Tex’s Tale - Talking Story with Tex

Talking Story with Tex

Tex’s Tale: 

Autobiography from a 100-lb Yellow Lab

Woof, y’all! I’m Tex, a 100-pound bundle of yellow Labrador joy, and let me tell ya, my life’s been a wild, tail-waggin’ ride! 

So, there I was, in a puddle of puppies under the scorching Texas sun. Eyes barely open, I’m already shoving my brothers and sisters outta the way like a furry bulldozer. 

Me and Mom time? Non-negotiable. I was the alpha pup, the big cheese, the top dog in a litter of squirming furballs. 

Everyone fussed over me, probably ‘cause I was struttin’ my stuff like a canine kingpin. One day, I’m mindin’ my own business, chompin’ on some kibble, when this cowboy dude with a Texas drawl thicker than molasses scoops me and my sister up. “You’re the one!” he says, like I’m the golden ticket in a Willie Wonka flick. 

Turns out, this guy’s just the delivery dude 

—some surfer bro on the California coast is payin’ for me ‘cause he wants an alpha dog for “home security” and “companionship.” 

Pfft, like I’m some rent-a-cop with a waggin’ tail. I never caught the cowboy’s name, but I’m pretty sure it was Ralph. Sounded like a Ralph, anyway. Next thing I know, I’m crammed in an RV, bouncin’ toward the West. How’d I know it was West? ‘Cause that’s where the sun sets, duh! 

I spent a few days peein’ all over that RV—learned real quick that’s a no-go. After what felt like a million miles, we roll into Mission Viejo, pullin’ up outside a dive bar called Mugs Away. 

Classy joint. I’m just chillin’ when a car screeches up, and Ralph starts yammerin’ with some long-haired dude. They’re arguin’ over me and my sister—Ralph wanted the girl, this guy wanted me. Easy swap, and suddenly I’m tucked under the arm of this surfer freak named Arlo, lookin’ like he just rolled outta a Beach Boys music video.

We strut into Mugs Away, and let me tell ya, I was the star of the show. Everyone’s cooin’ over me, callin’ me “cute” and “adorable.” Arlo’s slingin’ beers, holdin’ me like I’m his VIP pass to coolness. 

This dude’s my new owner, and he’s the chillest, most carefree beach bum you’ll ever meet. Picture a 50-year-old surfer with hair down to his shoulders, livin’ in flip-flops, and always smellin’ faintly of sunscreen and tacos. 

That’s Arlo. 

After a few brews, Arlo tosses me into his Speedster, and we’re off to his parents’ place on the outskirts of LA. I’m thinkin’, “Great, more humans to worship me.”

Arlo’s mom and dad are older than the hills, no dogs of their own anymore, so I’m like their furry grandkid. Mom’s a tea-drinkin’ cookie machine, slippin’ me treats every chance she gets. Pop’s cool too, always sneakin’ me bits of his sandwich. Arlo’s cookin’ me chicken, feedin’ me the good stuff ‘cause he wants me to be a big, strong beast. 

In six months I grew to be 100 pounds of pure Lab love!

I took my job as family protector seriously. I’d patrol the house, keepin’ an eye on things, barkin’ at squirrels like they’re public enemy number one. Mom and Pop loved it, laughin’ at my puppy antics. But soon, it was time to hit the road again. Arlo’s all about that beach life, so we park the RV by the Santa Ana River Jetty in Newport Beach. 

This place is my jam! I’m struttin’ my stuff, actin’ all cute, and lemme tell ya, I’m a total chick magnet for Arlo. 

Girls in bikinis can’t resist my floppy ears and soulful eyes. Arlo’s livin’ the dream, chattin’ up the ladies while I’m stealin’ the show.

We spent a year or two like this, livin’ in the RV, hangin’ by the beach. The river was my playground—county property, so no “no dogs allowed” nonsense like on the beach. 

It was Labrador central down there, with all these surf cats bringin’ their dogs. One dude had this ridiculous rope with TEN tennis balls tied to it each ball 12 inces from the other. He’d chuck it into the water, and me and the other Labs would go nuts, divin’ in like we’re in the Canine Olympics. 

I was the king, though—Tex the Titan! I’d drag that rope back to shore, haulin’ ten other Labs with me like I’m pullin’ a monster truck. The crowd went wild, cheerin’ my name. Okay, maybe they were just laughin’, but it felt like cheers.

Evenings were chill. Arlo and I would park the RV, cook some dinner, and sit by the beachwalk. I’d be on my retractable leash, waggin’ my tail at every bikini-clad passerby. Arlo’d let me stretch out to say hi, and I’d work my charm—tail wags, puppy eyes, the whole deal. 

