Mugsy and Other Tails...

Grampy is going on 87 now and his life has become very small. He can no longer drive, so the few activities he has to do every day have taken much more importance in his life than they would yours or mine. His days are pretty much centered around copious cups of coffee, the Western channel, collecting coupons and doctor visits.

Susie looks like this...but fatter

The highlight of his day, however, is walking over to the double-wide next door to his trailer to visit Susie. Susie lives with Alice. Susie and Alice are best friends. Grampy visits Susie every day at 1:30 sharp. He takes her treats and hand feeds them to her, massages her neck and lets her sit on his lap. He told me he doesn't really care about visiting with Alice but he has to in order to see Susie. Susie is a fat, wheezing, Russell Terrier. Alice is a 85 year old grizzly haired widow. The three of them together in Alice's living room is Grampy's idea of the perfect ménage a trois.

“But Dad” I tease him, “Alice is available and has most of her teeth. Aren't you interested in women anymore?” “Aw hell” he spits at me “She's got one foot soaking in epsom salts and the other foot in the grave. I've BEEN married and I don't want to go through that again.”

But we all need companionship, even Grampy. For 16 years he had his little dog Mugsy. Mugsy was a rescue dog from the SPCA and Grampy swore the dog was a purebred Cock-a-poo. “With Papers?” I asked, just to be a brat. “Well of course not. Me and mama got her from the pound. They don't give you the Papers at the pound unless you pay more.” Purebred or not, Mugsy was his life and his raison d'etre. He might have been a handsome dog with proper grooming, but his grungy gray and white hair was more often than not shaved close to the skin, “to keep the hair out of his eyes and from being matted” he'd say. Then Grampy kept a ratty sweater on that dog—mostly all year round cause Grampy said Mugsy had no hair to keep him warm. He has always been practical that way.

Grampy and Mugsy 2005

Grampy and Mugsy were rarely more than 3 feet apart. The dog slept with him, watched TV with him, went with him everywhere and ate his meals out of Grampy's hand. Grampy would curse at that dog like the dickens. Mugsy was a little deaf—nevertheless, I think Mugsy considered Grampy's rantings his love language. And he swore the dog talked back to him. He'd cut up leftover meat after family dinners and put it down on my kitchen floor for Mugsy to eat. Mugsy was finicky and would sniff at it for awhile then more often than not, walk away. We would wait expectantly for what always came next. Grampy would get down on his hands and knees close to that dog and shout in his ear “Eat it or go to Hell!” Booyah! Take that, Mugsy you ungrateful flea bag! We would laugh ourselves silly—silently behind Grampy's back. He was always calling the dog a liar. Mugsy would patiently sit by the back door staring outside till Grampy would finally get up and let him out. Grampy would watch that dog pee on every tree and bush outside, nagging at him to “do potty” (which means number two, mind you, not number one) the whole time. When Mugsy would prance back into the house, without performing his “doody”, Grampy would be so disappointed and would cuss at him like a sailor “You're just a (blankety blank) liar! You wanted to go outside to do potty and you did nothing!” Personally I think Mugsy just liked going outside to chase birds and mark his territory. I told Grampy that once and he just shook his head then proceeded for the next ten minutes to describe in detail to me the state of Mugsy's constipated bowels. Clearly I know nothing about purebred Cock-a-poos.

Mike and I really worried that when Mugsy passed on to wherever it is good doggies go, Grampy would not be far behind. I think he loved that dog more than he loved breathing...or even Marshall Dillon and Miss Kitty. But Mugsy passed about two years ago and although he does NOT want another dog, Grampy is still going strong. I'm thinking we can attribute some of that to Susie. And everyday when he cooks up his hot dogs, cuts them into tiny pieces, takes them next door to give the little dog her “treat” and nag her to do potty, I imagine he's getting his battery charged to go on living... just a little while longer.