Ronnie and Poot

southern initiation

The idea was to welcome the new wife of our life-time friend into our family of Florida redneck outdoors people.  She was a Yankee, reported to have voted for Obama.  Our pal, Albert, had met her up in New York, and this was her first visit back to meet his pals.  She was said to be a sport who’d love us all.  We’d see about  that!

Four of us were out grouper fishing off Fort Pierce in Billy’s boat when the plan developed.  The weather was deteriorating, with heavy rain predicted for the next two days.  We talked and laughed and caught a few nice fish—20-pound grey groupers-- in the building seas.  I took notes.

Small dogs wouldn’t do, it was agreed.  Only two were seriously considered, Frank’s 110 lb. Rhodesian Ridgeback called Ronnie, the other the aptly named Poot, Danny’s 80 lb. Lab.  Ronnie and Poot had proved themselves over time to be top dogs for our purposes.  Stories about each of them are legendary.   

Weather would play an important part.  Rain was good and there was plenty of it.  

We were already planning to meet Prissy for the first time that night at our hunting camp an hour inland, where the four of us would put on a feed of fried grouper and all the fixins to welcome Prissy.  Hush puppies, swamp cabbage, fresh tomatoes and key lime pie were on the menu.  She was coming out with Albert to meet us at the camp, which we admired her for doing.  Gutsy to do that, we thought.  Bunch of weird rednecks.  They planned to eat with us then drive three hours to stay with Albert’s folks for a few days.

As the plan developed our excitement and the seas rose and we decided to head back to town, get the fish cleaned, get the food for the dogs and head on out to camp.  What a nice surprise we had planned.  Shhh!  Not a hint to Albert!

Two of us headed to complete the dogs’ menu, which became a scavenger hunt, as we’d all agreed on the special list of ingredients.  Finding boiled peanuts was the toughest item, but just as we were running out of time we came across a small country grocery store and scored four bags.  The rest of the items, in no special order of importance-- no expense spared-- were as follows, with portion sizes to be mixed and fed to the dogs an hour prior to Sissy and Albert’s departure after supper:  one bag of popped popcorn,  two cans of pinto beans with chipotle peppers with the liquid poured off, a pint of oysters, drained,  six Chicken McNuggets, two cans of the cheapest canned dog food available, a medium bag of Chitos, two cups of cooked rice, two cans of cheap beer, a package of weiners, twelve pickled boiled eggs, and four day-old sourdough rolls.  At our last stop we grabbed a dozen fried chicken livers to round things off, and added a small can of Fleishmann’s Yeast for a four-tablespoon topping.

We got to camp an hour before Sissy and Albert.  We all agreed that mixing and chopping all the the food together in a 5-gallon bucket for Ronnie and Poot was the most fun we’d had in years.  

Everything went well.  Sissy proved to be so likable I suggested to Frank and Danny that we call the whole thing off, but I was quickly shouted down.  Supper was great, wine flowed, toasts were made. (At toast time I secretly fed the dogs, and enjoyed watching them wolf down the mixture.  We figured that an hour pre-trip rest indoors for the dogs was ideal.)  They get along fine, those two big rascals.

During supper Frank and Billy said that they wanted to go to a boat show the next day and asked Albert if he and Sissy would mind taking the two dogs with them when they left, dropping them off at Albert’s parents’ farm where they’d pick them up the following afternoon.  We knew his folks wouldn’t mind.  They love dogs. “Glad to do it,” said Prissy.  “They’re great dogs!”  She’d enjoyed meeting Ronnie and Poot, and laughed at Poot’s name, blushing a little.

Now we had Albert and Sissy and the two dogs in the pickup for the three hour trip to his parents’ in heavy rain. 

The next piece of genius was all Frank’s.  He borrowed Albert’s pickup truck for a few minutes to check a turkey feeder out in the woods.  Instead of checking the turkey feeder he took the truck into the big equipment barn nearby and did whatever magic you do to disconnect the air conditioner and electric windows.  He’s expert in such work.

After the key lime pie and coffee the four of us guys hugged Sissy, said how much we loved her, and watched from the screened porch as she and Albert and the two dogs got into the pickup and drove away in the downpour.  You could see the dogs in the back window, sitting up straight on the seat between ‘em.

Once, a year or so before, after eating just six deviled eggs left accidentally on a tray he could reach, Ronnie had farted so awfully that Frank called a veterinarian friend, thinking that something had “come aloose inside the dog.”  On a separate occasion, Poot had eaten a ball of pizza dough off a kitchen counter and made a series of audible farts an hour later—very rare for a dog-- that were heard over the noise of a pro-football game telecast.  Ghastly odors were also reported.

Welcome, Prissy!