Poof and The Wheatman

That chubby feller up there entered my world when I was a preteen giantess with a fondness for Mad magazine and Superman II. I was also one hell of a tap dancer.

Alex (full name: "Dixieland Pride's Alex" according to his papers) belonged to friends of the family who were moving, and they couldn't take their basset hound along. Dad offered Alex some top-notch basement accommodations and plenty of dog food--sometimes even the kind that made its own gravy--and two gleeful kids who would proceed to love him.

[TANGENT ALERT] A few months ago I wrote to Julie Klausner, hostess of How Was Your Week, my favorite podcast. Julie loves Michael Keaton, Bette Midler, and basset hounds, so I sent her links to the following important, rare videos that she awesomely had not seen.

Back when this first aired in 1985, Mom and I laughed our heads off at "Ya shave your legs today, six months later, ya gotta do it again. Why botha?"

 

And this is strictly for Keaton completists.

 

To top off my message, I attached a photo of me cuddling with Alex.

Julie quickly wrote back:

I don't know where to begin. This is all mindblowing stuff. I can't thank you enough for sending this. The Keaton clip got me pregnant, the basset pic gave me diabetus, and Bette Midler is the only person who keeps me from staying in bed all day when I wake up in the morning. 

Then a few minutes later she asked:

Was Alex the best dog?

I dutifully shot back a list of reasons detailing why Alex was the best dog.

 

Why Alex Was the Best Dog

1. He was my first artistic muse! He would lay around the house all day, motionless, thus making him an excellent model. I created a comic strip based on him.
2. Highly tolerant of costumes.
3. An innocent: we tried to breed him with Maggie, a lady basset hound from up the road, but he didn't know what to do. I was in junior high at the time, and I remember dying of laughter and embarrassment for Alex as I watched Dad lift him onto Maggie's back. Alex just kind of stood there.
4. A gentleman: during the weekend that Maggie stayed with us, Alex gave her his bed.
5. A gourmand: on his first night in our house, Alex opened a bucket of lard we had in our basement and ate about a pound of it before getting sick.
6. A friend to creatures great and small: he had a pet toad.
7. Special: when my friends would visit me, we'd keep him in his room in the basement. He'd start barking, and his bark sounded like a teen boy impersonating a dog: WOOF. And so this made it seem like we were keeping a secret Eddington brother hidden away in our basement.

Julie responded:

Thank YOU so much for the single most wonderful and evocative list of traits I've ever read about such a great dog! And that photo? Too much. I wish I could have heard his bark!!!!! WOOF. Hahhaa Oh, you've made my day with this. Possibly my life. Much love and Lard-filled hugs. xo

See? Julie gets it. Alex was a very good boy!

Much like John the Baptist, Alex's presence in our house seemed to herald the arrival of something incredible: one Emily "Poof" Eddington.

My sister was born a few years later. She loved Alex, too, and gave him his greatest nickname. Highly verbal, baby Poof (seen above with me and our cousins Josie and Jason) learned how to speak before she could walk, and sometimes she had trouble pronouncing words. Adorably, she chirped a cheery "fuck!" every time she saw an American flag, she requested "kepshit on my ham-de-bur, " and she called Alex "Ag-owitz." Dad latched onto Ag-owitz and morphed it into "Go-Wheats" and later "Bobby Go-Wheats," finally settling on "The Wheatman," which I always thought was more distinguished, especially during his later years when I was in college.

Oh, sweet Wheatman. I miss you.

And now, some odds-and-ends photos of Poof and me.

Poof and I continued to bond even when my hair threatened to take over the western hemisphere. She never tired of hearing me read books like The Sneeches and Other Stories. We took to calling ourselves Team Eddington, and when strangers asked her if she was my daughter, we just played along.

I believe the birthday cake here was Poof's brainchild. I was home from grad school for winter break, but I had to return to the U of I a couple of weeks before my birthday, where I would probably not have a cake. Not on Poof's watch! She meticulously lined up marshmallows and sprinkles to read PUP 22. Along with Ryan and Dad, we appear to be a 20th Century version of Van Gogh's strife-ridden Potato Eaters, although I'm pretty sure we were having a bit more fun than that.

Spending time with Poof sustained me throughout grad school, which was a lonely and challenging time for me, and my first teaching job, which was a lonely and challenging time for me. She has brought me so much joy and laughter.

Above is the perfect example of little Poof at her greatest. She is sort of photobombing Mom, who has just finished sewing and stuffing twenty-plus stockings for a Christmas party for Poof's kindergarten class. Poof's obviously got something to say. Her eyes: slightly crazed. Her bangs: pulled off her forehead with a tight headband, a look that reminds me of one of Poof's top recurring comedy bits. Before a bath, Poof liked to pull her shirt, often a turtleneck, over her head without taking it competely off, creating a sort of wimple. Then she'd run around the living room like this yelling, hilariously,

"I'M A NUN, I'M A NUN, I'M A NUN-NUN-NUN!"

I'm a nun-nun-nun. Can you beat that?

Thus concludes my little tribute to Poof and The Wheatman.

Comments

[Kelly]

APOLOGIES FOR SPACING WEIRDNESS! DON'T KNOW HOW TO FIX!
Love, K.

[Lou]

I love this story. What a hoot!

[Rita]

Thank you for sharing this! Not only amazing paintings but also great story-teller. It's great!