My first dog was a pet store rescue. A pure, AKC certified, Jack Russell Terrorist named Georgia. I don’t quite know how the name came to me, but it did. She’s my Miss Georgia, Miss G, and Sister. She’s a diva, alpha Terrorist… just like me. She’s never met a person she didn't like, or a meal she didn't eat. She’ll charm you in a heart beat, loves to swim, and as she’s grown over her last 16 years, become an institution at Casa de Terrell. Kiddos love her, my parents adore her, and my mother calls her Buddha, as she’s a higher being… so much more than a dog.
As she’s gotten older, she’s also gotten several names. Georgia, to Miss G, to peanut, to my little Cheeto, to fatty, to Sister, to my dirty dawg. She loves to roll in mud, dirt, grass, or any fecal pile/slime trail/puke or general nastiness she can find… and of course – her pure pink puppy belly has become riddled with spots (freckles)… which is where the dirty dawg name originated from… Now it is because she’s got stinky old gal breath, a completely brown belly, and in her old crunchy age STILL loves to roll in the nearest nastiness… proud as punch.
At the age of 7, Miss G got a new little brother… we adopted him (another Jack Russell Terrorist) and he, like Archie, had a past that no dog should have. He does not like children, and has the scars to show for it. He came to the house named Turbo from the rescue group – cause the boy can MOVE. When he gets to runnin’, God help ya, cause no one can catch him. He’s part Jack Russell part Gazelle. Well Turbo just didn't fit this timid lil’ man. He came to us at 10 pounds… and skinny, tiny, and quiet. He attached to me instantly, and LOVED to survey the back 40 on top of the dog condo my husband built for the dogs. So we thought… “Scout”… we called him Scout – for about 2 weeks… and he never really responded to it, but we thought he was just getting used to his surroundings.
One day, over beers (as you do) – we were talking about how Scout was doing… and our dear friend Eddie (now departed, God rest his soul… we miss you Eddie!) said “Aw, I wanted to send a name to you when you were thinking about names for Scout… I guess it is too late now.” And we asked what he was going to submit… and that was the moment that greatness happened.
… “McLovin” he said… and Da Hubs and I realized… That.Was.The.Name. So we came home from our evening out – and got out of the car and said “McLoviiiiin” and low and behold if that little booger didn’t jump outta his dog condo, shoot across the back yard, and come sit right next to my husband. Well McLovin he became.
He holds true to his name, that little pervert. He loves “da ladies”… I mean LOOOOOOOOOOVES women. He works em over with his little face and skinny man syndrome, an within 5 minutes of meeting any woman, will be happily perched in her lap, getting lovin’s and (dirty little dawg) have one paw resting protectively on her boob. He’s a smooth little dawg… McLovin through and through… if you've seen Superbad, you can almost envision him saying “Wicka-wicka yeaaaaaaaaahhhh” as he hops in his next victim’s lap.
My little heathens are a handful, smarter-n-shit, and cutter than all get out. I can’t imagine my life without them, and I treasure each moment – as Sister is pushing 17, and McLovin (aka: Bubba Man, my little ballerina dog, and “idiot”) is somewhere between 10-12.
All I can say, is I’m certain I would love to come back in my next life as one of our dogs.... and we should all be so lucky.
