Every Saturday morning the Dog Girls met at Ory's Diner for an early breakfast. They told rambling stories and laughed a lot. They talked about hard times, tedious husbands, weather, crops and how to take care of day to day stuff.

"For that kind of nicker, I would check the carburetor," one of them said once. They took good care of their cars and trucks.

"You don't get much benefit out of medicine if it tastes good."

"Men are best at being grandfathers and brothers."

"Ain't it the truth," I'd say as I set their plates down in front of them. "Fellas around here treat you like dirt one minute and then expect you to sleep with them the next."

"How often do you give that old dog Pepto Bismol?"

They talked about their animals a lot. They treated them like people, with respect and affection, and treated people like children, with patience and kindness toward the nice ones, and sternness toward the others. Some folks, like Sam Ralston, they totally ignored. Sam is a local trucker and he was always trying to hit on the Dog Girls, but they acted as if he wasn't there. Sam didn't actually notice because he really wasn't all there anyway. They openly flirted with Ory's boy Alfie, a shy 15 year old who came in to bus for us on the weekends. The flirting was all very innocent though; I think it was meant to give Alfie some confidence. Everyone admires Dog Girls and all men desire them, whether they admit it or not, so it sure gave Alfie a reason to hold his head up.

I have to say that they gave my soul a flutter also, feeling swallowed up by them hills and like I was never gonna see anything of the world outside before the Dog Girls commence to come into Ory's.

Dog Girls wore combat boots with a hole drilled in the heel through which they threaded their laces. Waitresses, like me, wear light comfortable shoes-sneakers or old oxfords. We wear support hose and still get spider veins (or worse) by middle age. I admired the Dog Girls so much that I went out and bought myself a pair of combat boots to wear on my days off when I went to help my grandpa.

"Look at them boots," he said to me the first day I wore them. "You could walk through a swamp in a thundersquall in them things." I loved the confident whomp they made on his wood floor. I was so much more substantial in them.

I take care of my grandpa because he took care of me after my folks died in a car accident when I was seven. Actually, he took care of me a lot before the accident too. He always made my peanut butter and banana sandwiches for lunch. He bought me a bible and a sled one Christmas, and a new pair of shoes every Easter. He tried to teach me how to juggle.

At first folks around here said that Grandpa was unequipped, set in his ways, too dogged to raise a child. His stuff was always redd up and he never complained about his feet, whereas I'm naturally messy, my bra strap shows, my hems come out and I have to wear socks all the time, even with sandals and Keds because I blister easily. Grandpa was very strict with himself, but not so much with me. I tried hard to live up to his standards, but I'm not much like him. He loves me anyway-in his way. Folks finally came to see that, and left us alone.

Lavitta is the oldest Dog Girl. She's a shade under 50 in people years. Her hair is dull brown and gray, but very long and soft. The others call on her for advice, though she rarely gives any. Mostly, she tells stories. Although the younger Dog Girls have been to more places and done more things, it is Lavitta who has the best imagination and knows a story to match every situation. Lavitta was quite young when she escaped from the carnies. There's a picture of her before, curled up on a grimy bare mattress. She was five, maybe six. She stares into the camera with frozen eyes. She says the "man who watched from behind the curtain" took the picture. Not long after, the midgets burned candles and a plague of huge flying insects hit. Everyone stayed in their trailers until the rain came down so hard that the insects could no longer fly and the elephants trampled them. After the rain, there was a terrible blizzard and the sad clown took her up the mountain when the snow was thickest, and left her with an old herb woman.

Sometimes the Dog Girls wore caps that said, "John Deere" or "Detroit," but mostly they didn't bother to cover their heads at all. In the winter they came with snow in their hair. It sparkled in the florescent light. With the whoosh of cold air that ushered them in, it gave them a look of what grandpa would call "festooned fairyfolk." After they sat for a while in the warm diner, the snow would melt and leave their hair dripping. By the time they finished eating, their hair would be dry. They'd just give it a good shake and pay no more attention to it. Once I saw them in the parking lot cutting each other's hair. They snipped off the back, then held their heads down and cut an oval in front so they could see and hair wouldn't get in their faces when they put their heads down. Dog Girls are very practical.

