Every Dog Has Their (Wedding) Day

“Dog Daze”
By Kristen Jones

Paco is generally uneasy around other dogs. Earlier in the day, Triddy, his owner, set him down in the living room and Delilah, a St. Bernard who always seems to have drool pouring from her jowls, immediately began to chase after him. Delilah’s heavy paws slipped all over the hardwood floor as her frilly ballerina dress flew all over the room, the two of them becoming nothing more than a pink blur.
When Beth, Delilah’s owner, put her out the screen door and all problems were presumably fixed, Delilah smoothly slid the door open with her oversized nose and ran after Paco again. Triddy decided it would be best to leave him at home, down the road, until the ceremony was about to begin.
*
Green and red sombreros hung on the corners of the wooden hutch, watermelon-sized paper bells dangled from the ceiling fan, and oversized plastic Christmas lights were strewn over the sliding glass door, illuminating a sign that read: “Just Married.”
Doreen, a thick woman with long pink acrylic nails, stood behind the breakfast bar munching on a bag of Cape Cod potato chips. She, like everyone else, was awaiting the late arrival of Reverend Dave, and was having a conversation with Mindy and Karen about veterinary bills to pass the time when the sliding glass door unexpectedly flew open.
Beth stepped into the dining room, lugging a leather object longer than a hockey stick.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a gun case, I brought it home from Mexico,” Beth said. Standing the shotgun case up next to her, and holding the top of it as she would hold the shoulder of a friend, she proceeded to explain that she had gone on a trip to Mexico with Doreen and Triddy last year, and had brought back some interesting conversation pieces.
Along with the gun case, Beth showed us a stuffed St. Bernard toy that sings, “You’re the first, the last, my everything,” in a Barry White voice. Once the room became disinterested in the gun case, Beth set the Barry White dog outside on the picnic table next to the battery-operated stuffed Chihuahua, which, when strapped to your arm and turned on proceeds to move its doggie pelvis in a humping manner.
Mindy was in the middle of telling Doreen and Karen about how her veterinarian is charging her $750 to remove a benign tumor from her dog’s neck. She half-jokingly suggested that it would be more advantageous to put him to sleep and use that money on a long over-due surgery for herself instead. And though Mindy is a petite woman, probably only around 5’ 2”, she’s not easily ignorable- when she starts telling a story in her boisterous Kansas accent, there’s no stopping her.
“The other day, he says, ‘Well let me ask you this- if you woke up tomorrow morning and had a loved one, or one of your family members had a tumor in their neck, would you put them to sleep?’”
Waving her hands in an excited manner, Mindy takes a sip of her margarita and continues. “And I said, well that depends on how much I love ‘em.”
“Good answer!” cries Karen.
“I thought, ‘Don’t put no guilt trip on me pal,’” says Mindy. “I’m thinking, ‘Gary do you know what? I put off surgery for myself for three years, ya know? And I’m spending all kinds of money on my animals over the years.’ He says, ‘Well what kind of surgery do you need? Breast surgery?’”
“Oh my god”s and general sounds of disgust echo around the room. “First of all, how well do you know him?” asks Beth, who is busy bustling around the kitchen, taking jalapeno poppers out of the oven and setting potato salad, vegetable salad, fruit salad, chips and of course, fiesta dip, out on the table cloth depicting dogs wearing sunglasses and blowing party blowers.
“I said, ‘lower surgery.’ I was being a smart ass, I said ‘Maybe I can get a discount here and get my surgery done here.’”
Laughter overpowers the sound of Bob Marley’s “Is this love?” blasting in from the other room, and the second they both stop, Mindy starts talking…again: “You know, I used to kid around in Colorado. Randi and I used to say, ‘You know, one of these days we ought to start selling pet insurance’- and people do that now!”
Karen interjects, “With the cost of vets you have to!”
“Then I said, ‘We should make gourmet cat food. We could make pasta, ya know, with spaghetti sauce mixed in with cat food.’ Man, I could have been a billionaire three or four times over!’
Mindy is always coming up with wacky inventions. Ever since her sister began making a profit off selling Fancy Foam toy airplanes online, Mindy has come up with ideas such as You Kneed me, a pillow that goes between your knees for comfortable side sleeping, and silent wind chimes, which would hypothetically consist of stringed feathers and wine corks.
Reverend Dave was already over an hour late. “We’re not waiting too much longer for Dave here,” says Beth. “I mean, we can’t do the service without the Reverend, but…” Beth stops preparing food long enough to dial Dave’s number. After several rings, his automated answering machine picks up and she leaves a message in a slightly flustered tone of voice: “Hey Dave, just wondering where you are, guess you must be on your way over, see you soon, bye.”
*
I hopped up off of the tree trunk barstool and turned to follow Beth, Karen and Triddy out the sliding glass door. Pruitt, Beth’s long-time boyfriend, stopped me dead in my tracks as he was passing through the other way- towering over me, holding a joint out in the palm of his hand.
