Butch, Aunt Mimi’s glorious Boston Terrier, joined the Big Hound in the Sky. After a suitable period of mourning, she needed another creature to order about. Her daughter, married, could be bullied but not as frequently as before she entered into wedded bliss. Her sister fought back, which provided equal parts irritation and excitement. Her husband, her loyal ally, was not a suitable candidate. I failed the obedience test as well. Surely another dog would fill this void.
Dad brought me a white kitten with gray spots, Skippy. An excellent murderer of skinks and the occasional sloppy blue jay, Skippy followed me around like a penny dog.
I wanted an American Foxhound but ran into walls of resistance. I begged for a Chow Chow, but Mother said that heat would be cruel for such a heavy-coated animal. She was right. I tried for an Airedale, but Mom reminded me we’d need to strip the fur twice a year.
I volunteered to ride around with Aunt Mimi as she searched for the perfect pet. We’d cruise up and down the straight streets—the land was flat as a pancake—and stop by breeders. She’d check out the puppies, we’d climb back in the car.
“Too small. If I stepped on one, I’d kill it.” Her verdict on Chihuahuas. “Doggy odor.” Her response to a Wire Fox Terrier.
“Why not get another Boston bull?”
“Can’t do that.” She shook her head sadly. “There will never be another Butch. The dog would suffer by comparison.”
I thought about how Aunt Mimi used to stand on the porch and call, “Butch! Come here, Butch!”
Dad and Butch the dog would both race around the corner and up on the porch to greet her. No matter how many times we witnessed this spectacle it made us laugh.
Dysfunctional families grab attention today. Our family carried its share of mishaps, mistakes and outright fights, but in the main, we were happy; we expected to work hard, and whatever good fortune came our way was celebrated. After all, Mom and Dad’s generation lived through two world wars and the Great Depression. Those calamities framed their sense of life. They knew horrible things happened for no special reason. Carpe diem. And they did.
Our corny jokes, like Aunt Mimi calling the dog and Dad showing up, drew us closer. We played pranks on one another, worked together and buried our dead together.
Aunt Virginia had died young and then Mother’s brother, Bucky, died too. The last person anyone expected to go down young was George Buckingham. Colon cancer ate him alive.
Maybe that’s why our passions drive us, why our sense of humor is so sharp; we each know we could be erased on the great blackboard of life without leaving but a speck of chalk dust.
Aunt Mimi’s passion right now was a puppy. After a few weeks of the canine search of the century, still no pooch. Following each of our forays, I’d report to Mother.
“She doesn’t need a dog. She’s naturally vicious.” Mother would laugh, and sometimes she’d go on to reverse herself. “She wants a dog because she’s too chicken to bite someone herself.” Like confetti, the put-downs floated harmlessly to the ground. Mom needed to throw things.
A whirl through Burdine’s in downtown Fort Lauderdale always enlivened Mom. That woman moved through a department store like an army scout on a recon mission. Rarely purchasing anything, she folded garments back to check the seams, tapped crystal with her fingernail and plopped into every chair, testing them.
This day she found a sundress with a flared skirt and short sleeves cut on an angle. It fit her perfectly. Jumping black poodles decorated the fabric.
“What do you think?”
“You look great. Mom.”
“Not bad for an old lady.” She spun on the ball of her foot.
She bought the dress after a small period of agony over the cost. We hopped into the car. She’d had it with shopping for the day and the next thing I knew she was roaring up Dixie Highway, turning left into the northwest section of Fort Lauderdale. She pulled up at a lime green house with white trim and shutters. I tagged along.
The yips of puppies greeted my ears. Mother picked out a jet black little guy, a Miniature Poodle. She paid the portly lady and home we drove.
Mortified, I said nothing. A poodle. How could she? Poodles belonged to old ladies with butterfly sunglasses, rhinestone jewelry and high-heeled sandals parading up and down Collins Avenue in Miami Beach.
The little fellow curled up and slept in my lap.
“Does Dad know about this?”
“He will when I pick him up from work.”
“Mom?”
“Well”—her voice rose a tone—“the right dog completes a lady’s ensemble.”
“Oh.” No point arguing that one. “Greyhounds are elegant.”
“And big, and they chase anything, including Skippy.”
“Yeah, I forgot about that.… A Clumber Spaniel?” I loved those Clumbers.
“Hair is too long. A Miniature Poodle will suit me fine.”
“You know that they aren’t really miniature. Mom. This dog will get to be the size of a Toy Schnauzer.” I petted his little head. “Maybe fifteen pounds.”
“Big enough to get out of the way, small enough to handle.” And she added, “They’re very smart, so you can train him.”
