Published in Facsimilation Magazine 2004
Sick Yankee Slut
by
Diana Grove
It was 3 a.m. and someone was licking my fingers.
I rolled over and put my head under the pillow, continuing to dream about Thomas Jefferson's chest hair. Again more licking. He was really getting kinky now, this time on the elbow and much more vigorously. Was it because it was 1803 and he had just bought Louisiana from Napoleon for some pocket change and a handshake? He nuzzled my arm and groaned. The sheets were getting sweaty, twisting around my thighs. The groan escalated into more of a growl, then a high-pitched whine. Finally, he bit me. I threw the pillow across the room and bolted upright, shattering a vase.
It was the Wiener again, waddling around the carpet in figure eights, scratching the floor and whacking her tail against the bed in a panic.
"Oh fer Christ's sake woman, not again! This is the fourth time tonight!" I slid out of the sheets and into some slippers.
The horrible truth was this: Thomas Jefferson was dead, and the wiener dog was sick again. I grabbed a flashlight and ran into the wall, groping my way out of the bedroom. As soon as I cracked the front door, the Wiener shot out like a furry bullet and assumed the number two position.
"Okay, Hooker, let's shake a leg. I don't want to be out here all night." (The dog had several nicknames: Hooker, Slut, Squishwalker, or just plain Whore. Mostly because she was always splaying her legs and walking around the house without any pants.)
I knew immediately why she was sick. Earlier in the day, while I was busy chatting up some beef cattle, she had clandestinely slipped off to indulge in one of her favorite pastimes - licking dead frogs. She was well aware what this could do to a digestive tract, but it seemed she couldn't help herself - dead frogs are just that good.
So, because of my inattentiveness, I was now standing naked in white fluffy slippers under a full moon with yellow fluorescent eyes glowing at me from the edge of the woods.
Living out in the Florida swamp can be wonderfully peaceful, but you really don't want to wander around after dark without any clothes on, especially during mating season.
"Come ooooon Slut, let's get the lead out! We're starting to attract wildlife." As the bushes rustled, the Wiener gave me a pathetic side-glance, took one final thrust, and sprayed liquid shit all over the Sunshine Mimosa.
"Good work, now let's get inside before I'm impregnated by an endangered panther."
I know I should have taken the dog to the vet the very next day for a shot in the ass and some antibiotics, but I didn't - she was being way too entertaining. One minute she would run around chasing her tail, the next, she'd be slow and dopey, trying to eat imaginary flies. Finally, she became so lethargic her eyes glazed over, she rolled her brown nipples skyward, and just plain died.
At least I thought she died.
The second I revved the engine of the pick up truck to dispose of the body, the Whore came back to life so fast she hadn't had time to get stiff. (After all, what dog, living or dead, would miss a chance to go for a ride in a pick up truck?)
"Well what da ya know, look whose back! Hey, wanna go for a ride? Wanna go for a ride? Come on Squish, I guess it's time to take you in for a tune up."
The dog jumped up and down panting with excitement. She thrust her nubby two-inch legs on the truck seat and attempted to hop in. Unable to make it, she hung precariously on the upholstery with her claws, exploding runny goo all over the driveway.
"Ah Jesus woman. Will this carnage never end?" I carefully hoisted her up as she wiggled violently in my arms with joy. We strapped ourselves in and tore down the dirt road at full pick up truck-speed. And after only three gruesome pit stops, we arrived in record time.
I don't know if you're aware of this, but there's no one in the world more forgiving than a country vet. Probably because they've seen just about everything: earless dogs, bald chickens, cats with rickets, agoraphobic horses, cows with breastfeeding issues. So they weren't too surprised to see the Slut waddling in again.
"Hi Miss Brenda, I'm back with the wiener dog. She licked a frog again and let loose all over the Claude Pepper highway. Horrible mess…truly disgusting this time."
