Lyle

I am so lucky. I am going to see Lyle Lovett tonight. Lyle is the Cowboy Dreamer who sings Texas Fairy Tales.

I have time for a good, long walk. I leash the dogs.

“Hey girls,“ I say, “I am going to see Lyle Lovett tonight.”

The dogs are in a talkative mood.

“Dinner?” says Cali.

Cali is a blue-eyed beagle who has been obsessed with food with food for 14 years. She has translucent blue eyes when she is calm and filled with color when she is engaged. You can see Cali when she is in the tall grass because her tail is straight up in the air.

“I will have dinner at the show,” I say.

“Cali meant dinner – for us, “ says June.

June is a 5-year-old shepherd. She has one ear that always sticks up, long black fur, and brown eyes. We call her the Color of Night because you cannot see her in the backyard at night.

June spent her first 3 years on the streets in Thailand. We adopted June from a shelter during Covid.  Cali came from Craigslist. Rescue dogs can come from everywhere.

“I will feed you guys before I go,“ I say.

“GIRLS!” say the dogs in unison.

“Who’s Lyle Lovett?” asks Cali. She looks at June. “Is he really tall?“

“Bark,” says June, because June does not like tall men.

“Lyle Lovett is not tall but he is lean. Lyle sings songs about cowboys, the women that want to love cowboys, how great Texas is, and about traveling far away,” I say. “Want to sing my favorite Lyle song? Girls?“

The dogs are looking away while pissing on my neighbor’s lawn. Everyone pisses on Joanna’s lawn. The dogs say they can smell who has been here. I think they just like pissing on lawns.

“And if I had a boat, I’d go out on –”

“What’s a boat?” June said.

“You could say, excuse me,” I said. “A boat is kind of like a car, but it floats in the water and can take you to faraway places.”

“You should know that, June,” says Cali. “You’re from Thailand. It’s an island. You’ve probably seen lots of boats.“

“What I saw in Thailand was a lot of garbage cans to eat from. I didn’t see no beach,” said June.

“We just went to Rehoboth Beach this summer,” said Cali. And that is true. Cali has been to the beach many times. She chases seagulls and barks when the wind lifts her floppy ears and eats out of the fishermen’s bait buckets.

June, though, was afraid at the beach. The crash of the waves frightened her. She pulled on her leash and slipped out of her harness and bolted. It was spooky how fast she ran across the sand and in such a straight line. Cali and I found her two blocks later, before The Big Road. She was laying down on someone’s lawn, panting.

“Let’s keep going with the song, “ I say.

“And if I had a boat, I’d go out on the ocean,”

“BARK,” says June.

“And if I had a pony, I’d ride him on my -”

“What’s a pony?” says Cali.

“Excuse me,” says June.

“It’s like a horse, but smaller,” I say. “What’s a horse?” says June.

“Oh, a horse is like the deer we see in the woods. But they’re much bigger, stronger, and faster,” I say. “I guess a pony is about the size of a big deer. And a man can ride on its back.”

“Bark,” says June. “BARK bark.”

When June saw her first deer in the woods, she jumped out of her harness and chased the deer for about an hour. Cali and I tracked June’s electronic collar. Seemed like she ran in a circle the whole time. When we caught up with June, she was laying down on the ground, panting.

Those are the only times June got out of the harness.

“OK. Pony. Big deer. Go on,” says Cali.

“DEER! Bark,” says June.

“And if I had a boat, I’d go out on the ocean, And if I had a pony, I’d ride him on my boat. And we could all together -”

“This doesn’t sound right. If a pony is like a big deer, and a boat is like car, how can the pony fit on the boat?” says June. “Excuse me.”

“And boats wobble in the water,” says Cali. “The pony might break the boat. I have been on a boat.”

“You have not been on a boat,” said June. And June is right. Cali sometimes lies to get attention.

Cali is a lot older than June and they have only been together for two years. But honestly, Cali has not seen a whole lot more than June, just more of the same things.

In fact, June has one more experience than Cali. June once had an abscessed tooth and had to go to the doggy dentist. And if Aunt Emma had not left us $2,000 in her will, I do not know what we would have done. But we paid the dentist $1,800 to remove the tooth and clean her teeth. June has nice doggy breath now.

As we enter the woods I drop Cali’s leash so she can walk on her own. It is a treat for an old dog and we all know Cali cannot out run us now. I keep June’s leash tight in my hand.

Cali poops right in the path, even though grass and trees were all around us. “You will want to pick that up,” Cali says and starts walking again.