A long time ago I had a very different experience in this same spot. My Aunt Karen brought my cousin Emily and I over to Beth’s to swim in her aboveground pool. On this particular summer afternoon, we had already been diving for pennies and nickels for hours, until our 10-year-old fingers shriveled up like raisins and our eyes stung from the chlorine.
Karen and Beth were inside doing adult things. We had already exhausted the pool, the porcelain dolls upstairs, and the Power Wheels in the basement, and we were bored- sitting in a pile of mushy drop-apples in the nearby apple orchard, plotting out ways to deceive Karen and Beth, as if they were evil stepmothers.
There was a small hole in some chicken wire fencing that surrounded the space underneath Beth’s back porch. They would never find us there.
We sat there in the dark, under the slim rays of sunlight shining through the spaces between the floorboards for a good 15 minutes before anything happened. Then, we heard the sliding glass door rumble open. We looked at each other and grinned wider than I ever remember grinning.
Karen and Beth were standing directly over our heads. “Where did they go?” Karen asked. “I don’t know, they were just in the yard a minute ago, weren’t they?” replied Beth. They started calling our names. “Kriiiiiistennn,” “Emmmmmmilyyy.”
Their voices echoed out over the pool, past the apple orchard for nearly 20 minutes. Emily and I sat under their feet, silently rolling on the dirt floor in fits of laughter, being careful not to let out audible giggles.
It was only when they began to discuss calling the cops that we finally came out of hiding. “Boo!” “Here we are!”
Our grinning and giggling faded as it became apparent that Karen and Beth were not enthused. Karen yoked Emily by the arm and screamed at her for the next ten minutes while she shook her entire body, curls of red hair springing in every direction.
Then she shot me a look and uttered the terrible words: “I’m going to tell your mother and father about this!”
And now, 10 years later, here was Beth’s partner in crime; standing over the exact spot we would have been sitting underneath, offering me marijuana. “You’re 21 now, right?” he asked.
Truth was, this particular day just so happened to be my 21st birthday. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to do that. He shrugged and closed his fingers up.
*
Beth, Karen and Triddy were sitting in a circle of chairs underneath the shadows of colorful Chinese lanterns that hung from a clothesline in the back yard. The chair that had been leftover for me was a miniature blue beach chair that looked as if it was designed for a five-year-old. “Oh, that’s Pruitt’s chair,” explained Beth as she passed out sparkly plastic beaded necklaces. Pruitt is a lanky guy, about 5’ 11,” who frequently dons flannel and cowboy boots. A vast majority of the people at the party would undoubtedly pay a substantial amount of money just to see him sit in it.
“How did you come up with the idea for the dog wedding?” I asked.
“Well, I hate to say it,” said Triddy, choking back chuckles, her round cheeks turning as pink as her v-neck T-shirt. “We were drinking one day and we just decided to have a party…and we said ‘Why not?’ Because we’re going to mate them anyway, so we said we’ll just have a party and a ceremony, we gotta get them married before she gets pregnant.”
“Yeah, we didn’t want anybody getting knocked up before they get married,” added Beth. Triddy and Beth plan to breed Paco to Chica, Beth’s Chihuahua/Pomeranian, in December, when they expect her to be in heat.
“They’ve only met a few times and Chica’s run off and hid, that’s about it,” said Triddy.
“This is an arranged marriage, isn’t it?” said Karen.
“I know, I know, it is an arranged marriage, you’re right. Yeah, yeah, it was an arranged marriage, that’s what we gotta say,” Triddy replied. “I think as Paco gets older I’m hoping that he’s going to calm down with it more and be able to be around her.”
Triddy continued to validate Paco’s current absence from the wedding: “She’s more afraid of him than he is of her right now. I don’t know, she’s used to being around more dogs than he is, and for some reason she don’t want any part of him right now. But I think that when she’s in the mood she’ll be ready.”
“Paco’s always in the mood here. Paco’s got his little bunny,” said Beth.
“No, his little bear. He has a bear that he likes to…yeah, he’s practicing.”
“He wants to get it right. He doesn’t want to embarrass her.”
Triddy said that Beth spent hours and weeks preparing for the wedding, buying things like Chihuahua invitations, sombreros, party beads, chili pepper decorations and even doggie gift bags containing cookies suitable for dogs and humans shaped like fire hydrants and dog bones. Triddy bought the marriage certificate on the Internet and made the wedding cake, a carrot cake with white frosting that read, “Congratulations Chica and Paco,” with ceramic Chihuahuas on top. Triddy joked that the cake should have said, “Chica and Paco forever- or at least once.”
Beth and Triddy weren’t the only hard-working party planners. Earlier, Karen brought me aside to show me the perro banos, or dog bathrooms, that she had constructed next to the wedding trellis. Essentially, it consisted of a brand new tire with two white poles on either side that held up a cardboard sign reading “Chicos (Men)” on the left side and “Chicas (Women)” on the right. “Someone told me I should put paper fire hydrants on the sides of the trellis, but I couldn’t find them anywhere,” said Karen. “So I said, ‘Damn, a tire will do.’”
