Chapter 7 · America the Beautiful

Uncle Dickie and the Doggy Disaster

Wrestling trophies, a gingham tablecloth, and one dramatic Miniature Pinscher

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The next morning we got up early to start our day, making our way to a nearby Huddle House for breakfast since most of our food supply was either flooded or drying. We were going to pick up my Uncle Dickie, Grandma’s other cousin, Uncle Charlie’s younger brother, for an afternoon visit. Uncle Dickie lived alone in a small apartment in a high-rise on the other side of town. We had a couple of stops to make on the way to replace some supplies and get gas.

Now Uncle Dickie may or may not have had a learning disability of some kind. Socially, he was different than my grandma and me, but he still supported himself, and he still had the same characteristics that were prevalent in this branch of my family. He never had any children, though he had been married years prior. The relationship failed, and he became a permanent bachelor.

That day, he was dressed in a light-colored pastel cotton button-up shirt and polyester pants like something out of the ’70s or ’80s. (This was the ’90s.) His hair was styled dark and slick, similar to Elvis’s in his early days, and he was clean-shaven.

Uncle Dickie spent a lot of his time at the YMCA when he was young, working out and wrestling. Later, as an adult, he became a professional wrestler himself and traveled the nation with other professional wrestlers, the kind who were popular on television in the ’70s and ’80s. His apartment walls were decorated with headshots of him in his wrestling costume and pictures of him posing with celebrity wrestlers like Hulk Hogan, André the Giant, and Randy Savage, just to name a few. There were autographed headshots, T-shirts, and hats of wrestlers he’d seen perform live or maybe even performed with. He even had a championship belt displayed as part of his collection. We spent the afternoon with Uncle Dickie shopping for some essentials he needed and having lunch. All the while, he told us stories of his wrestling career and the people he knew.

That evening Grandma and I had her friends Paul and Barbara over for dinner on the grill. We set up our picnic table with the bright red-and-white gingham plaid plastic tablecloth, Grandma’s fancy reusable Tupperware plates and utensils she kept specifically for the camper. She only had one long runner leash to share between the two Miniature Pinscher pups, so we attached both of their shorter leashes to it like a “Y.” Once again, this was a very short-lived good idea.

These two little dogs were not much more than puppies, curious about everything, but overall pretty good little dogs. Sampson, the boy, was a little older and smaller than his sister, Delilah, later renamed Little Baby, who, at that time, may have been a year old at best. She was rather feisty, with a bit of girlish attitude. They spent their time during our dinner sniffing and exploring around on their long runner, mostly under the picnic table, stealthily licking up any dropped dinner samples. As long as food was near, so were they.

However, as the sun began to set and it was obvious that us humans were done with dinner and had moved on to after-dinner coffee and conversation, Sampson and Little Baby found other entertainment with one of their toys, playing on the grass near our picnic table. They seemed perfectly fine until something caught Little Baby’s attention across the campsite. Before we knew it, she darted after this unknown creature with complete disregard for Sampson, who was also tied to the same long runner leash. Poor guy was absolutely unprepared for this spontaneous dragging across the grass, under the picnic table, where his head was slammed into one of the table legs, and beyond our cars to bark and stand guard against whatever lay beyond in the fading daylight. Even we could see the stars circling around his head like a cartoon character. He looked like he was down for the count, Little Baby winning by a knockout, while she was still diligently doing her puppy duties.

Grandma immediately ran to the two pups to stop the barking and save Sampson. I followed close behind, as did Barbara and Paul. It was quite a commotion. We got them unhooked, with me taking Little Baby to calm her down and Grandma taking Sampson to give him a good look over. He definitely had a little bump rising up like the knots on a knockout in those same cartoons. His head was still swaying a bit with disorientation, and she petted him, cooing in his ear that he was okay.

We sat him down in her lap with a small bag of ice for his head. For the most part, he was fine. Maybe a minor concussion and some hurt pride from being traumatically assaulted. I walked Little Baby before reattaching her to the runner, alone. Grandma’s friends stayed a little while longer while we excitedly replayed this crazy dog tale and other hilarious stories by the light of her homemade colorful string lights, laughing until it was time for them to go.

The next day, Sampson definitely took a slower pace, choosing to sit in the car seat more than look out the window with his sister. Grandma walked one while I walked the other, and he certainly enjoyed more time in a lap rather than playing and romping with Little Baby. It was kind of hard to tell if he was still licking his wounds or giving her the silent treatment, but since he wasn’t showing signs of worsening, we decided to wait it out and watch for improvements.