I was born in New Orleans—long story, but as a Southern Legitimacy Statement it could stop right there. On the other hand, Southerners rarely stop talking when they should, so I’ll go on to say that my natal residency in New Orleans lasted only six months before my family went back to Little Rock, where they had lived following stints in Jackson, Memphis, Ruston, Natchez, and one other state that shall not be named due to its tendency to muscle in and claim southern identity without the legitimacy we’re after here. When I was five we moved again to where I really grew up: Alexandria, Louisiana, a liminal place where Cajun Catholic south Louisiana meets Bible Belt north Louisiana. I had a brief sojourn Up North for college before returning south to the hinterland of Arkansas, where I happily live to this day. Are other credentials needed? Um, I can’t stand faux-southern books that use y’all as second-person singular, I’ve ridden a mule, and I make a mean roux.
Spot He
Spot he was this dog we had when I was little. My dad he said I shouldn’t say “Spot he” because “he” means Spot and that’s like starting what you’re saying with “Spot Spot.” We were in our burgundy Chevrolet truck riding back from the farm when he told me that. My brothers had named the truck Babe.
Spot loved to go to the farm and run free in the cottonwoods and catch armadillos. He’d chase them even if they ran in their burrows. He’d dig and dig the sandy ground and snap roots with his teeth. He could kill an armadillo by biting it in its middle, his top teeth cracking the shell and his bottom teeth cutting up into the soft belly.
Spot was a solid black lab. At first we were going to call him Blackie but then my brothers thought of Spot. The first few days we had him they would hear me outside calling him Blackie and they would raise their windows and shout, “His name is SPOT!” and slam the windows back down.
He stayed chained up at our house because otherwise he would run off to find female dogs in heat. My father and brothers explained this. One time he broke through some lady’s scream door to get to her dog. The sheriff’s department brought him home because his address was on his dog tag. “Come on, Blackie,” said the deputy as he opened to the door to the sheriff car. “Got to take a little ride.” Spot he jumped right in. He must have thought he was going to the farm.
One time me and my cousin we gave Spot a birthday party. It was August 13, which is what people call the Dog Days. I made Spot stay home that day and not go to the farm with my brothers, which was sad because going to the farm was what he liked best and after all it was his birthday. Also he hated his party hat. But he did get to eat a raw hamburger cupcake and to jump on some of his guests, including FiFi Fluff Brian, Antoine Ewing, Kaiser Lowrey, and SuperDog Cantrell.
He died of leptospirosis when I was twelve. My dad he did the lab work and wrote the pathology report. Normally he did this for people but since it was Spot he made an exception and did a dog. I was away at some summer arts camp and my parents stopped in and told me. “Oh and your guinea pig died too,” they said and then they left. I went into the auditorium because it was almost time for acting class and looked up into the big glitzy drop-down lights and thought how I was so old now and all these things were happening to me and saw the lights go all blurry through my tears.
