Michael D. Davis.

As I write this, at 6 am on a Wednesday morning, I have a dog lying on me in a tableau that seems to combine Norman Rockwell with Ren and Stimpy. Ya see, first of all, it was my dog, Dixie, here who decided an early morning fit of barking and running about was the way to wake everyone up, so I picked her up and brought her into my little office area with me. I plopped her onto the armrest of my chair; she then purposefully slid her butt down until she was on her side, shoved against me, with a leg in the air. It’s now been six months of this.

The time seems to fly when you’re shedding on the couch. It doesn’t seem to compute that it has been six months since Dixie first came home, ripped through the house, and tried to lick the Old one’s face. He’s come around to her, by the way. Just last night, he was sitting in a chair that Dixie wanted to be in, and apparently found it funny how she pushed him out of the way to claim her throne.

Technically, that chair was supposed to be for Ma. A chair to help her with her legs and back as it massages and reclines. However, Dixie seemed to take more of a liking to it than anyone, and she now barks, pushes, and generally tries to bully her way into the recliner whenever she sees that it’s otherwise occupied. I’m not sure; I may have been dreaming, but I think one day she also had the massage feature going as well.

Last week was very telling, as we had to take her to the vet. Turns out Dixie is a true Davis family soul, as she is plagued by allergies and possibly a touch of asthma. Like most others in the house, Dixie then got her own allergy pills to keep her from sneezing, coughing, and itching. Knock on wood that she won’t eventually have to get her own inhaler. And since she’s an old lady anyway, I’m gonna go ahead and set her up with her own pill caddy.

This wasn’t the only thing to come out of Tuesday last week; Dixie had a much bigger highlight than just licking the face of the vet. On our way home, we decided to stop and get some McDonald’s. Dixie made her order clear, but I refused to get her any burgers. We got home, I fed Dixie her normal food, and Ma and I sat down to eat our McDonald’s. We were watching Desperate Housewives as we ate, and something big was going on on Wisteria Lane. As I watched, transfixed, I felt something. I looked down, where I had been holding three fries: one bigger, two smaller. Dixie had snuck up to me and slowly and silently craned her neck forward, plucking the larger of the three fries between her lips and, with wide eyes, was sliding it out of my hand with quiet, diligent ease. Before I knew it, she had successfully stolen the fry, made it to the other end of the couch, and ate it.

I was flabbergasted. It was hilarious. Firstly, I didn’t see her coming. Secondly, she didn’t take all the fries, just the one. And lastly, the whole thing had a very well-thought-out plan-of-attack, heist-movie vibe about it. I’ve been double-checking my wallet since then.

So, yes, it’s been six months of ups and downs, and barks and whines. Especially with all the rain we’ve been getting. Ya see, Dixie detests getting wet; however, she equally hates wearing the little yellow raincoat I got her. Lately, it’s a struggle to get her out of the house because she needs to put on her raincoat first. Ma always says that she looks like she is saying, “How humiliating,” whenever I put the coat on her. I find it adorable, and so do other people. But if you see me out walking with what looks like a sulking Morton’s Salt girl, that’s just Dixie, who, even though hates both getting wet and the raincoat, will purposefully hit every puddle between here and Timbuktu out of what I think is spite and rebellion.