Читать книгу Elvis and The Dearly Departed - Peggy Webb - Страница 11

Iguess you’re wondering how I could walk out on Callie since she’s one of the truest hearts I know and I live by the creed don’t be cruel. I could tell you I took advantage of the wide-open back door in the hopes my human mom and dad would get back together, but the truth is, every now and then a dog has to take care of business.

I’d planned on sniffing Ruby Nell’s tombstones, maybe marking a few, then ambling over to Gas, Grits, and Guts to see if anybody had left a half-empty box of fish bait. After that I was going back to the beauty shop before Callie missed me. But I got sidetracked by Bubbles Malone. I could smell big city all over her even before I sneaked in as she went inside to ask for directions to Eternal Rest. Fayrene quizzed her within an inch of her size 36-D push-up bra.

Don’t ask how I know the size. Just trust me. And every bit of it was real.

When Bubbles mentioned she used to perform at Caesar’s Palace, I sidled up hoping she’d recognize me and ask for my paw print. But she didn’t. I should have known a woman too vain to put on the reading glasses I saw when she dropped that little bitty purse would miss her golden opportunity.

Now, I knew if she went strutting into Eternal Rest showing off those knockers, the Valentines would be all shook-up. I fully intended to mosey on back to the beauty parlor and warn Callie.

But fate intervened. The prettiest little French poodle this side of Hollywood and Vine sashayed by exuding pheromones you could smell all the way to the Alabama state line. Well, bless’a my soul!

I seized the first opportunity to dash out the door. Then I sucked in my paunch and marched right up to her.

“I’m Elvis,” I drawled, “and I can fly you to moon.”

A basset hound or even a Jack Russell terrier would have known I stole that line from another singer, but a French poodle in heat will believe anything you tell her.

She blinked her big brown eyes at me and I was a goner. We trotted off to find some privacy and lost all track of time.

Now I’m lying here behind the Mooreville Truck Stop with Ann Margret curled up beside me snoozing. Turns out she had the same opinion of me as John Lennon. “Before Elvis there was nothing.” I feel the urge to kick up my heels and howl at the full moon.

But in spite of all the stories you’ve heard to the contrary, I’m smarter than that. Instead of giving away our love nest, I amble over to the back door of the kitchen and find some good scraps of country-fried steak, black-eyed peas and corn bread.

It’s not the fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches I was so fond of before I fell from Graceland, but it’s still good Southern home cooking.

Well, back to my foxy little poodle. TCB, baby!