At this point, the Reverend was running two hours behind. “OK, this marriage is really late,” Triddy said. “And it’s not because of the groom, it’s because of the drunken Reverend.”
The troop made their way inside for fresh steamed mussels.
*
Finally Reverend Dave arrives, driving his 80s something gray Buick up the stone driveway in a snail-like manner, contemplating what he was going to say at the ceremony while the tires crunched over forgotten clamshells from past parties. Everyone gathered in the open garage, cheering, and heckling. “Hey Dave, where the helluvya been?” “Someone must have had fun last night!”
The Reverend shuffles into the kitchen as Triddy pulls her S.U.V. up to the house and hops out of the driver’s seat with a bow-tie-wearing Pomchi nestled in her arms. As soon as Doreen and her 13-year-old daughter, Bethany, see that Paco has arrived, they race into the house and snatch up the bride. “The groom can’t see her before the wedding!” Bethany screams. She tosses Chica and a glossy white doll gown into the bathroom and shuts the door behind them.
The Reverend stands next to the cold mussels in a pot on the counter, taking in the madness. A quiet, and humble guy, Dave doesn’t seem worked up or nervous in the least bit. He generally carries on conversations and answers questions in one sentence. “This has got to be the stupidest thing in the history of my whole entire fucking life,” he says.
There are some things you must know about Reverend Dave. Reverend Dave is not actually a Reverend. He has no qualifications to marry anyone, not even dogs. The only thing that qualifies him to do this job is his blatant indifference. “I’ll do anything,” he says.
“Why were you late today?” I asked Dave.
“I have arthritis,” he says. But he seems uncomfortable. “I just didn’t want to come, but I opened my mouth and said I would, so I had to.”
“Any warm wishes for the bride and groom?”
“I wish them all the happiness in the world. I hope they have lots of kids.”
Doreen and Bethany emerge from the bathroom. Chica is cradled in Doreen’s left arm, enveloped in a mess of satin and lace; a Goldilocks wig frames the unenthused look on her face.
While Beth scrambled to find something borrowed, something new and something blue, Dave and I migrated to the backyard. As we stepped out over the porch, Joe, Doreen’s husband, called out to Dave, “Are you drinking something heavy? Because this is just about the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”
*
Finally everyone gathers in front of the white wedding trellis. Cliff, Triddy’s husband, holds a Budweiser. Triddy holds Paco. Behind them, paper bells hang in a cluster of sombreros. Pruitt holds Chica in his right arm and clutches the barrel of his shotgun in the same hand. Beth holds up the shotgun case as she had in the dining room, her left arm stretched up over Dave’s giant shoulder. Making it clear to everyone that this was truly a shotgun wedding.
Dave held the Bible. Or at least, their own, half-assed version of the Bible, a dated paperback version of “Gone With the Wind.” He has a paper napkin looped around the collar of his black polo shirt in an attempt to make him more Reverendy.
Dave flicked his cigarette into the grass and cleared his throat, but Beth interrupted him as he was on the verge of opening his mouth, “Oh wait! We forgot the organ!”
Joe sprang up from his seat and went into the house to get the “plug-in organ.” A moment later he begins playing “Here Comes the Bride” without missing a beat. In fact, Joe, who shoes horses for a living, played the song so flawlessly that almost everyone has same reaction: “I didn’t know Joe could play piano. Is that a recording?”
“Is there anyone opposed to this marriage?” asked Dave.
No one says a word.
“Alright, good, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Due to the couple’s rocky history, Paco didn’t kiss the bride. However, there were wedding collars. Paco’s was black with metal spikes; Chica’s was pink and sparkly.
Delilah and the best dog, Dusty, were patiently laying side by side in the grass- their eyes fixed on the scene in front of the trellis, as if each person involved was waving a slab of raw meat in front of their bubblegum pink tongues.
Then Triddy set Paco down on the ground. He wandered over to Dusty and the two began growling at each other, curling their upper lips and bearing their ivory white teeth. As Cliff and Triddy attempted to pull Paco out of the dogfight, a huge gust of wind came through and knocked the trellis forward, onto Pruitt’s back. It seems like such a perfect ending, Karen laughs. “This is what rednecks do on labor day- sit around, watch the cans rust, and get their dogs married.”
As I slurped up the last few green crumbs of my margarita I thought about what it felt like so many years ago, when I crawled out from under this same house with tears gushing out of my stinging eyes. I thought about the joint in Pruitt’s hand, and I realized- we weren’t just hiding from the adults; we were hiding from everything adults stood for. We were trying to have fun, plotting to escape from the real world. And in this moment, with my empty glass in hand, I now know that it’s all the same- it’s all a dog wedding.
*