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Martin Padgett’s got a great profile of the always-welcome Leslie Jordan over at The Bitter Southerner. A nice pick-me-up for these times.

When he was 17, Jordan stole his mother's charge card, took his mother’s red Chevy Monte Carlo with the excuse of going to the library, and bought a dress for himself. He then parked the car at the Cross Keys Lounge, a gay bar on the Black side of Chattanooga.

Repulsed and scared — he was the treasurer of the Spanish club! — he also was fascinated. He watched two men in full drag uniforms of dresses, full makeup, feather boas and stilettos make their way to the door and toward him. He nearly threw up on the sidewalk in fear.

“You’re trying to gather up the courage to go in that big, bad, gay bar, aren’t cha?” One performer said to him. “Come on and help me, Sister Sue. We’ve got to be good Samaritans and get this scared, helpless creature into his first gay bar!”

A drag queen on each arm, they marched him in. He enlisted in a new life. Inside, lawyers in suits drank cocktails next to women dressed like Elvis. The only thing they had in common was they were gay.

"I think I exhaled for the first time in my life," he recalls.

“No Time For Caution” from Hans Zimmer’s soundtrack to Interstellar, performed on an accordion by a Russian gentleman in a Bat-mask.

If these dumb ideas come to me, then you have to deal with them too.

We didn’t know we were going to get a second dog.

Robin and I adopted Kirby soon after we moved in together. I’d spent the last two decades wanting a dog; she’d never had one.  He’s a chihuahua terrier mix — high-spirited, spry, and fun to be around. For almost a year, we were happy as a trio.

Then one day I was idly browsing the site for the organization we got him from and I saw Chico’s listing.  He was a senior chihuahua mix, 12 years old, a little clumsy, and nobody had wanted to visit with him yet.

I downloaded one of the photos from his page (see above) and sent it to Robin.

Her response was immediate: “I want to meet this guy.”

A few days later, his foster mom Maria brought him over so he could be introduced to our household and to Kirby.  The two dogs didn’t become best friends instantly, but they happily poked around our apartment while Maria told us about living with him.  

She said that he was a fierce eater. He sometimes drank too much water too quickly and barfed. He was good on walks, but you wanted to keep an eye on him; he was fond of street snacks. Mostly, though, she focused on how sweet he was, and how he’d follow you from room to room.

He moved in a few days later and after a short adjustment period, he made sure we knew who he was and how things needed to be going forward. 

He’d tap your leg and stare at you to be let up on the couch. If you ignored him, he’d tap again. He would not stop tapping.  You didn’t need to be on the couch for this to occur. He would walk up to me at my desk and tap my leg and look at the couch because dammit, he needed up there. 

During our walks, he’d stop to smell the base of a light pole for at least a full minute, given half a chance. You’d then have to call him at least twice to get him to stop his deep investigation into New York City’s electrical grid.  (He was also strong enough to bring our entire party to a full stop whenever he spotted something on the ground he felt deserved his full attention. I probably have a case of low-grade whiplash from this.)

Speaking of walks: he learned early on that he’d get a treat from me if he crossed the street without stopping. Every morning, he immediately whirled around after crossing the intersection nearest our house, expecting a reward for basic canine competency. He always got one.

(Speaking of treats, his favorite snacks were: sweet potatoes, scrambled eggs, yogurt, Swiss cheese, Greenies Toothbrushes, and whatever we were eating while watching something on the couch.) 

He’d bark at dogs that dared walk on “his” streets, but ignore them when we visited Prospect Park.  Our theory was that he was much too into the sunshine and infinite grass to bother with trifling concerns like territoriality.

He would get up, drink a bunch of water, and pee in the bathroom every day around the same time, whether or not he had just been walked.  We eventually gave up and started putting training pads down. This particular action wasn’t about his bladder; he just wanted us to know he could do that any time he wanted.

His robust snoring woke us up the first few nights, but it soon became a white noise I needed to fall asleep comfortably. 

He embraced “Cool Guys Club,” in which I would pile onto the bed with both dogs in the middle of the day for some reading and maybe (probably) a nap. He very rarely wanted to sleep with Robin and I, but when he did, he planted himself between us at the head of the bed.

He would bite the hem of your pants when you were walking to make dinner or grab a treat. When he realized he was about to get what he wanted, he would spin enthusiastically with what looked for all the world like a smile on his face.

As he settled in with us, he filled out a bit, reaching a comfortable 12 pounds, which the vet informed us was “just right for his age and size.”

He quickly earned an array of nicknames, including “Frick” (with Kirby being “Frack”), “Cheekadeek,” and “Cheeks The Toy Wonder.” Everyone in the building would say hi to him enthusiastically in the hallway and hold the door open for him.  Kirby has always been thirsty for attention, but Chico merely accepted the adoration; he knew he deserved it.

One of our most pleasant surprises was how well Chico traveled.

Our first trip was to upstate New York, where he proved himself equally adept  at navigating woodland trails and napping on the porch.  This Spring, we all went to Boston to visit some friends and their new baby. He handled long walks along the Minuteman trail with gusto and sprinted up the steep stairs of our rental as if he were competing for a prize.

Just a few months ago, all four of us flew cross-country to New Mexico to spend time with my parents (and their Chorkie, Tootsie) and Chico again let us know how much he’d love a place with a porch where he could lay down for a while.

Maybe we were naive. We assumed he’d be with us for at least another three or four years before we had to worry about the next steps. When he started slowing down a bit on our walks, we thought it was just his age. 

Then he started stumbling more often and stopped doing some of the little things, like throwing himself into a bed and thrashing for a few minutes to make sure it knew he was the boss.  One day, he vomited a few times and started to lose control of his bladder. He shifted uncomfortably in his bed and would wobble when he sat up. It was obvious he was in pain.

I took him to the vet and was told “There’s a very large mass in his abdomen. You should see an internist about that.”

The rest is pretty cliché after that point, honestly, and even thinking about recounting it makes the tears start up all over again.

I know we’ll be happy as a trio again. Kirby’s a wonderful, smart companion who lavishes attention on Robin and myself just as much as we dote on him. Maybe we’re going to get another dog in a year or two. I like having two dogs; it just feels right.

But for now,  I’m going to live with this hole that my sweet, weird old man occupied. 

I just hope that Chico gets the porch he always wanted.