One thing I have is hair, scads of it. When I was little, grandpa used to get neighbor ladies to cut it short; he's a fiend for neatness and simplicity. But it grows like hellfire, so I gave up on it when I moved out of his house. I didn't know anyone to cut it and I'm not big on beauty parlors. I try to keep it pulled back or braided out of my face, but it definitely has a mind of its own. Francine, who works the night shift at Ory's and has medium length "big" hair, spends two hours in Gaynell's Beauty Nook every Wednesday-and that's when she's not getting her roots touched up!

The dog Girls never messed with themselves like Francine and other women. By this I mean they didn't tweeze, shave, paint, dye, pierce, tattoo, squeeze in, pad or push-up any parts of themselves. Man admired them anyway (even Alfie, who's pretty much afraid of regular girls). I, personally, never had the knack for any of that stuff even though Francine has tried hard to teach me.

Doxie and Peer are mother and daughter, though they don't look very much alike. It happens like that in some litters; the pups don't always look like the mother. Doxie's hair is motley brown, worn and scraggly and often matted in spots; while Peer's is blackblackblack, medium long and thick and silky. Peer has one gray eye; it makes her quite exotic. Doxie threw her no-good husband, Tellis, out years ago. Tellis had a good heart when he was sober, but he couldn't stop drinking and he was a mean drunk. Doxie didn't mind him fighting with her; hell, she sometimes enjoyed a good fight. But the night he hit Peer in the face with his fist-and Peer only ten years old-she knew he had to go. "Mostly it's good to be loyal," she said. "But there are times when you just gotta git!"

In the years since, Doxie couldn't believe how pleasant her life was without him. He comes to visit once in a while, and sends them some money when he gets union work. For the last year or so, he has claimed to be sober, but Doxie saw empty Jack Daniel's bottles in his truck. She's refused to take him back.

Dog Girls drove four-wheel vehicles and only closed their windows on days when it was raining hard. On other days they drove with their tanned arms outside, hair blowing, and rock 'n roll blasting out of the radio. They were excellent drivers and never went slow. I would stand at the diner window on Saturday mornings, posting the specials and watching for them to come down the mountain in the predawn fog. I always loved the feel of wind in my hair. Grandpa didn't like to get his little bit of hair mussed up. He'd open the windows for me though, because he knew how happy it made me. He never liked the radio on when he was in the car, though he didn't mind "lite FM" played real low. Grandpa really hated rock 'n roll. I didn't much put the radio on, because I knew he tolerated it just to make me happy and it's kind of irritating not to be able to hear the words to the songs when it's so low. For me, Dog Girls were a truly glorious sight coming down the interstate with hair blowing and radios blaring.

Ory admired Dog Girls as much as anyone, but frowned when he saw them coming. He was always afraid they'd scare the other customers away. Usually, they came very early in the morning, five or six a.m., and were gone before the real tetchy breakfast crowd got here. Folks who came at that hour were too hung over or sleepy or drawn up in their own worries to pay much attention to Dog Girls. Once in a while the Dog Girls would linger over coffee until folks came in and stared at them. A few people were frightened so Ory would seat them at the other end of the diner. I think grandpa would have liked the Dog Girls even though they were messy and sassy, but by the time they started coming to Ory's, he didn't get out all that much.

The waitresses never minded Dog Girls lingering because they left big tips and were always kind and patient, even when the orders were screwed-up bad. But Ory's waitresses don't usually screw-up; they're very experienced. When they do, you can bet something really horrible is happening in their lives, and Dog Girls have sympathy for folks in troubled times.

"You got to pay for what you git, honey," they'd say. "If not in money, then in tears and sweat."

I am the youngest waitress at Ory's, just 25 last birthday. I got the job when Lully Kemp ran off with that trucker from Kiski. It was the biggest scandal around here since Millard Harden shot his wife and boy on Easter Sunday 1975 down by Hedgy's Run.

