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If you ask me, all these impersonators running around Tupelo in sequined jumpsuits could use remedial voice lessons. Nobody can hold a candle to the King. That would be me, though these days I could pass through a crowd unnoticed if it weren’t for my pink bow tie. I also wanted to wear my black pompadour to the Elvis Festival, but Callie (my human mom) said basset hounds look silly in toupees.

What does she know? Don’t get me wrong. She’s the best human mom a dog could have, but she can’t even keep her own life straight, much less mine. If she’d seek my sage advice, I’d tell her to stop trying to take care of the world (and that includes picking up stray dogs and cats as well as loaning money to everybody with a sob story who walks into her beauty shop). Mostly, though, I’d tell her to drop divorce proceedings.

If any two people belong together, it’s Callie and Jack (my human daddy). She says they split over his Harley Screamin’ Eagle, but I know better. They split because she wants a family and he’s worried about having children and then getting shot and leaving them fatherless.

Of course, he’s never told Callie the truth because he’s never even told her about his real profession—and if I told you, I’d have to kill you. Suffice it to say, Jack Jones makes Rambo look timid.

Callie and Jack are at an impasse and “All Shook Up.” At the rate things are going, it looks like I’ll be punted between them for the next three years. Like a pigskin.

Speaking of which, I think I’ll mosey on over to the refreshment booth and see what’s cooking. Fried pigskins, for one thing. Lovie’s in charge. She shares my opinion that the body ought to be primed with sugar and fat. (Spirits, too, which she uses generously in her catering business recipes, though Callie would die if she knew her cousin sometimes slips me a little of her Jack Daniel’s apple pie.)

Take it from me, Lovie and I know a thing or two. She’s a hundred-and-ninety-pound bombshell with plenty of curves to hold on to; and in spite of my slightly mismatched ears and my portly figure, I’m a suave dog and a force to be reckoned with. We’ve both had more lovers than I’ve had hit records. But ever since Ann-Margret batted her French poodle eyes at me and Rocky Malone blew into Lovie’s life during what the Valentine family now refers to as the Bubbles Caper, we’ve both been testing the waters of love everlasting.

Frankly, if it weren’t for the example set by Ruby Nell (Callie’s mama) and Charlie (Lovie’s Daddy) I’d be howling “Rock-a-Hula Baby” instead of “Wear My Ring Around Your Neck.” Both of them had great marriages and still worship the quicksand their immortal beloveds walked on. (Even a Rock ’N’ Roll King knows his Beethoven.)

If you ask me (which nobody does around here), Ruby Nell and Charlie would benefit from a good dose of “Love Me Tender” with somebody who is not six feet under. In fact, I might help her find a savvy senior gentleman who appreciates a woman who walks on the wild side so she’ll stay out of Callie’s hair (and her pocketbook).

While I’m at it, I might find Charlie a smart, witty woman who still pays homage to her libido. A nice romance could be the key to unlock the passion he hides under the facade of godfather to the entire Valentine family.

If I could be like Ruby Nell and Charlie in my next life, I wouldn’t mind coming back as a human. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a dog. Put a bassett hound in the White House and he’d have this country straightened out before you could say pass the Pup-Peroni.

Hot on the scent of grease, I detour by the T-shirt booth for a whole lotta lovin’ from Charlie and Ruby Nell, then nose around the festival so everybody can get a gander at the real King. Listen, I may be a basset hound, but I know what I know: (l) impersonators singing flat notes and wearing hair gel you can smell a mile ought to be banned from wearing sequined jumpsuits, and (2) life’s better with a lot of petting and a hefty portion of fried pigskins.