Mobile's Magnolia May

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My dad once shared a random dream with us: he dreamed of owning a Labrador farm. He loved dogs, but really loved Labrador retrievers, and one day he decided he wanted to breed them.

I was next in line to get a dog since Molly had died, so the first one we got was a female.

“I want a good dog, a dog with a good pedigree—so we can breed her,” my father said. One day my parents surprised me after school by taking me to a stranger’s house. On the back patio, there was a basket full of Labrador puppies of all colors. Labradors come in three different varieties: black, yellow, and chocolate. My dad was insistent that my dog would be a female, so I had a choice between two black puppies and one chocolate. I chose the chocolate. It felt exotic. The puppy was very cute and had a little cowlick on its head, which would become her trademark.

My dad didn’t care what we named her. He was already thinking about the “stud” we would purchase to start our farm of Labradors. My mother helped me pick out a name: Mobile’s Magnolia May. Apparently, when a dog is purebred, it gets three names. I felt pretty fancy looking at the certificate. What a classy dog my dog was.

Maggie turned out to be a good dog—not much of a breeder, but we’ll get into that later. She was an excellent fetcher, loved attention, and never really caused much trouble. Back in the ’80s, dogs lived outside. Not heard of now, but she had a doghouse in the backyard and seemed quite content back there.

Six months later—maybe nine—my father brought home another surprise: a yellow Lab puppy.

This one was for my brother, Job. My brother squealed when my dad brought the dog into the house. “It’s mine!” he screamed.

“Yeah, he’s a fine dog,” my father said, pretty proud of himself. “I think he was the best one in the litter,” he bragged.

“We’ve got to name him,” my brother said, almost hugging the life out of him. “I’ve already come up with the perfect name: Samson.”

Dad wouldn’t hear it. “No. His name is Muttford, dammit, Muttford. I’ve always wanted to name a dog Muttford, and this dog’s name is Muttford. So get used to it.”

My brother didn’t argue. “I’ll go take him in the back and feed him. He needs some water, too.” Whispering to the puppy as he let him outside, my brother said in a hushed tone, “Come with me, Samson.”

“It’s Muttford,” Dad said.

Muttford—how shall I put this? Well, he was a “special” dog. His certificate said he was a purebred yellow Lab, but as he grew into an adult dog, he became quite tall and lanky and… well, goofy. He was a clumsy, lanky, goofy yellow Lab that didn’t like to fetch and, unlike Maggie, not only caused trouble but looked for it.

There was not a fence that could contain him. He could jump over them, and he could dig under them.

Once I was looking out my parents’ bedroom window on the second floor, where there was a decent view of the neighbors’ pool (which they never invited us to swim in), and there was Muttford, strolling around the pool like he owned the place.

“Muttford is in the Hollydales’ backyard,” I said to my father. “He’s checking out the pool.”

“Dammit, Muttford,” my father yelled.

“Now they will never invite us over to swim,” I said.

And they never did.

This story is roughly 85% true