Dear Hank Williams by Kimberly Willis Holt

sweet as a puppy. Her hair was spotted like a leopard with a big dose of white that spread from her belly all the way up to her neck, and on the tip of her tail, which pointed toward the sky. Her icy-blue eyes reminded me of Frog’s marbles.
    â€œIs she ours?” I asked, locking my hands together. I was falling in love fast and I couldn’t bear to touch her if she was going to the pound or to someone else’s family.
    Uncle Jolly offered her to me. “She’s all yours, Sweet Tater.”
    My hands parted and made their way clear to that dog. I held her next to me as close as I could, and if I was the type of person who cried (which I’m not), I would have cried a mountain of happy tears. She lowered her head, but I could tell she liked me. She didn’t wiggle to get out of my arms.
    â€œThank you, Uncle Jolly! This is the best Christmas present ever.” I glanced over to Aunt Patty Cake, remembering her no-dogs rule. She was smiling too.
    Uncle Jolly rubbed the top of the dog’s head. “You’ll let me have some squirrel-hunting rights with her, won’t you?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Uncle Jolly took off his coat. “Cur dogs are some of the best hunting dogs.”
    The dog licked my fingers like she was cleaning me real good. Aunt Patty Cake and Mrs. Applebud came over for a closer look.
    â€œShe’s pretty for a cur dog,” Aunt Patty Cake said. “Of course she’ll have to be an outdoor dog.”
    I guess she saw my disappointment, because she quickly added, “She can stay inside until bedtime tonight. Only because it’s Christmas.”
    A slow grin traveled across Uncle Jolly’s face. “Sissy, you are a softie.”
    â€œWouldn’t want that to get around,” Aunt Patty Cake said, making her way back to clearing the table.
    Uncle Jolly dug in his pocket and pulled out a piece of torn newspaper. “There’s one more gift, but we’ll have to wait until after Christmas to get it. Remember this?”
    He held out the scrap of newspaper, and I recognized the Victrola we saw in Hoyt’s window in Lecompte. “I’ll bet we’ll be able to hear your momma on that beauty.”
    Aunt Patty Cake’s face turned red. She glimpsed at Mrs. Applebud, but she was petting my dog.
    â€œWhat are you going to name her?” Mrs. Applebud asked.
    â€œLovie,” I said. I couldn’t begin to tell you how I thought of it, but as soon as the name left my lips, I knew it was the perfect fit.
    The grown-ups started talking about Texas, and I got bored. I reckon you could say I enjoyed being the center of attention. Frog had been real quiet, and I searched around the room for him. He was hiding behind Aunt Patty Cake’s chair, his arms wrapped around his body as tight as thread on a spool. Like I told you before, Frog is afraid of the things he shouldn’t be and too brave about the things he should fear. But this time Frog didn’t look afraid. He looked sad.
    I held Lovie out to him and whispered, “She can be yours, too, Frog.” Well, it was like his body unfolded right in front of me. His shoulders let down and his arms relaxed. He stretched his fingers toward Lovie’s head. While he petted her, I scratched her back. Lovie took right to it. This dog is going to be spoiled rotten if Frog and me have anything to do with it.
    Merry Christmas again!
    Your fan and new dog owner,
    Tate P.

 
    December 26, 1948
    Dear Mr. Williams,
    A UNT P ATTY C AKE said Lovie has to sleep outside in the shed. The shed is not a place where anyone should have to sleep. It’s dark, filled with old junk coated with thick cobwebs. But I didn’t argue, because I knew the only way Aunt Patty Cake would ever allow me to keep Lovie was if I kept her out of the house. So last night after Mrs. Applebud left, I carried Lovie out to the shed. Uncle Jolly went with me to help find a good place. He started