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8A I DAWSON COUNTY NEWS I dawsonnews.com Wednesday, July 18,2018 Sometimes love and forgiveness go hand in hand I should have known the pit- tie mix was in the dog house when Lamar quit making her breakfast. Unlike the other pups, including the German Shepherd, Doodle’s routine included having her own little plate of food to eat alongside her ‘daddy.’ One morning, I heard him tell her, “You don’t get any today, Doodle.” I didn’t think anything of it at first; that little caramel col ored dog is always doing something to get in trouble. But her punishment went on for a while, which was odd and signaled something was terri bly amiss. Doodle is the pup who can get away with everything. While Ava is a drama queen and Pumpkin is quite judgmen tal towards us all, Doodle is the one that came into our lives five years ago and somehow stole my husband’s heart from his favorite breed. She has been spoiled because she is, as he calls her, his baby girl. He has rocked her to sleep as a puppy in the middle of the night when she didn’t want to be alone. She has eaten cycling gloves, socks and a few remotes and he has declared she was just a sweet little baby girl and didn’t know any better. For him to not have breakfast with her for several days run ning meant something was SUDIE CROUCH Columnist amiss. “What did she do?” I asked him. “You don’t want to know,” he said as he sat his coffee cup in the sink. “Trust me.” I giggled to myself thinking of all the gross crimes the chunky little dog could have committed. A few nights later, Cole went out on the porch to bring Doodle in and rushed into the other room to get his father. “Again? No!” Lamar exclaimed as he headed out side. “What’s going on?” I asked. Cole shook his head. “You don’t want to know.” Why does everyone tell me that? Don’t they realize if something usually gets handled it’s the mama who takes care of it? “Yes, I do. Tell me.” Cole took a deep breath. “You are going to be very upset when I tell you. We decided not to tell you this because we didn’t want to upset you.” That statement right there sent off my mama-alarms. Telling me you kept something from me because you didn’t want me to get upset is a sure fire way for me to freak out and over-react when you do tell me. I was trying to be calm though. It was Doodle and she seemed okay, so it probably had to do with her eating my furniture again. “Tell me,” I repeated. “Doodle killed a baby opos sum,” he said. “What?” How could she kill a pre cious little baby opossum? I was crushed. “Daddy is getting it now to bury it with the others.” “The others?” He nodded. “How many has she killed?” “Six,” Lamar said walking back in. “It’s the pit in her. I know good and well Ava wouldn’t do this and neither would Punky. But Doodle has killed a whole litter of opos sums.” I felt worse. I had named the mother opossum Penny; we loved seeing her offspring each spring. “Is this why she hasn’t been allowed to have breakfast with you?” I asked. Lamar nodded. “I love her, but it is hard to love on her knowing she is a killer.” As he said that, the little assassin plopped her head in my lap and pawed at me to pet her. “No, Doodle,” I said. “I can’t. I am so disappointed in you right now.” A few nights later, I heard something on the back deck. It was Fiona, the baby opos sum that had almost came to me one morning. She had pink little ears and a cute little black nose. She was adorable, and my goal was to hand feed her this year. She often would get in the corner of the deck and watch me feed my cats in the early hours of daylight. “Fiona is still here!” I exclaimed, grabbing the bag of cat food to give her some kib ble. She hid as I filled the bowls, peering between the wood slats on the deck to watch me. “I am so sorry for your litter- mates,” I told her. “Doodle doesn’t come out here, so you are safe here.” But, the little opossum didn’t stay on the back deck and eventually got on the front porch. I cried, angry, sorrowful cried. I loved that little marsu pial. I couldn’t look at Doodle for days. Weeks actually. I wouldn’t even let her curl up by my feet at night, telling her it was a cuddle-free zone. I was hurt beyond hurt with her. How could she kill some thing that didn’t pose even the remotest threat to her? “Have you loved on Doodle yet?” Mama asked me. “No,” I said. I even refused to kiss the little spot on her head that she insisted I kiss each morning. “Are you going to forgive her?” I wasn’t sure. My heart was so saddened by her actions. I was so disappointed in her. This is the dog that has head butted her own shadow once because she is so goofy. Why would she kill an innocent little animal and one I loved? “She didn’t know any better,” Lamar said softly one evening as she climbed up in his lap and put her head on his shoul der. “She thought she was doing a good thing. She didn’t know we loved the opossums.” I don’t think it would have mattered if she knew we loved them or not, and I said so. “What