MudMutt and Angelface I don’t have money or good looks or a tantalizing assortment of recreational drugs. I don’t have a nice condo in the city or a red sports car with six exhaust pipes and a barf green UK sticker. I don’t have flowing locks or designer socks. What do I have? A Ford F250 with dual gas tanks and eight ply tires. Eat your heart out. Several years ago my unpredictable existence passed through a stage in which female companionship was at a particularly low ebb. Out of emotional (or other) desperation I decided to abandon my pragmatic Chevy half ton and purchase some totally useless and opulent piece of machinery that would help terminate my affliction with involuntary celibacy. Soon I was driving a silver Grand Prix and basking in the affections of a particularly well constructed dental technician named Angel. There was only one small kink in our relationship: my dog. My dog is a mutt, mongrel, mixed up mixed breed. He looks and acts like a small black bear with a large sweet tooth. He loves water and mud and the bewitching odor of post mortem possum or biodegrading bird bodies. Happiness to Shep is a week old mackerel or a brand new cow flop. None of his, shall we say, earthy habits had caused me concern in the past, primarily because his ill scented carcass had been confined to the pickup bed as we traveled here and there. Immediately upon my acquisition of the plush Pontiac and the upper class tooth cutie, Shep’s penchant for reverse hygienics became most difficult to ignore. Angel was the kind of girl who liked lions in cages and foxes in coats. She seemed to believe that any creature not registered, shampooed, manicured and neutered belonged on the endangered species list. She wasn’t all bad though, she had a couple of really good points. On one sunny but fateful day I suggested we drive to the park and let Shep swim in the duck pond. I put an old Army blanket on the backseat and took a towel along with which to dry the manner less cur. Angel was hesitant and apprehensive, but finally agreed when I offered to let her drive. At the park, Shep swam gleefully across the pond numerous times to fetch his tennis ball. After an hour of playing in the water his thick black fur was thoroughly saturated. As we prepared to depart Angel got in the Grand Prix and sat behind the steering wheel. I opened the trunk and reached for the dog towel. Shep jumped in the passenger side window. The following moments unfolded to me in a kind of nightmarish slow motion as I stood helplessly by. Angel looked at Shep and began shouting, “no, no!!” Shep stood on the passenger bucket seat wearing what appeared to be a devilish grin. Slowly and deliberately the very tip of his long bushy tail began to vibrate. “No, no,” Angel screamed again. Quickly the breadth and intensity of the vibrations increased. Tiny particles of moisture spattered against the seatback and glove box door. “Shep,” I shouted, “don’t do it!” My words were in vain for, as any dog owner knows, nothing can distract a mobile flea farm in mid shake. Soon the water dispersing spasm had reached its peak efficiency and was traveling rapidly forward along Shep’s dripping torso. Angel’s face was contorted. Her hands outstretched in a futile attempt at self defense. The interior of my personal luxury car was engulfed in a cloud of flying mud and water. Finally Shep’s floppy and chronically misaligned ears clattered briefly like sweat socks in a tornado, then it was over. The ride to Angel’s apartment was wet and silent. As if to add insult to injury, Shep licked the back of her ear just as she got out. She closed the car door and glared at me. “You realize,” she said,” it’s him or me.” All that night I lay sleepless and alone pondering my limited options. Should I swap my dog for a cockatiel and a curvy mouth mechanic? Could I switch my life style and my best friend for a hard top convertible in the fast lane? In the morning I let Shep out then made some coffee. Maybe I could compromise with an El Camino and some Hartz Mountain Luster Doggie. Nah, she’d never go for it. Red eyed and undecided I opened the door and let Shep in. The shiny Grand Prix glistened in the morning sun. There was a bright splash of yellow fluid on one of the white wall radials. Shep had found the answer. In a week I had done it. Instead of offing my mutt and my manhood for chrome bumpers and a plastic princess, I traded sweet Angel and the proud Pontiac for a divorced lady in a cowboy hat and a Datsun short bed with mag wheels. “I am what I am.” Popeye the Sailor