Landy is the blond one. She doesn't seem to have a home, though she pretty much sticks to these parts. She says that she lives with her boyfriend over on Three-Mile Hill, but she's always hitching a ride to someplace else. She carries her stuff around with her in a huge backpack. She eats crab apples and still cries when she thinks of her dead mother. Landy remembers living in a city, in a basement apartment with only one window. If she craned her neck, she could see a bridge in the distance. After her mother died, she remembers three men in dark suits and felt hats, three men that smelled of cigarettes and liquor. She too was saved by a blizzard that blanketed her escape. Doxie and Peer offered Landy a job on their farm when she was ready to leave her "boyfriend."

The Dog Girls ate a lot of sweet things: crullers, buttermilk pancakes, Ory's special French toast. Often their sugar had to be refilled twice! They were particularly fond of ice cream and put it on everything, even breakfast foods! But Dog Girls always drank coffee or soda pop, and never fruit juice. Grandpa used to love his sweets too, until Doc Keener told him he had diabetes. Grandpa took the pills Doc gave him and stayed on that diabetes diet. He never cheated by even one bite. That's how he is. After grandma died twenty years ago, he never looked at another woman even though the church widows hounded him to death for years.

Dog Girls loved napkins too, and always asked for extras. Napkins seemed to be an important part of the meal. They would wave them around and shred them as they shared blood-and-thunder stories. They used them to wipe their faces and clean their combat boots. They wrote lists on them and drew maps.

They loved napkins almost as much as they loved snow. Snow was certainly their best setting, despite the trying road conditions. Whenever it snowed, you could bet that Dog Girls would be out in it, marking up the whiteness with footprints and angels, throwing it at each other and laughing. They were always talking about how much they loved it. I saw them playing in the snow on a back road off the pike once, and I knew I was a kindred spirit. I'm not overly fond of the cold, but I have always loved snow. Rain makes me sad. Thunder storms are okay if I'm in the car or the house, but sometimes they give me earaches. Too much heat slows me down and makes me dizzy, which is okay when you don't have to work. But snow makes me laugh out loud, just like the Dog Girls.

After they finished eating, if it wasn't snowing, Dog Girls went their separate ways until the next week. The waitresses spent all day comparing bits of overheard conversation. They greatly admired Dog Girls and would gladly have brought them extra sugar and napkins even if they hadn't been such big tippers.

#

These are some of the things that the other waitresses never knew:

Dog Girls always sleep with their socks on, since their feet and hands are very susceptible to the cold. This is why they always wear boots, even in the summer. Around here it is less cold when it snows; perhaps that's why they love snow so much. Even so, they put cayenne pepper in their shoes to keep their feet warm.

Dog Girls live in isolated places and avoid people as much as possible. (They are rarely seen on the main roads or outside of Ory's.) Nobody knows how they found each other and got together, not even them.

Dog Girls rarely watch TV and never watch talk shows. They know nothing about shrinks or self-help books or support groups, living in the wild as they do. They are used to having relationships with the moon and the woods, streams and animals. No one at the diner knew they hadn't met before that first time; they seemed to have known each other forever.

#

Hunched over coffee at Ory's one morning, the Dog Girls decided they should drive to Mexico together. Lavitta had told them long-spun stories about the Mexicans and their humble country. She told them about volcanoes, lost lagoons, deserts, tropical forests, feathered serpents, swarms of butterflies, and the place "where the sky was born." She described mountains and canyons and agua azul. She sang magical melodies and taught Ory how to make huevos a la Mexicana. The Dog Girls were downright inspired.

Once they made The Decision, they began saving their money and collecting maps. I watched and listened, and brought them maps and books from my grandpa's house. (He told me to take them. "I won't be going nowhere any time soon," he said.) I served the dog Girls their sweets and coffee, cleared off the table, and felt the excitement build week after week until I couldn't stand it any longer. My insides churned like the milkshake machines at the Shake and Twist everytime I heard them talk. I hadn't ever been further than Hunker but for listening to the Dog Girls stories. I hadn't ever seen a real living breathing flamingo, or an ocean, or eaten a tamale. But it all sounded so openhearted and full of promise. Finally, I asked if I could go along.

At first they seemed surprised. I must have seemed a kind of stick figure next to their sturdiness. Nevertheless, they talked it over and agreed to let me go if I paid my share of expenses.

