Ricky Dandelion and the Case of Mistaken Identity

If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck. (Origin Unknown)

Ricky Dandelion, the man, the myth, and the Whatcom County legend, sat at the kitchen breakfast table busily trying to fill letters into a New York Times crossword puzzle. It was not unusual for him to create words using only consonants. He studied the page as he tapped the pencil eraser against his forehead.

“What’s a seven-letter word for “senior helper,” Venice?” he yelled into the next room. “The third letter is a “P”

His wife, Venice, was pulling clothes out of the dryer and folding them. In her full-length cotton farm dress and her hair in a white bonnet, she almost appeared to be dancing with the long sleeve farm shirts and bib overall pants. A Bluetooth speaker filled the room with her favorite hits from the CD, The Marvelous Hollis Quince and the Yodel Aires.

“Depends,” she yelled back.

“On what? Come on, don’t play with my mind, lady.”

“The answer is, Depends. Try it.”

“Depends,” he muttered while erasing his choice of the word “repeats.” “Huh, it works. How did you come up with Depends?”

“Something just triggered when you said the third letter was, P.”

“You’re a wordplay genius, Venice. A wordplay genius.”

Today was another busy day on the Dandelion ranch. Earlier that morning, Ricky had been outside checking his garden to see what else was not coming up as expected.

Earlier in the spring, Ricky had planted three rows of green onion bulbs only to find that they flowered into daffodils mid-summer.

The cattle in the backfield had been sent to the butcher the previous fall. They were replaced by two less obnoxious animals, alpacas. I say less obnoxious if you can overlook the fact that they both spit like two ranch hands at a poker game.

This time of year, they were both given their summer shaves by Venice. She only knew one cut style, the same one she gave to Ricky. There was always the question of “Who wears it better?”

The other rescue critter they had this season was a potbelly pig who Ricky named Hammond. This was in reference to the fact that if the pig rooted up the potatoes in his garden once more, Ricky was going to turn him into Hammond Eggs.

Ricky was beginning to walk with a shuffle and a slight stoop. The elastic in his suspenders had long since rotted and until his new pair came in the mail from Temu, he was forced to manually pull his jeans up once they had dropped below his buttocks.

Today, they were both taking a ride into town for some light grocery shopping and to visit a friend at a memory care facility.

“I’ll go warm the Studebaker up, Venice,” he said as he slipped on his fall jacket and walked out the back door.

The two, ever curious alpacas stood at the fence line and watched as he shuffled up the sidewalk toward the garage. Their three identical hairstyles ruffled in the morning breeze.

“Splat!”

One of the alpacas hucked a mouthful of spit at his head. He turned to look at the animal.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, flop top.” he muttered with a grin on his face. “You’re a lousy aim.”

“Splat!”

A wad of saliva from the second animal dripped off his right earlobe.

“Dang it!” he swore, and he pulled out his handkerchief.

Venice was well rounded in every aspect of ranching life, which included sewing. Coming out the back door, Venice was followed by Hammond who this morning was wearing a pleated skirt with a floral design. He followed her up to the car and she opened the back door.

“Not the pig, Venice,” Ricky moaned.

“I see cats and dogs wandering the halls at memory care. Hammond wants to meet the residents.”

Venice climbed into the front seat and slid in her CD of Kenny Rogers and the New Christy Minstrels. Ricky fired up the Studebaker and through the blue exhaust smoke, backed out of the driveway.

It must have caused double-takes from those they drove past to see a large pig hanging its head out the back seat side window, and what looked to be an alpaca driving the car.

At the grocery store, while Venice was looking for canned goods, Ricky went back behind the produce section and grabbed an armful of rotting vegetables which he carried outside and tossed through the open window into the back seat.

“Enjoy, bacon bits,” he said smiling at Hammond.

The next stop was a short drive to the memory care facility. They parked and Venice opened the back door for Hammond.

“He looks divine in his pleated skirt. Why did you put a skirt on a boar, Venice?”

“It was too difficult getting him into his pants this morning. Come along Hammond. You too, Ricky.” And the pig in the skirt and the man, showing way too much underwear, followed her into the building.

Hammond was a crowd pleaser and easily entertained a room full of ladies having noon time tea and cookies.

Ricky and Venice went to the room of their acquaintance and sat with her for a while. Although Venice was able to communicate with the woman, Ricky couldn’t and soon became bored.

“I’m going down to get some coffee, Venice. I’ll bring you back a cup.”

He got up and shuffling down the hall with his slightly stooped posture, he headed in the direction of the dining room. As he neared the entrance, he felt an arm drape over his shoulder.

“Hello, you’re new here. I’m Nurse Jenny. Are you coming to the birthday party?”

Ricky stared angrily into her face and stood up a little straighter.

“I don’t live here,” he said.

“This is your home now. It’s all right. Let me find you a seat at the birthday party.” And she walked him into the festivities in the dining room.

“Venice!” he yelled.

An hour later, Venice walked down the hallway to look for her husband and her cup of coffee. Passing by the dining room, she looked through the double doors to see Ricky sitting at a table with three men. He was wearing a party hat and Hammond lay at his feet.

“It’s about time, Venice. We were about to play Pin The Tail on the Pig.”

They all waved as Ricky and the pig left the room.

As they drove up the driveway to their garage, the old Studebaker backfired leaving a cloud of blue smoke. Hammond, with his head hanging from the backseat window, let out a loud squeal as if to say, “We’re home mop tops.”

“I heard that porkchop,” said Ricky, who was more than just a little irritated.

Venice stepped from her car door and opened the back door for Hammond. Together they walked single file down the sidewalk past the two alpacas and entered the house.

“Huh,” Ricky muttered. “Nothing.”

He started down the sidewalk to the back door.

“Splat, splat.”

“Dang it!” he swore. Pulling out his handkerchief, he wiped the dripping alpaca spit off the side of his head.

“Venice!”

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