ELVIS

Elvis	Elvis

In the early morning of the 16th day of August, 1977, four days after my sixth birthday, Elvis Aaron Presley faked his own death. Beleaguered by public life, he set up an elaborate scheme to feign his demise. Members of Elvis's entourage were talked into killing a portly homeless man named Percival Eckles (Elvis told them, "I dare ya to kill a fat bum."), thus providing him a body double for his escape from the public eye.

Seventeen hours later, while police were announcing the death of "Elvis," the real Elvis was stepping onto the island paradise of Fiji. With his cleanly shaven head, and the well-constructed girdle concealed beneath his conservative three-piece suit, Elvis was not recognized as the King by traveler or native. This is how his life in self-enforced exile began; a life of lounging barefoot on the beach, seducing of the ladies, and sipping of drinks with umbrellas in them.

Elvis Presley spent nearly twenty years living every man's dream on Fiji until his abused spleen gave out on January 5, 1997. He would go straight to limbo, having lived a life of both sainthood and sin. But he wouldn't stay there long.

On January 8, 1997, somewhere in Texas, a mutt gave birth to a litter of puppies sired by a purebred border collie. The details of this fateful event are shrouded in mystery, the details lost with the passage of time, but one thing was for certain: at least one border collie/mixed puppy would live on.

Nothing is known of this puppy until October of '97, when he turned up as a stray in Austin, Texas. He was taken to the Town Lake Animal Center and given the generic name "E." He immediately won the hearts of TLAC workers; the card placed on his cage, #30, subversively espoused his energy and highly adoptive nature. However, he was too energetic for small yards, too excitable for young children, and too aggressive to live peacefully with most other dogs. He languished in the TLAC for three months, enduring numerous close calls. Most dogs there were euthanized within two months, but the workers' fondness for him and their belief in his "adoptability" saved him.

Finally, on February 8th of the year 1998, I entered the Town Lake Animal Center looking for a best friend. I had already been to the Humane Society and been impressed, but not overwhelmed, by a shy doberman named Scout. I was fairly certain I was going to adopt Scout, but I was visiting the TLAC just to be complete. I had a scientific method to dog selection: I was going to find the perfect dog for me or not get a dog at all. I had a notepad and criteria for dog adoption, which read that the dog I choose:

1) must not bark excessively.

2) must be a puppy whose personality is not already completely formed.

3) must be female.

4) must have short hair.

5) must be house-trained.

I ended up seriously considering eight dogs there. None of them met those criteria. But when I walked by cage #30 something happened. Without realizing it, I threw my objective and reasonable rules out the window when I saw the ebullient, expressive border collie mutt contained within that cage. Though he never barked, the card on the cage said he might not be house-trained. He had long, dirty black hair, was a full-grown adult at a little over one year of age, and he was male. One out of five: not a good match. The dog stood up on his hind legs and walked the length of his cage, toungue hanging out. I responded, I was told by an eyewitness later, by putting my notepad away and running up to the cage to play with this dog. I, who was normally fearful of and respectful of the rules, opened up the cage without authorization to play with the dog in his cage.

After several minutes of lunacy, I stepped out and made a few casual notes on my notepad, then moved on. I took notes on three other dogs before going back to cage #30. A few moments of play later, I told the worker at the front desk that I wanted to adopt "E" in cage #30. I filled out some paperwork, then I was told I had to wait a week to pick him up.

That moment marked the beginning of the longest week of my life. Every day I went to visit him on my lunch break. Every afternoon was hell. I spent my nights feverishly reading dog training manuals, hoping to know enough to not mess my dog-to-be up for life. I knew what I was going to name him: a little over a year ago I had a dream that I was calling for a dog named Elvis. He came to me, running full-speed, but he was just a silhouette in the dream. It seemed like fate that the dog I picked from the pound had a temporary name, and that it was "E." That's a name that begs for a more permanent name...like ELVIS!

Finally that week ended; I took him home (he was very fearful of the car; after a few months of taking him in the car to the park he grew to love it) and got to know him. It turns out he's the perfect dog for me: he's a huge spaz capable of running me into the ground. He's always happy to see me; something which is uplifting for a person who has trouble getting that feeling from other people. He's independent, capable of entertaining himself if I have to work extra hours or am addicted to a computer game. And he's great with people, which means I don't have to be. Plus he lets me sleep in every morning!

So what's this got to do with the musician and entertainer? Why, you ask, did I switch stories way up there? What gives?

I'll tell you what gives: I never did switch stories. This is the tale of the soul which occupied the bodies of Elvis Aaron Presley and of Elvis Freakboy Beyer.

Click on any of the Elvis links in the story above to go to the Elvis Gallery.