“Okay,” I agreed weakly.
She hummed the whole way home, breezed through the door, picked up the phone and invited her sister over.
She greeted Sis with rapture, making Aunt Mimi suspicious. Then Mother walked into the kitchen which she’d blocked off to keep the puppy confined, scooped up the puppy and showed it to her sister.
“You always have to be first!” Aunt Mimi flamed out of there.
“Jealous,” Mother giggled.
Fortunately, poodles originally were hunting dogs. I felt better when I learned that. And he was smart. I taught him the basics and I taught him to fetch the paper. Mother loved that dog. She wore her poodle sundress a lot. She began finding poodle scarves, poodle costume jewelry, you name it. Mother became heavily empoodled.
Dad liked the dog, too.
Aunt Mimi, spiked to a competitive pitch, bought an expensive Pekingese. She spent a lot more than she’d intended. Chin had a pedigree as good as that of Bold Ruler, a fabulous Thoroughbred. Black Sunshine, Mom’s dog, although handsome and well put together, was not well bred.
What a sight they were, strolling through the Sunrise Plaza shopping center, then brand spanking new, with their canine alter egos. Aunt Mimi favored a thin leash with rhinestones on it to match the sparkling red collar Chin wore. Mother thought male dogs should never be exposed to rhinestones, for it might affect their sexuality. Black Sunshine, a butch poodle, wore a rolled leather collar.
The two dogs often got along better than the two sisters.
On those trips to the shedrows, Sunshine stayed with me on his leash. He liked horses.
Aunt Mimi, who made a show of opposing gambling, allowed Mother to cajole her into attending the races one time. She won over two hundred dollars. She and Mom sang “Shine On Harvest Moon” part of the way home until their voices pooped out. They’d shouted themselves hoarse at the races.
Aunt Mimi’s new car (white—the only intelligent choice in Florida) had a good radio. They turned it on and we all heard Elvis Presley for the first time. “Hound Dog” delighted the sisters. One of the lines, “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog,” became one of their refrains. Mother read about Elvis. She adored him. Aunt Mimi said he was singing “race music,” but then proceeded to listen to every new single he released.
They loved him. Patsy Cline, Tennessee Ernie Ford and Dinah Shore. They bickered about how fat Kate Smith really was and vied with each other singing “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain” complete with tremolo.
We’d be strolling down Las Olas Boulevard, Sunshine and Chin keeping pace.
Mother would start, “Ginger Rogers.”
Aunt Mimi would counter, “Eleanor Powell.”
“Cyd Charisse.”
“Ruby Keeler.”
“Ann Miller.”
“Isadora Duncan.”
“Can’t use her.” Aunt Mimi stopped in front of the preppy women’s clothing store that sold tassel Weejuns, a kind of loafer.
“Why not?”
“She didn’t dance in the movies.”
“You’re saying that because you can’t think of anyone else.”
“Ha.”
I dropped twenty feet behind them. I’d reached the age where I didn’t want to be seen with my family, anyway, and when Mom and Aunt Mimi wound up for a donnybrook I really didn’t want to be around.
I walked into the store and tried on tassel Weejuns, size 7B. They were twelve dollars. I had five, which I’d saved from my lawn mowing. The rest I had put in the bank.
Old Maine Trotters, Weejuns and tassel Weejuns were the shoes of choice. If you couldn’t afford them, you could pass muster with a pair of white sneakers, no socks. If you wore socks in Florida, that meant you were a major weenie. Couldn’t carry an umbrella, either, no matter how hard it rained.
I left the store and ran after Mother, who was deadlocked with Aunt Mimi over dancers.
“Mother, will you lend me seven dollars?”
“Seven dollars?”
“I need tassel Weejuns and I only have five dollars.”
“Will you clean the jalousies?”
This had to be one of the most hateful jobs in Florida. Jalousie windows have thin louvers of heavy glass, exactly right for the climate, but a royal pain to keep clean. It required three to four hours in the hot sun to soap them up and wash them down, and you couldn’t use the hose or you’d soak the inside of the house.
“I’ll do them today.”
She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out the money.
“Hey, Pick.” She smiled. “Put your best foot forward.”
“Oh, Mom.” I ran back and bought the shoes as those two laughed at how clever they were.
When I emerged from the store, shoe box in hand, I didn’t join them immediately, but walked behind, watching them. I wondered if I would grow up to be like Mother. Surely this is a fear that strikes terror in the heart of every female when she takes her mother’s measure.
I swore I wouldn’t. Never. Not for a skinny minute would I be like Juts.
Ha.