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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.
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