June asks, “Why do the first lines in each couplet begin with And?” I know English is a second language for June, though I am unsure which is her first language. Still, I think couplet is a strong vocabulary word for a dog.

I say, “Well, the song is about stringing together random ideas about adventure and saying, What if? About someone who wishes they could be whoever and whatever and go wherever they please.

“If I had a boat, If I had a pony, The Lone Ranger was smart, but Tonto he was smarter, and if I was lightning -”

“There’s LIGHTNING in the song?” said June? “BARK BARK BARK BARK!”

“Yes, it’s in the third verse -” I say.

“BARK BARK BARK BARK!” says June. “EXCUSE ME!”

On the first night at Rehoboth Beach, there was a terrific lightning storm that frightened June. She jumped into our bed and, shaking, slept the whole night in the bed with us. June hardly ever jumps in our bed. Cali sleeps in the bed most every night.

We leave the woods and walk into the meadow. Cali trots toward the culvert, which is a disgusting sewer pipe. Cali likes to walk all the way in the pipe and smell and eat gross things. I pick up her leash, turn her around, and Junes poop in the path, even though there are tall grass and trees all around us.

“Guys, please shit in the grass-” I say.

“GIRLS!” they say, and pull forward in perfect 12-12.

Dog walkers know two dogs on leashes pull in all directions. Like the face of a clock. June is usually at 12, you know, straight ahead. And Cali pulls backward, like at 6. Or even 7. Sometimes, they wrap my legs with their leashes and try to pull me down like I am a Confederate statue.

“So are ponies boys or girls?” asks Cali.

“Ponies can be boys or girls,” I say, “but in Lyle’s songs, they are always boys. Lyle is afraid of girls.”

“Why?” they ask together. June growls.

“Lyle is afraid of women and in his songs, he fears them,” I say. “They surprise him, steal his heart, and 20 years later, he is still trying to pay the rent, wonders where the time went, and dreams about the ocean.”

“Bark!” says June.

“You know, Lyle once married Julia Roberts,” I say.

“I saw Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman on the plane over from Thailand,” said June. Sometimes I don’t trust June. How could she have enjoyed Pretty Woman on the plane if she did not know English? Maybe she learned English while she was in Thailand.

“Julia’s talent was wasted in Oceans 12,” says Cali. And that is so true.

As we all walk out of the meadow onto our street, Cali asks, “OK, but why does the song start with the chorus?”

This is frustrating. The dogs are more concerned with how the song goes than the themes of yearning and travel, which I think is the best part. When my wife is in the kitchen playing gangster rap, the dogs say nothing about noun-verb agreement and story construction.

“Well, sometimes the chorus is the best part,” I say. “And if you want everyone to sing along, you might start with the chorus.”

“Like St. Patrick’s Day,” says June. I admire June for her worldview.

I say, “The last line of the chorus ties the story together, but it’s tricky. Let’s sing it together.”

“And if I had a boat, I’d go out on the ocean (bark!), And if I had a pony, I’d ride him on my boat. And we could all together, Go out on the ocean (bark!), I said me upon my pony on my boat.”

“The propositions do not sound right,” says June. “I think it should be UP ON my pony, not upon. You know, two words.”

“Prepositions,” said Cali. “Not propositions. Prepositions are what a squirrel can do with a log.” Cali is right. We all learn best when a grammar rule has a good hook. But Cali could have said it more nicely.

“June, that’s called poetic license,” I say. “When it is your story, you can make your own choices.”

We are at the front door. I unlock the door, take off their leashes, and drop them in the leashes basket. In the kitchen, I rub all four dog ears and make two dog dinners. I place the dinners on the floor at opposite ends of the kitchen. Cali and June eat while I turn off all the inside lights but one, turn on the outside light for me, lock the door, and drive away.

After dinner, June curls up in her dog bed, which is right next to Cali’s dog bed. Cali puts her nose next to the Alexa speaker and says, “Woof!”

Cal climbs into her bed, turns around 2 1/2 times, and lays down.

Alexa says, “You want to play the Lyle Lovett radio station.” She plays my second favorite Lyle Lovett song: “God Will.”

“Who keeps on trusting you When you’ve been cheating And spending your nights on the town.

And who keeps on saying
That he still wants you
When you’re through running around.

And who keeps on loving you
When you’ve been lying
Saying things ain’t what they seem.

“Again with the lines starting with And,” says Cali.

“Poetic license, my ass,” says June. “Excuse me.”

God does
But I don’t
God will
But I won’t
And that’s the difference
Between God and me.”

And soon Cali and June are each fast asleep, with their noses on their paws upon their beds.