I met Elvis on a little nine-hole golf course in Spicewood Beach, right after we moved there. I’d hooked my ball onto the next fairway over, and as I walked toward it, there he was, waddling straight toward my ball.
He was going to steal my golf ball!
Yep! He just waddled right up to it, nonchalantly picked it up, and veered off toward the lake.
I yelled at him. “Hey! Drop that ball!”
He didn’t look at me—didn’t even break stride—just dropped the ball, turned toward his house, and broke into a lumbering trot.
I yelled, “You do that again, I’ll kick your butt!” If the arrogant so-and-so would’ve looked back, he would’ve known by my big grin I was joking.
Over the years, I got to know him better; kind of moody and aloof, but real friendly if you had anything to eat. Hispeople were constantly trying to put him on diets, but he wasn’t interested. On holidays, he’d be at the picnic cabanas, mooching off everybody that was grilling. He wasn’t picky either; he’d wander from group to group “grazing”, and we’d usually find him asleep under a tree at sundown.
As time went on, I got to know Elvis better, and, all in all… he was a pretty good ol’ dog.