Animal Magnetism

Animals Can Save Your Life

Thanks to a scrappy fox terrier named King Edward, I learned at the age of six that animals can save your life. They can also help you to stick up for yourself.

King Edward, Ed for short, was owned by Mother’s good friend Diddy Pocahontas (I will refrain from using her real last name should some distant relative be one step ahead of a running fit). Diddy swore she owed her life to King Edward because before she found the lump he’d kept poking at her bosom. Once she realized something wasn’t right, she marched into the doctor’s, thereby losing her bosom but keeping her life. She never doubted King Edward after that.

Diddy did not get her missing bosom rebuilt. This was in the early fifties and plastic surgery was in its infant stages. She used the empty cup of her bra for a purse. In the warm months she’d wear low-cut bodices, reach in and fish out her money. No one said anything except her mother, Mary, who continually urged her to wear a falsie.

Diddy’s response was, “You can always tell how much money I have by looking at my bosom.”

Mary’s response goes unrecorded. It wasn’t charitable.

Mary, getting grand in her sixties, told anyone who would listen that she was a descendant of the original Pocahontas, whose bones lay safely in the Episcopal churchyard which she visited frequently. She visited it frequently because only the dead would have her. She was a holy terror who couldn’t help bullying her own daughter and anyone else who got in her way. King Edward couldn’t stand her. And if your four-footed friend doesn’t like someone, pay attention. They aren’t worth liking.

Now, Mother was the hub of social and political activity in two counties, Carroll County, Maryland, and York County, Pennsylvania. One of her sayings was “Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.” She shepherded many friends and not a few enemies. Everyone had dogs, cats, horses, birds, and most of the local farmers ran cattle. Mother prided herself on knowing everyone, and that included pets and work animals. One June, she organized a picnic. People outnumbered June bugs. She had guests that were newborn and two in their nineties. Julia Brown threw a great party. She was never short on guests.

Everyone brought their dogs. Butch, my aunt’s Boston Terrier, was there, and Tiny, Lila Meeney’s dachshund, along with Diddy’s King Edward and Chaps, my Chesapeake Bay Retriever. He was four then. So many dogs. I loved it. As the decibel level increased, the dogs retreated, for the noise troubled them.

What was causing such a ruckus? Turns out someone from Other Parts (not Virginia, not Maryland) stupidly tried to press Mary for the truth about her connection to the original Pocahontas.

We all knew that the original Pocahontas, called “Poke” by Mother, had died in London and was probably buried there. But we knew better than to say this in front of Mary. Back then Southern women could faint at the drop of a hat. Some ladies were prone to a genteel swoon where the lady in question would sway, drop to her knees, and flop over, thereby escaping injury. Others went down like a ship hit below the water line, accompanied by moans, groans, or silent suffering. That’s why people such as Mother—remember, she pretty much ran both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line—carried smelling salts. She’d kneel and press the hanky with the smelling salts under the lady’s nose. Eyelids would flutter. The spectators would fan the lady. If she was well built, the men fanned vigorously. Southerners, even now, understand that life is theater. A good faint might be considered a social skill.

So during our June picnic, when Mary was challenged on her illustrious tribal heritage, she sank like a stone. She lay there awhile before Mother realized few people wished her to revive. She dutifully cracked the smelling salts into her hanky and kneeled down, just as King Edward lifted his leg. Mary shot up, shouting, “Diddy, I will kill that worthless dog. I will strangle him. I will strangle you.” It went on. Diddy rolled her eyes—“Oh, la”—which further inflamed her mother.

Whether or not Diddy consumed Dutch courage I don’t know. I could tell if someone was three sheets to the wind but I couldn’t determine if they’d only knocked back a drink or two. Perhaps Diddy did just that and King Edward’s comment on her supine mother emboldened her.

I’d never heard a proper lady cuss in public before. Diddy scorched the earth. “I am sick and tired of eating your shit.” That was for starters. Mary, eyes big as eight balls, screamed back, “I brought you into this world, I can take you out.”