Miss Brenda was the vet's receptionist and also a Tammy Faye Baker impersonator. She patted her immense and highly-sprayed bouffant, tucking her pencil into the mass. Seeing her reminded me there are really only two types of women in Florida: Steve Miller and Glenn Miller. Brenda was definitely a Glenn.
"Well, the poor little thing, at it again huh? I thought I told her to lay off a them things - they're pure poison."
I nodded. "I know it, but she won't listen. She's stubborn, and when she gets a taste for something, there's absolutely no holding her back." I cradled the dog in my arms, pointing her leaky business end at a Shitzu in the corner.
She took off her glasses and tucked them into her fountain of bangs.
"Well, I must say, I feel the same way about Neapolitan ice cream. I've never had enough of it, and probably never will." She waved her tiny, manicured hand in my direction. "How 'bout you darlin'? What you got a cravin' for?"
"Well." I thought a minute. "I like…Thomas Jefferson."
"Uh huh." She looked at me bewildered. "Well…he was a good man. I was always more of an L.B.J. girl myself." She cautiously took the dog and smirked, telling me I should have a seat outside in the lobby.
Slightly put off by Brenda's look, I passed the time by reading about hoof rot in Floridian bovine. (It's apparently a lot like hammertoes, but quite a bit smellier.) 20 minutes later, the Wiener, Brenda, and her hair, re-appeared at the reception desk window. It turned out all the old girl needed was a little Imodium and plenty of fresh water. Feeling her eyes on me, I thanked the woman and trotted the Whore out back for one last spew before driving off in search of medication.
The vet visit reminded me how out of place I felt being a Yankee living in rural Florida. I walked faster, talked faster, and even ate faster than anyone in town. No matter how hard I tried, I just didn't fit in with the scenery. This was particularly apparent when I ran into the Winn-Dixie, panting and demanding an immediate escort to the incontinence aisle.
The check out girl looked me up and down, raising her eyebrows. "Pardon me ma'am? What are y'all lookin' for? Motor oil?"
Exasperated, I shot back, "No, no…Imodium…Imodium, it's for diarrhea. You know…the runs."
She took a step back as if I were armed and dangerous, telling me to check the U-Save across the street. As I ran out the door, I could see she was whispering behind her hand to another checker and laughing.
"Fine," I thought, "they're probably still sore because we Yankees kicked their holy ass in the Civil War." I yelled over my shoulder, "Well ya better get over it honey, 'cause that was a loooooong time ago!"
I Sherman marched back to the Wiener, who was frantically pacing back and forth, desperately in need of a patch of grass. The dog was not looking well. Her long, tubular belly was distended, making it even more apparent that her motley undercarriage was missing a nipple. I knew it was just a matter of time before she'd explode her sickly innards all over truck interior, so I broke the 40 m.p.h. speed limit crossing Main St. into the U-Save parking lot.
Inside, I was treated in the same bizarre manner. The young produce boy, who was usually so helpful pointing out ripe melons, eyed me oddly. He said he had no idea who carried Imodium, but if it was an emergency, I should go to the Labelle family clinic because "that's where he took his little brother when he nailed his hand to the tree fort." He gazed at me in awkward embarrassment, then quickly looked down at his stack of kiwis.
What in the hell was wrong with these people? Why were they all treating me like I was some kind of freak? Just because I dress a little different and speak with a Midwestern accent doesn't mean I should be treated like such an outsider. It had to be the war, sure, that was it. They thought I had moved down here to burn their sugar plantations, asphalt their orange groves, and steal their hoop skirts, all over again.
Finally, at the pharmacy, I was able to secure the last remaining bottle of Imodium. I dusted it off as the pharmacist rang it up, eyeballing me.
"My my, what have we here? Say… where you from sugar?" She peered over her bifocals, giving me a concerned look.
Oh boy, here we go again. I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Well…I'm from Illinois. Northern Illinois. You know…the Land of Lincoln."
"Sure, sure, I know Illinois." She looked me over thoroughly, probably trying to figure out where I kept my musket and bayonet.