does matter though, is that we love her and she’s ours,” Lamar said. “We may not like what she did, but we love her and that means we have to forgive her.” Love and forgiveness do go hand in hand. Even, or maybe especially, when we don’t like the actions. Sudie Crouch is an award win ning humor columnist and author of the recently e-published novel, "The Dahlman Files: A Tony Dahlman Paranormal Mystery." Who knew Tink had connection to songwriter I love? The other day, Tink for warded a story link to me. In an effort to know all things Southern and to love better this different life he has chosen, he often checks things online then forwards interesting pieces. The article, about Nashville songwriter Bob McDill, was from an online site called The Bitter Southerner. Though Tink did not know it at the time, McDill is one of my favorites. His songs have catchy melodies, clever stories and often a literary flair that is deep and poet ic. Tink knows, though, that I’m apt to be the fan of anyone who writes romantically, intellectual ly or nostalgically about the South. This, McDill, does very well. Or did do well. He’s retired now. In the midst of a book deadline, I had taken myself to Mama’s house where inspiration tends to flow smoothly without the interference of the chaotic atmosphere in our house. There’s always a bill to pay, a problem to solve, a bed to make or a dog to tend. At Mama’s, there is serene calm and peace that hearkens back to the laid back way that Mama and Daddy lived their lives. There, I was writing RONDARICH Columnist pages that were due soon in New York when Tink’s email arrived. “I LOVE Bob McDill!!!!!” I replied, listing my favorite songs. I wrote a few more paragraphs, pondered my thoughts a while longer then - as writers are oft to do -1 took a break to read the McDill story. It would be easy to fill this column by listing my most beloved McDill songs, who retired from songwriting at too young an age and settled into one of Nashville’s finer homes close to the governor’s mansion, but I’ll focus on two of my favorites. Both were highlighted in the story. “Song of the South” was a number one hit for the megahit group, Alabama. When the group was touring to promote their first album, they did a show in my hometown. Less than 300 people showed up but I was there with my portable - then rather large - cassette recorder to interview them for my radio show. Within a year’s time, they were playing to sold-out crowds of thousands. The article noted that “Song of the South” had charted two times previ ously before becoming one of Alabama’s biggest hits. When they recorded the song about a kid growing up in the Depression, they left out a verse which I had never known existed: Well, I was 18 before I ate my fill We lived on the garden and the cow’s good will Winter was wet and sum mer was dty And mama, she was old at 35 Instantly, I could relate because Mama and Daddy had grown up just like that. “We lived on the gar den and the cow’s good will” is more nostalgic than they cared to recall. “And mama, she was old at 35” explains the sad- looking photos of my grandparents. In four lines, 33 words, he wrote their lives’ stories. That’s the marvel of an excellent storyteller like McDill. “Good Ole Boys Like Me” is pure poetry. McDill explained to the magazine that he was inspired by Kentucky born writer, Robert Penn Warren’s final novel, “A Place To Come To.” Warren was the Pulitzer- prize-winning author of the phenomenal Southern novel, “All The King’s Men.” I say often that there are no more than two to three degrees of Tinker connec tions to most people of renown from Abraham Lincoln to Elvis Presley. It has become a game I play and that Tink, albeit reluctantly, joins. A friend and professional col league of Tink’s is pro ducer David Milch, wide ly considered one of the greatest geniuses to ever step into Hollywood (“NYPD Blue,” “Deadwood”). Milch, as a Yale professor, was men tored by Warren and even assisted him in writing textbooks. It never occurred to me that Tink would have a connection to a songwriter I revere so much. This amazes me. Florida Rich is the best-sell ing author of Mark My Words: A Memoir of Mama. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free weekly newsletter. Daws UpountyNews presents rtw&soine- DAWSON A comprehensive guide for all residents of Dawson County, featuring attractions, local resources and more. Awesome Dawson keeps residents new and old up to date with all the changes occurring in the fast growing county. DISTRIBUTION: Magazine inserted in August 29th publication. In racks throughout Dawson County including restaurants and attraction sites for a full year. ^Online - More than 35,000 unique visitors per month Promoted in our social media through emails to our local subscribers and our FB and Twitter followers. j- "Tw DAWSON COUNTY’S ANNUAL NEWSCOMER’S GUIDE Ad reservation deadline is Friday, August 3rd. For information, call Jennifer Lyness at 706-265-3384 or email at jlyness@dawsonnews.com