I couldn't wait. I was so sure it was "time to git," as Doxie had said. I put away every spare penny and stole food from the diner when I could, or ate peanut butter and bananas, or went without. I even went to the library over to Supple and boned up on my Spanish for the trip. Tengo hambre; I am hungry. Despacio, por favor; go slow, please. Hagame favor de decirme donde esta verdad; please direct me to Truth. Quisiera volar; I would like to fly.

I didn't tell grandpa.

Landy said the Mexican Indians revered Dog Girls and coveted blessings from them. She said that she'd never wanted to go to a place that favored her kind above others before but since she'd lived with "that scrapper" (what she called her boyfriend), she looked forward to being appreciated. She told me that Mexico was a place of vibrant colors, where nothing was black or white. Even the shadows were tinted in shades of chocolate. I used to think of this when I laid down to sleep in my tiny room on Bump Street. My bed was so hard that it made my bones ache. I knew I should either gain padding over my bones, or buy a softer mattress for the bed. Neither was possible once I began saving money for Mexico. When I closed my eyes real tight, I could see Mexican colors swirl around like confetti, and I couldn't feel my bones scrape on the hard bed.

Lavitta said that Mexico had worlds within worlds because of its many terrain's and cultures. She said that it was a much more spiritual place than this hollow. I began to swim in the river to make my body strong, and watch sunsets to enrich my spirit. I discovered that the river did as much for my spirit as the sunsets. I told this to Lavitta, and the Dog Girls decided to go swimming with me one Saturday afternoon.

We left our towels on the bank and climbed the railroad bridge. One by one we jumped into the river. Everyone screamed when they jumped; Peer screamed the loudest. It didn't really matter because there was no one within miles to hear us. Dog Girls are very strong swimmers, but I was easily able to keep up because I am much better in water than I am on land. (I've always loved the water; it's the best place to be when you want to cry without anyone knowing.) I taught them how to twirl in the air when they jumped, and to spit out water like a fountain. We washed our hair in the rapids and ate little coffeecakes that we'd bought out of machines at Riley's Texaco. Doxie told me she was happy I was coming to Mexico with them. The others agreed and for the first time in my life, I felt as if I belonged, as if I was a person of consequence. It was like walking in my boots on grandpa's floor all the time.

The next day my grandpa took sick and I had to move out of the room on Bump Street to take care of him. At first I thought that he would be okay after a little pampering, good food and fresh clean clothes off the line. There was nothing serious wrong with him, just a lot of little things. His ancient body was filling up with fear, fear that comes of worn sheets debased with nightmares, dishes tainted with memory, solitary moments caught in dim corners. I tried to chase the fear away with my boots. I sang into the dingy corners and replaced the mustiness with the fragrance of pie spices, bread baking and café con leche.

Grandpa was frail and had to be kept on a special diet of deference and low sodium. I'd had my room on Bump Street for six years and now I wondered how he'd lived alone for so long. He had no concept of what was good for him. He sat outside in the cold with his shoes off and ate meat and white bread at every meal because they were on the diabetes diet. I did what I could, but his skin grew knobby and dry, and often he was too weak to sit up. His eyes became so watery that it was as if they were melting.

The closer someone gets to death, the less real this world seems to them, and grandpa began to focus on that other world more and more. Sometimes he thought I was grandma and other times he didn't even know I was there. When this happened, I tried to think of the chocolate shadows of Mexico.

When I was little, grandpa used to take me for walks to watch the rust wash out of the factory pipes into the creek. We'd swirl the reddish-brown ooze around with sticks and make shiny designs in the oily water. He told me adventure stories from the Bible without ever nagging me to get saved, and took splinters out of my knees. He bought me frozen shrimp on my birthday, and books about his favorite cowboy, the Lone Ranger. We picked berries together, made ice cream out of snow, and cooked potatoes in campfires.

So I couldn't leave him.

I finally told the Dog Girls this, and they said they would wait for a while. "Maybe he will get better," they said. I shook my head and told them they should go on without me. I spent my money moving anyway, and I was all grandpa had in this world.

