A Human Mutt

Definition of Mutt: Mongrel; dog of many mixed breeds.
My newest acquisition, Lucy (aka Lulu Belle) is a mutt. At any given time I don’t know if she will wiggle her butt and try to catch Frisbees like an Aussie, hunt for ducks (or squirrels) like a Golden Retriever or sit like a regal queen on a pillow like a Poodle. She’s capable of all three and more, and at times it is amusing to watch her morph from one breed to another right before my eyes. Because of the three breeds, she’s quite intelligent. The breeds work together in her favor I believe. The prima-donna Poodle in her convinces the Australian Sheppard in her that’s it is really a waste of time to actually “jump” up and catch a Frisbee. After a futile attempt of chasing the disk, the Poodle pulls her back and whispers in her ear that it’d be much more fun to get her toenails painted and eat doggie bon-bons. The Golden Retriever in her makes her nose very sensitive, and when she’s running across a field like an Aussie, she’ll stop and smell the tracks of a raccoon like a retriever. She’s a canine Sybil in a black, furry body.
I understand what she is going through, however. Being of mixed decent myself, I too am a mutt with an ever-changing personality. The English in me is quite proper and loves tea and the German in me adores sour kraut and gives me, I believe, excellent work ethics. The Welsh part in me makes me want to swivel my hips and sing “It’s Not Unusual”. I found out mid-life that I also have Irish in me and I was grateful. It explained the sudden love of Guinness and obviously contributes to my perfection of the fine art of “you know what-ing”.
I also have a lot of Southern influences in me, since my dad was born in Alabama. Just the other day I found myself saying, quite loudly: “Well butter my buns and call me a biscuit.” That in itself isn’t such a bad thing, except for the fact that I was in a very quiet and subdued Japanese restaurant (a culture of which I share no qualities at all except that I adore Sushi and Saki). There are times when I wish I had other cultures in me, such as Italian or French – it would really give me a good excuse for this whole wine-drinking thing.
It’s hard for me to get upset with Lulu when she turns mid-stride and decides she’d rather chase the birds than herd them. I mean I can do a 180 in a heartbeat – going from my proper English business mode to my blarney mode as fast as you can say “Cheerio”. I can go from drinking a “spot o tea” to singing Danny Boy in zero to sixty.
I’ve come to embrace my “inner mutt”. I mean most of us are a mix of various heritages. My husband has Native American in him. It explains the way he sits cross legged in front of our fireplace. In hanging out with people that are from different descents I find that I also have acquired many of their attributes. I can speak with my hands just as well as my Italian friends, make my kid feel guilty and make great soup just like my Jewish friends, and can (kinda) dance the hula like my Hawaiian friends. And let’s not even talk about dancing – I have also inherited that gene from somewhere along that large pool.
I’m not going to worry when I have my multi-cultural Sybil mode kick in. It’s why it’s so great to live in this melting pot called America – I’m free to be whoever I want to be (even when I’m not trying). I will only start to worry when I go from drinking tea to chasing sticks and Frisbees. If it does happen, I’m sure it will have nothing to do with the Guinness.