Elvis and the Grateful Dead. Peggy Webb
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dark.
Suddenly somebody or something moans. Lovie and I grab each other and freeze.
“What’s that?” she whispers.
“A cat?”
The scream we hear next is no cat. It’s a woman. And judging by the sound, she’s being murdered.
The only good thing I can say is that we’re not in Jack’s apartment.
Elvis’ Opinion #3 on Cocker Spaniels, Sleeping Arrangements, and Rat Poison
You’d think after all the excitement around here, a dog could get a decent night’s sleep. But no. I’m having to put up with that upstart cocker spaniel. Just because Callie bought him a personalized doggie bed, he thinks he owns the bedroom.
Don’t think I didn’t see him nosing it around the end of Callie’s bed trying to get on my side. Next thing you know he’ll be trying to claim credit for my recording career. That’ll be all she wrote.
With my sophistication and savoir faire, I may look like I breezed to success on the back of somebody’s rich coattails, but let me tell you, I’m a dog who learned the hard way. While I was a skinny teenager gyrating and singing “Keep Your Hands off of It” at the government housing project in Memphis, Tennessee (Lauderdale Courts to be exact), I was learning to back up my actions with my fists.
I may be a tad paunchy now (if I don’t suck my stomach in), but I can still put Hoyt six feet under.
I get off my private pillow (guitar shaped and embroidered with my name and a TCB thunderbolt, thank you, thank you very much), prance my ample butt around the corner of the foot-board, and growl like I mean business. Hoyt gives me this dumb cocker spaniel look, then tries to lick my face. He’d better learn he’s dealing with a King who grew up the hard way.
And if fisticuffs fail, there’s always Ruby Nell’s rat poison.
Speaking of which, I wonder if that’s what somebody used to knock off the two impersonators. After those sorry performances over in Tupelo, I’d have done it myself if I could have found an escape hole in the fence and Ruby Nell’s stash.
If I didn’t know her so well, I’d say she killed them. Callie’s mama does not suffer fools, and anybody who puts on my signature jumpsuit and then slaughters my songs falls into that category.
Anyhow, the rhinestone hairpin I found is not Ruby Nell’s style.
Okay, so I let Callie think she found it. Listen, anybody suffering a broken heart and a near-terminal case of worry needs all the affirmation she can get. Since Jack left it’s a full-time job around here.
She puts on a good front and everybody thinks she’s this naturally cheerful spirit, but I can smell blues a mile. I know what I know. A dog’s sacred duty is to make sure his human mom feels well loved and understands her own worth.
I excel at these things.
Just as Ruby Nell excels at never growing old. And why should she? Unless, of course, she could be reincarnated as a basset hound.
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