium upon nowadays (Abercrombie & Fitch items, Slipknot CDs, etc.), I’m not aiding and abetting him anymore.

The day after my house was burglarized, I set both pooches down for a talk.

“Next time some bastard jimmies a window and burglarizes us, I expect to see a severed human foot on the floor, or at least some blood splatters,” I told them. “Shoot, y’all didn’t even TRY, did you?”

Lowrider at least had the grace to look ashamed. Neurosis merely darted forward and nipped my shin.

Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.

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