Git Along Little Dogies, Teresa Tulipano

We moved from California to England when I was 3 months old, and my older sister Tina was 8. My parents were unhappy together. From my earliest memories I heard them fighting at night, using curse words I knew were bad. But I whispered them to myself, tasting their shape in my mouth, wishing I could say them aloud.

My little sister Tricia was born two years later in London. In school we were called “the

Americans,” despite having English accents. I pined for a place I belonged. I dreamt of the

magical America from family stories. I thought maybe San Francisco, with its hills, taco stands, and flower people, was my place. I tried on an outrageous caricature of an American accent I developed from watching westerns, that really annoyed my mom.

I was born into a struggle with my mother. We rarely agreed. The only things she understood about me were that I needed books and costumes. After learning to read at two years old, I always played out the stories I read. Dressing up felt crucial, and she never begrudged my need for costumes.

Despite our 8-year age difference, I read all of Tina’s books as soon as she finished them.  I loved the Last of the Mohicans, and Old Yeller, and the Life and Times of Davy Crockett.  My mom grew up on a farm in Oregon after her family emigrated from Scotland, and she sometimes surprised me by singing cowboy songs, “Yippee-tay-ay-aye, git along little dogies, for your misfortune is none of my own!”

Tricia and I had matching cowgirl outfits.  Fringed suede vests, brown felt cowboy hats with red and white twisted cord, and a wooden bead to tighten it under our chins. Denim skirts embroidered with stars. Saddle leather gun belts and holsters. Cap guns that smelled like fireworks from the gunpowder caps.

When I was six and Tricia was four, I could get her to go along with anything. One nearly-sunny afternoon I told her we needed to round up the cows. We wriggled into our gear, and galloped on hobby horses around the back garden, whooping and hollering, “Git along little dogies!” 

Next door, Graham and Nigel, were also six and four years old.  They used to watch us over the stone wall, but we weren’t friends because our mother didn’t want girls playing with boys.  I told Tricia they were horse thieves, and we needed to ride over there, give them a trial, and hang them.  

“You lily-livered horse thieves!  Where’s our horses?  You’d better start talking or I’m gonna fill you with lead!” I menaced them with a cap gun in each hand. I aimed at Nigel, the younger brother, and looked at Graham.  “I’m going to count to three, and then this little horse rustler is going to get it right between the eyes!”

Graham had had enough of my threats.  “We don’t have any horses here!  And don’t you DARE shoot my baby brother!”

“Listen you fucking son of a bitch, I know you’ve got our horses, and I’ll KILL your little brother and dance on his grave if you don’t hand them over!”  The other children gasped at such terrible, forbidden words.

Tricia knew that she wasn’t allowed to curse, but she laughed and repeated, “Son of a bitch!”   

Then we were calling them every dirty word we had ever heard, punctuating each one by firing our cap guns at them point blank. “Shit, fuck, fuckers, bastard, bullshit, asshole!” I chanted and Tricia echoed.  We were laughing hysterically at their distress.

Graham couldn’t stand the indignity anymore and pulled himself up to his tallest height, before yelling, “Well, I think you are both VERY SILLY GIRLS!” Tricia and I howled because his response was so weak compared to our powerful cursing.  “YOU ARE SILLY, STUPID GIRLS AND WE HATE YOU!!!”  

Immediately we heard their father call, “Graham!  That is a terribly naughty thing to say! Apologize at once, young man, then straight to your room without supper!”  Graham tried to explain why he yelled such things, but his father wouldn’t hear a word of it. He asked us to please forgive his rude son.  He held Nigel’s hand, and gripped Graham’s shoulder, and propelled them towards their house. Graham cried and looked back furiously at me.

I shot him one more time, then blew on the tip of my gun, twirled it on my finger, and slid it back into its holster.  I whispered, “Motherfucker.”  Which made us laugh again.  But I looked wistfully at Graham being pulled into his house, and wished I could make him come back for more.