I’m Dixie Dew. If you read my mama’s column weekly then you know that I’m the precious little red-haired dachshund of which she so affectionately writes every week. For the record, and not because I’m a bragger, but I am every bit as cute as she says. If anything, she downplays my cuteness.
That’s one thing she definitely tells the truth about, though some of that other stuff is embellished. Some of it is just a big lie. For one thing, I am not fat. Some of the other less kind members of the family — and there are several of them — started that nonsense back when my Maw-maw was alive.
Oh my, the eating was good back then. I still dream about it. Every time my mom went out of town and I slept over at Maw-maw’s, it was katy-bar-the-door when it came to eating. Pork chops. Hot biscuits. Creamy sawmill gravy. Makes me downright sad to think of those sweet bygone days. No one feeds me like that anymore. I’m wasting away to nothing. I’m a mere shell of the dog I used to be.
I decided it’s time for me to have my say, so I’m writing the column this week. Truth be told, I’m thinking of writing a memoir, so I thought I’d try out some of my material here. See if I could get a publisher interested. I’ve been watching for years as Mama told stories of everyday life in books and in this column. Looks pretty easy to me. If I could sell a book for a lot of money, then I could hire my own cook and nanny, ones who would do what I told them to do. Let me eat what I want to eat and build my strength back up.
I have the dirt. Details that you can only get from me, Dixie Dew Rich. I’ll tell you the things that Ronda Rich won’t tell you. I know secrets. For instance, she wears her hair in a ponytail to bed and puts Vasoline on her lips and one of us snores. I’m not sure which one it is, but it wakes me up.
She gets up every morning, has her coffee, checks the news and then goes for a run. I used to get up and go with her. Well, actually I just sat down and watched her while keeping an eye on that little varmit named Mississippi, the cat that is the bane of my existence. If I ever catch that cat, it’s going to be a bad day for her. Anyway, I got tired of having to get up out of a warm bed and pretend to exercise. Now, I just sleep until she comes back and then I get up for breakfast.
Hey, it just occurred to me: If I could sell my memoirs, I could also hire someone to catch that darn cat for me. Yeah, that would show that smug cat.
Mama has this one friend who is a doozy. Her name is Suzanne and she could talk the whiskers off of Mississippi the cat. Sometimes when she calls and Mom can’t get off the phone with her, do you know what she does? (Now, get ready because this is some real dirt. This is bound to get me a book contract then the cook, nanny and cat catcher are just around the corner.)
When Mama can’t get off the phone with her, she walks to the door, rings the doorbell, holds the phone out where Suzanne can hear it and says, “Uh oh, I’ve got to run. Someone’s at the door.” Works every time.
That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve got plenty more dirt from where that comes from. But if you want to know the rest, you’ll have to buy the book.
Dixie Dew Rich has yet to name her new book. Go online at www.rondarich.-com to sign up for her mama’s weekly newsletter and learn more about Dixie Dew.