National Dog Day AKA Elvis is in the House

I remember the day clearly. The hubster and I were driving across Texas on our way from New Orleans to Las Vegas. He was at the helm steering the twenty-six-foot moving van that was jam-packed with everything we owned, and we were trailering our very impractical car behind us. I was in the passenger seat, which I swear was made of cinderblocks covered and covered in a questionable plasticky-vinyl material that stuck to my skin, and we were on day three of our journey. Yes, I know it’s a twenty-five-hour drive, and we should not have still been in Texas at that point, but the van was not a fan of Sammy Hagar, and the red needle on the speedometer never reached fifty-five. (There were times it would barely hit thirty as we chugged up a mountain, and I wondered if we would slide down the interstate like a playing piece in Chutes and Ladders.)

Now when I ride shotgun across the country with the hubster, there are a few things I can count on with him. He’ll drink Code Red Mountain Dew, munch on Doritos or something similar, stop the vehicle only when gas is needed – so plan your bathroom breaks and hunger pains accordingly, and head-banger music will be played because it keeps him awake. I myself think that seeing a sign that reads, “Prison Zone – Don’t Pick Up Hitchhikers,” is enough to keep one alert. The other one that caught my attention was a three-foot by five-foot bright yellow sign that said, “Watch for Rattlesnakes.” Why? Would they be hitchhiking as well?

I waited for the right moment. The tank and our bellies were full, and the sun was out. “Can I get a dog when we get to Vegas?”

It was silent for a few minutes. “Well,” my husband, who had suddenly turned into Ward Cleaver, sighed. “You’ll have to walk it, feed it, take care of it. It’s a big responsibility.”

Now mind you, I wasn’t six. I was a seasoned adult (that’s a polite way of saying I was between forty and fifty) who had held down jobs, paid her taxes, grocery shopped when she WASN’T starving, and put gas in the car BEFORE the little yellow light came on. My daughter was in college and wasn’t overly traumatized by my raising her. I had a pretty good track record of keeping her fed and watered. Made sure she received proper culture (Spamalot) and knew the lyrics to “Margaritaville” and “Bohemian Rhapsody.” And I did my best not to embarrass her in public. (Okay, I tried.)

“Oh, and the dog can’t sleep in the bed,” my husband said.

“Okay,” I agreed. Cross that bridge when you come to it, I told myself. The key is to get him to agree to the dog. I assumed the conversation was over and resumed looking out the window for hitchhiking rattlesnakes. I’d start looking when we got to Vegas for my new bestie.

The hubster took a long pull on his Code Red and looked at the asphalt before us. “There’s one more thing.” I felt a shoe dropping. What was the catch? “I get to name the dog.” There was a long pause, and he turned and gave me his signature blank look. “And its name will be Elvis.” I started to say something but thought better of it. Elvis? We were moving to Vegas, and it sounded kind of cool. I had been told once to practice calling your dog’s name before bestowing it on them. Imagine standing on your back porch at ten o’clock at night and hollering, “Stinkerbelle, where are you?” I rest my case. (By the way, after using this methodology, Stinkerbelle was changed to Stella.)

The drive finally ended (a lot of togetherness time), and after the last box was flattened, I began the search for our new dog. (She’s napping under my chair right now.) Las Vegas’ animal shelters are lovely, but unfortunately, as with any large city, there are quite a few. List in hand (like you are surprised), I drug the hubster to North Las Vegas Animal Shelter. I had found the perfect dog. He checked all the boxes, and, ironically, his name was Elvis. It was meant to be.

Well…it wasn’t. If it had been a Tinder date, there would have been a definite swipe left. Not wanting to deal with rush-hour traffic, the hubster suggested we look around. There were about forty minutes until they closed, and I shrugged. Sure. My dream dog was a dud. I’d start looking again tomorrow. But then…we rounded the corner and walked past a kennel. “Hi, my name is Electra,” the sign on the outside of her door said, and a long-haired blonde with a beaky nose who looked very much like me looked me in the eye. “It’s close to Elvis,” she winked, and I was in love.

Now the thing to know about Las Vegas is that you can get married WITHOUT A WAITING PERIOD – all you need is a picture id and one hundred bucks. Don’t have a bouquet – you can rent one, and if you want an Elvis impersonator to officiate, there’s a guy for that. However, if you want to adopt a dog or cat, that’s a different story. There’s paperwork, a cooling-off period, and an interview. Marry whomever you wish to in Sin City, and you can do it in the time it takes to get a manicure, but you better be serious about a lifelong commitment to any four-legged creature.

The next twenty-four hours were a mad scramble. I had to have this dog. She was me in canine form. The paperwork was sitting in the adoption counselor’s inbox before she got to her desk, and by nine, I was burning up the credit card with purchases for my new bestie. Ten minutes before closing, we became the proud minions of Elvis and carried her out like the princess she is.

Her personality came out as we got to know her. She’s an extroverted introvert. Likes adults but isn’t keen on kids. Toddlers and babies terrify her. Cats intrigue her, and birds are to be chased. Walks on the beach are fine as long as the water doesn’t touch her feet. She can hear the refrigerator door open while soundly asleep and will race to see what you have just stuffed in your mouth, and you’d better be prepared to share. White wine is fine, but red is better. And her favorite bar, Hawaii, is just down the beach, and it’s her bar. Just ask anyone there. Oh, and the no sleeping in the bed…well, she laughs and rolls her eyes as she takes up the middle third. “Humans and their rules.”