I told my wife that our dog was looking more and more like Kenny Rogers–the pre-plastic-surgery–Kenny Rogers. The First Edition Kenny Rogers. “Lady” Kenny Rogers. “Through the Years” Kenny Rogers.
I showed her the old album covers with the soft, round beard. “Can’t you see it? Ruby looks just like him!” I could have said Burl Ives, but it wasn’t just pop-star-turned-fast-food-icon/canine dopplegangery. There’s a Kenny Rogers ethos and my Ruby had it. Any Chow or Husky could pull off a Big Daddy. It’s more, “You’ve gotta know when to [fuckin'] hold ‘em.” She has that, my Ruby. Or so I tell myself. That and the beard.
But as I often do, I forced it.
Honestly, I wanted to believe that my 15 month-old Havanese puppy resembled–no embodied!– a once-great, state-fair-headlining icon of the early 80s.
It was a stretch, and I knew I’d lost it when I started calling her Kenny, which I thought would be much funnier than it was. It only made me feel cold and small, like I’d thrown my dirty boxers on her head just to watch her shake them off. Needless to say she didn’t like it. She saw through the entire thing, but instead of deflecting it or barking it away, she took it on. She pushed the arrow deeper into the wound.
She came when I called for Kenny–she still does to this day–and that’s made it so much worse.
It’s the curse of getting what you ask for.