I ran my hand through my tangled hair. "Look, Lincoln was a great leader, he didn't want to divide the North and South, he was mostly peaceful. True, he had an excessively large forehead, and occasionally suffered from fits of depression, which may have led to some sporadic and unnecessary warfare, but mostly, he was peaceful."
She shook her head and chuckled, surprisingly quick to agree. This was probably just a sneaky southern trick to get me out of the building. I squinted at her suspiciously, ignoring her reply and grabbed the medicine.
In the pick up truck, I cracked opened the bottle and poured a dribble in my palm. Since it tasted exactly like dead badgers doused in cocktail cherries, the Whore found it delicious and licked my entire hand, forearm, and elbow clean.
After just a few minutes of driving, she was back to her old self again, tearing from one side of the truck cab to the other, barking at Mexicans. Relieved, I pulled over for one last stop at the local bookstore before taking her home. I'd never been in before, but I'd heard the owner had recently committed suicide, so I wanted to pop in to see if there were dangerous amounts of Theodore Dreiser lying around.
The new owner, a stylish woman in her mid 40's, sat behind a desk with her hands folded, staring off into space. It appeared the only items for sale were Reader's Digest Condensed Books and 1950's textbooks on boll weevils and citrus blight. I perused the aisles, looking for signs of madness and despair.
Wedged in between a musty copy of "Peyton Place" and "The Principles of Irrigation on the Okeechobee Rim" was a book called "Ventriloquism and Puppetry: A Beginners Guide." Attracted by the photos of do-it-yourself sock puppets wearing little hats and mustaches, I snatched it off the shelf and approached her. Startled, she snapped out of her trance and looked up.
"Oh my…uh, a book on…ventriloquism?" She nervously cast her eyes downward, trying to avoid eye contact. After a long silence she tilted her head to the side, still escaping my gaze.
"So…do…you…have…a puppet?"
"Well not yet," I snapped, "But I do have a few knee socks at home that are just dying to perform The Pirates of Penzance behind the living room sofa." I wasn't going to take any of her snotty southern attitude, so I paid, grabbed the book, and left her nervously playing with her pearl necklace.
Back in the pick up, the Hooker was busy growling and spitting viciously at a young mother pushing a perambulator. It was really good to have her back to normal again, so I patted her on the head and we struck up a conversation.
"Christ Wien, I don't know if I can deal with these Southerners any more. They're so freakin' suspicious. Call me paranoid, but they look at me like I'm gonna steal their house and rape their 6-year-old or something. I mean jeez, that lady was so nervous I thought she was gonna snap a rib."
The Whore looked at me sympathetically and nuzzled my thigh. It was at that moment I realized she was the only one who truly understood me. So as I pulled into the driveway, I rewarded her by scratching her head and tossing her out of the truck so she could get back to her second favorite pastime - terrorizing armadillos.
As I walked into the house to freshen up, I hung my shoulders and let out a long sigh. I kicked off my shoes and flipped on the bathroom light, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Standing frozen, I dropped my keys to the floor and screamed.
"Oh my fucking God! What…the… fuck?" It finally dawned on me what had happened. Brown, smeary stains of dried liquid covered my blouse and shorts. My collar, originally crisp and blue, was now an orgy of earthy fecal matter. I looked like I had been hog tied and dragged through a Wisconsin cow pasture after a heavy rain.
"Okay, okay…now I get it. It wasn't Lincoln after all. I've just been walking around all day covered…in…dog…shit! Hey thanks Slut!" I yelled out the window, "Thanks for giving me a reputation around town!"
Outside, the Wiener paused for a moment to look up at me, then immediately got busy licking a 25 pound gopher tortoise.
"That's right, you go ahead and have your fun! Why don't you eat a poisonous snake or something! I'll be just fine in here cleaning off all…the…canine…crap! Yeah…go on, laugh it up…ya' freaky-assed pantless whore."
