Peggy Webb - Elvis and the Grateful Dead (Southern Cousins Mysteries)

I f you ask me, all these impersonators running around Tupelo in sequined jumpsuits could use remedial voice lessons. Nobody can hold a candle to the King. That would be me, though these days I could pass through a crowd unnoticed if it werent for my pink bow tie. I also wanted to wear my black pompadour to the Elvis Festival, but Callie (my human mom) said basset hounds look silly in toupees.

What does she know? Dont get me wrong. Shes the best human mom a dog could have, but she cant even keep her own life straight, much less mine. If shed seek my sage advice, Id tell her to stop trying to take care of the world (and that includes picking up stray dogs and cats as well as loaning money to everybody with a sob story who walks into her beauty shop). Mostly, though, Id tell her to drop divorce proceedings.

If any two people belong together, its Callie and Jack (my human daddy). She says they split over his Harley Screamin Eagle, but I know better. They split because she wants a family and hes worried about having children and then getting shot and leaving them fatherless.

Of course, hes never told Callie the truth because hes never even told her about his real professionand if I told you, Id have to kill you. Suffice it to say, Jack Jones makes Rambo look timid.

Callie and Jack are at an impasse and All Shook Up. At the rate things are going, it looks like Ill be punted between them for the next three years. Like a pigskin.

Speaking of which, I think Ill mosey on over to the refreshment booth and see whats cooking. Fried pigskins, for one thing. Lovies in charge. She shares my opinion that the body ought to be primed with sugar and fat. (Spirits, too, which she uses generously in her catering business recipes, though Callie would die if she knew her cousin sometimes slips me a little of her Jack Daniels apple pie.)

Take it from me, Lovie and I know a thing or two. Shes a hundred-and-ninety-pound bombshell with plenty of curves to hold on to; and in spite of my slightly mismatched ears and my portly figure, Im a suave dog and a force to be reckoned with. Weve both had more lovers than Ive had hit records. But ever since Ann-Margret batted her French poodle eyes at me and Rocky Malone blew into Lovies life during what the Valentine family now refers to as the Bubbles Caper, weve both been testing the waters of love everlasting.

Frankly, if it werent for the example set by Ruby Nell (Callies mama) and Charlie (Lovies Daddy) Id be howling Rock-a-Hula Baby instead of Wear My Ring Around Your Neck. Both of them had great marriages and still worship the quicksand their immortal beloveds walked on. (Even a Rock N Roll King knows his Beethoven.)

If you ask me (which nobody does around here), Ruby Nell and Charlie would benefit from a good dose of Love Me Tender with somebody who is not six feet under. In fact, I might help her find a savvy senior gentleman who appreciates a woman who walks on the wild side so shell stay out of Callies hair (and her pocketbook).

While Im at it, I might find Charlie a smart, witty woman who still pays homage to her libido. A nice romance could be the key to unlock the passion he hides under the facade of godfather to the entire Valentine family.

If I could be like Ruby Nell and Charlie in my next life, I wouldnt mind coming back as a human. Not that theres anything wrong with being a dog. Put a bassett hound in the White House and hed have this country straightened out before you could say pass the Pup-Peroni .

Hot on the scent of grease, I detour by the T-shirt booth for a whole lotta lovin from Charlie and Ruby Nell, then nose around the festival so everybody can get a gander at the real King. Listen, I may be a basset hound, but I know what I know: (1) impersonators singing flat notes and wearing hair gel you can smell a mile ought to be banned from wearing sequined jumpsuits, and (2) lifes better with a lot of petting and a hefty portion of fried pigskins.

H ere comes Elvis looking so cute I dont have the heart to chastise him for slipping his leash.

There you are, boy. I secure his leash and tighten the collar a notch, then give him some extra petting so he wont get miffed.

Not many people can say theyre where they are because of a dog. But let me tell you, if it werent for Elvis Id be a free woman sitting on a beach somewhere with a man who has daddy potential. By the time I settle my dog-custody battle with Jack Jones, my eggs are going to be on life support.

But Im not about to give up Elvis, even if he is the reason Im legally tied to a man who went out to buy a baby cradle and came back with a Harley. If Jack thinks he can deprive me of progeny and have my dog, too, he has another think coming. Id as soon give up Mama.

Elvis is part of my family. And family is the reason Im dispensing hair gel and pompadours from a tent in a corner of the blocked-off section of downtown Tupelo instead of shoring up my finances at Hair.Net (my little beauty shop in Mooreville, population six hundred and fiftyand a half since Fayrenes niece got pregnant).

Uncle Charlie is on the Elvis Festival Committee. When he said we should all do our civic duty and help out with this years festival, it might as well have been an edict from God. Not only does Uncle Charlie own and manage the most popular funeral home in northeast Mississippi (Eternal Rest), but he manages to keep the entire Valentine family sane (barely) and out of trouble (mostly). We think he walks on water.

As for my dog, Elvis considers it his birthright to be on display at the annual Elvis Festival. When I mentioned I might leave him home so he could use the doggie door to get inside and stay cool, he chewed the laces off my Reeboks, then deliberately heisted his leg on my prize petunias.

Hes sporting his pink bow tie. Personally, I can see why my dog thinks hes Mississippis most famous son reincarnated. The way hes swaggering while Brian Watson belts out Dont Be Cruel, you can almost see the swivel-hipped King himself.

Brian has a hitch in his swivel. Elvis trots to the tent opening and shoots him a disdainful look before ambling over to sit at my feet. I bend down to scratch his ears.

Are you about ready for the tour of the Birthplace, boy? Promise you wont go running off again. I take his grin as a yes. I swear my dog looks human when he smiles.

Brian is the last of todays competitors vying for tribute artist fame. As soon as the new American Idol winner takes the stage, Lovie and I will escort the impersonators on a tour of the famous Birthplace in east Tupelo.

Im getting ready to shut down my on-site beauty salon when Lovie strolls in, hands me a glass of iced peach tea, and plops in front of the makeup mirror.

If Brians notes get any flatter, I may have to join Aunt Ruby Nell in a five oclock toddy.

Mama always says a little libation is good for the spirit , and I guess shes right because shes one of the liveliest spirits I know.