We sat by the side of the road above Iron Bridge drinking warm Iron City Lite and watching the sun set behind Bartsel's Deer Processing Plant. None of the Dog Girls could remember their own Grandpas. "Short life span, I suppose," Doxie mumbled.

"All the more reason for you to go on without me," I told her.

Peer let out a low howl.

"Hey," Landy said, "we'll send you postcards from everywhere we go. You can come meet us after."

"I guess that would be okay," I said. "He has some stuff I could sell when he's gone to Glory." I was sorry I'd said this because I didn't really want him to die. I wanted him to tell me stories and take me for walks, but he just slept and stared into space and squeezed my hand when I sat with him.

Nobody said anything for a long time. We watched the stars come out one by one. I figured it just wasn't my time to "git" after all. Like Doxie said, "Mostly it's best to be loyal." And I was bound to reckon my loyalty on grandpa.

"You're doin' the right thing," Lavitta whispered to me. "We'll be stayin' there a spell. By the time you git there, we'll be able to show you the ropes."

"But loyalty means that you must do more than just take care of him," Landy cautioned. "You have to love him."

"I will," I told them. "I mean, I do. I mean, I think I'm better at the loving part than the taking care of part anyway."

"It's the loving that's most important now," Lavitta said. "We'll be seein' each other soon."

#

They left for Mexico at full moon. "Better to travel at night," they said. "Less traffic." I wish they could have met my grandpa, but he was not much for company ever and once he took sick, he didn't want anyone but me coming around. I told him all about them though, and he seemed to approve.

At first when I told him about Mexico, he said, "Yer liable to git hurt down there, girl." And I said, "Don't worry grandpa, I know how to take care of myself. You taught me everything I need to know."

I guess facing death makes you less fearful about things in this world because a few days ago he said, "When I'm gone I think it'd be good fer ya to git out an see some a the world. Wished I'da did it."

"Well, you get yourself fixed up and we'll go together," I told him.

He just nodded his head and smiled.

#

Alfie and I look in on Doxie's farm for her. The Kinsleys have it now and are working hard and doing a good job with it. They've fixed up the chicken coop and bought hens and a snooty rooster.

Lavitta told me before they left that many miracles occur in Mexico. She thought it had something to do with the intense spirituality of the people, and the heat. "Reality hates heat," she said. "And miracles and spirit and such are more important than reality in this life."

I gave them my old Girl scout compass and a dozen Manx scones made from my dead grandmother's recipe.

Yesterday I got a postcard. It said: "El milagro! Esta nevando."

Nevando is snow. When I close my eyes tight, I can see vibrant Mexican snow swirling about like a giant kaleidoscope let loose on the world. I can see the Dog Girls rolling around in it and hear them calling out to me. I can imagine the huge pyramids and see Indians bringing offerings to them. I can feel the blessings of the Dog Girls shower over us all like a blizzard. I have taught Grandpa the trick of seeing colored snow. He claims he can do it with his eyes open even though color has abandoned him. The strange thing is that Grandpa has become his own snowstorm. His puny old frame is flaking off in small pieces that I collect in an old Cheerios box. A box that I will take with me on the long bus ride to Mexico to meet up with the dog Girls. Each day I brush the tiny flakes that accumulate about him as he grows smaller and smaller.

Bio

My short fiction's been published in several magazines including "The Silver Web," "Clocktower Fiction," "Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet;" nonfiction in "Tai Chi Magazine" and "Frigate, The Transverse Review of Books." I wrote screenplays for "The Toxic Avenger. " My family came from the Isle of Man to northern Appalachia and I lived in New York City for 32 years. I worked in a settlement house in West Virginia, the Pa. Dept. of Welfare, catalogued tribal art for Sotheby's, and helped out in Margaret Mead's office before she died. (When I was young, I assisted my dad in his magic act.) I teach yoga and Tai Chi Chu'an, have a husband, two grown children, a dog mentor, bouts of insomnia, and an unscathed fantasy life.

Story © 2005 Gay Partington Terry. Artwork © 2005 Marge Simon. All other content © 2005 Jeremiah Tolbert