We could have sold tickets to that show, which wound up with a totally revived Mary chasing Diddy down to the pond. Diddy escaped in a canoe, King Edward jumped in, her mother stood on the shore cursing Diddy, King Edward, and the entire assembled crowd. Sure was a good picnic.

Later, Mary consoled herself with sherry laced with something stronger. You see, a lady couldn’t luxuriate in a straight shot of bourbon or scotch, as it would excite comment. So Mary, her slender flask tucked into her stocking, discreetly poured the contents into a glass of sherry. Of course we all knew but pretended that it wasn’t happening. Skirts, long and flowing then, could hide plenty of objects, even people. The incongruity of a lady hiding her drinking but swearing like a fishmonger was also overlooked.

Soon Mary was out cold, lying on a blanket. No bucket was necessary. She had a hollow leg. She’d not throw up, for which I was grateful.

Diddy rowed back in, chin up, face radiant. She and her friend Lila Meeney, both good-looking women with good racks (although Diddy sported half a rack), danced, laughed, and frolicked. Lila belonged to the Man-of-the-Month Club and her pick for June was Carter Farley, a fellow of average intelligence and above-average looks.

Diddy sat down with King Edward on her lap. The summer dress, thin cotton, cut low, allowed King Edward to delicately reach in and pull out bills with his teeth. No one thought a thing of it except Mary, and she was again dead to the world.

Mother moved through the crowd gathering support for a zoning variance. A small company wanted to build something really new called air conditioners and Mother thought it was a good idea.

The picnic roared on, twilight adding even more allure to the gathering. Despite Diddy’s missing boob, men found her attractive. Freed of her mother’s constant judgment, ready for anything after her public fuss with Mary, she openly flirted with Rupert, Rupe for short. He was the Esso station owner, a nice man, even if he did always have grease under his fingernails. I was already fond of Rupe because he was one of the few adults who actually invited me to ask questions once I told him how much I liked motors. He owned a boxer, Spike. Spike and King Edward were great friends and it was apparent that Rupe and Diddy were becoming great friends, too.

Mother said you could tell because the dogs got along so well. Obviously, they’d been keeping company on the sly.

Meanwhile, Lila and Carter, Tiny trailing along, had wandered off in the starlight.

Mary began to revive as the temperature cooled down. She opened her eyes to see Rupe put his arm around Diddy’s waist. She blinked, sat up, none the worse for wear. She harangued Diddy that she could do better than a grease monkey.

Diddy didn’t bother to fight but simply said, “Mother, shut up. I’m doing what I want.”

King Edward growled and Spike looked on in amazement. Diddy turned on her heel, Rupe and the two dogs following in her wake. Mary stood up only to crumple down. Too much bourbon—I mean sherry.

Lila, Carter in tow, walked back to the group upon hearing the ruckus. Mary turned on her. “Slut” fell out of Mary’s mouth. Worse fell out of Lila’s. Tiny emerged from underneath Lila’s skirt to attack Mary. He bit her ankles. Mary screamed she’d get rabies.

That was how Mary came to have the rabies shots in her stomach even though Tiny was a perfectly healthy dachshund. Mary wanted attention. She reported a vicious dog to the sheriff, who wrote it all down. Then when Mary left his office he tossed it in the waste can.

Diddy married Rupe. Mary pulled herself together to be the mother of the bride. It was an October wedding. Both dogs attended the reception, also going along on the honeymoon.

What a lovely man Rupe was, and he made Diddy happy, even as Mary fussed that Diddy married beneath her. Rupe overlooked his mother-in-law and I came to understand that people like Mary, funny though they may be, are utterly miserable inside. Anyone who can’t embrace life is a sorry soul and they’ll make you sorry, too.

When King Edward died in 1954, Diddy cried. Rupe did, too, but the person who went all to pieces was Mary Pocahontas. Funny.

King Edward saved Diddy’s life, not only by finding the lump in her breast, but also by showing her that it was possible to stand up to her mother. If Ed hadn’t helped her find her backbone, she would’ve missed out on a rich life with Rupe. And we would have missed out on that unforgettable picnic.