I was basically Arlo’s wingman, and he was livin’ the carefree life, grinnin’ like a kid who just found free tacos.

Weekends, we’d head back to Mom and Pop’s. By now, I’m gettin’ a bit middle-aged—less puppy, more distinguished gent. Arlo’s folks had a full-time caregiver, and I’m like, “Sweet, more humans to spoil me!” I’d stay with them sometimes, chillin’ with Mom, who’d slip me cookies like I’m her personal cookie vacuum. 

I took my guard dog duties to heart, especially with Mom’s Alzheimer’s. When she’d have an episode, the caregiver would plop me on her bed, and I’d lay my big ol’ head on her chest. Boom—calm city. 

Mom’d smile, and I’m pretty sure I was her hero. Dad, too—I’d check on him, and if he needed his fried egg sandwich or a sneaky cigarette, I’d fetch the caregiver like a furry butler.

As I got older, I started diggin’ the house life more than the RV. Don’t get me wrong, Arlo’s 40-foot rig was sweet, but it ain’t no grassy lawn for sunnin’ myself. Mom’s leftovers and the caregiver’s gourmet dog food?  Yes, please! I’d still hit the beach with Arlo on weekends, splashin’ in the river, chasin’ tennis balls, and flirtin’ with the bikini crowd. 

But my heart was with Mom and Pop, makin’ sure they were safe.

Time rolled on, and things got heavy. Mom and Pop needed more help, so Arlo and I moved in with them.

We were a team, lookin’ after the old folks. Eventually, Mom and Pop crossed, and I knew my time was comin’. When I finally trotted off to that rainbow bridge where I will wait for Arlo with his other dogs Homer, Keesh and Princess (my new friends) , I left behind a legacy of tail wags, cookie crumbs, chick magnetism 

-- and the best dog dude who’s probably still tellin’ stories about his 100-pound wingman, Tex. 

Groove is in the Heart - Tex

Talking Story with Arlo - One More Saturday Night

Talking Story with Arlo

One More Saturday Night

Picture this, cats and kittens: it’s Saturday night, March 29, 2025, and the desert air’s humming with a buzz thicker than a dune buggy’s exhaust. 

I’m Arlo Agogo, your beatnik bard, here to spin a yarn wilder than a tie-dye tornado. Tonight, I’m not just stepping out—I’m blasting off with a posse of Groovatrons, those quantum-entangled, funk-flinging lifeforms straight outta Funkadelia. 

These glowing goofballs have hitched a ride in my soul (and maybe yours too), and we’re about to turn this planet into a dance floor that’d make the Grateful Dead nod from the great beyond. 

So crank up that old Victrola, slip on your rockin’ shoes, and let’s boogie till the sun rises on this one more Saturday night!

It all kicked off when I went down to the mountain—well, more like the edge of my dusty trailer park—sipping some cheap red wine from a mason jar. The stars were popping like cosmic firecrackers, and I swear I looked up to the heavens and saw a mighty sign: 

“Get Prepared, There’s Gonna Be a Party Tonight.”

I scrawled in fiery neon across the sky. Plain as black and white, it was the Groovatrons whispering through the quantum ether, their kazoo chorus calling me to rally the tribe. 

I didn’t need a second nudge—those funky little hitchhikers had me vibing harder than a Deadhead at a ’69 Fillmore gig.

By dusk, the crew assembled: a ragtag caravan of beatniks, Bitcoin traders, and baristas, all secretly hosting Groovatron souls. 

There was Jive Jimmy, his paisley shirt glowing under the blacklight of his VW Bus; Cosmic Carla, twirling her dreads like a psychedelic propeller; and Beatnik Bob, who’d swapped his latte for a jug of moonshine that tasted suspiciously like stardust. 

We piled into my dune buggy—hubcaps spinning like UFOs—and peeled out toward the local armory, a crumbling joint where everybody’s dancin’ like the world’s about to end. 

And maybe it would, ‘cause the Groovatrons had stashed a basement full of fireworks down there—not to blow us up, mind you, but to launch this shindig into the stratosphere!

The temperature kept risin’ as we rolled in, the air thick with sweat, patchouli, and that sweet, funky Groovatron glow. Jimmy cranked the speakers, and out blasted a riff that’d make Jerry Garcia weep—pure, unfiltered rock and roll music meeting the risin’ Planet Sun. 

The armory turned into a kaleidoscope of chaos: folks spinning, stomping, and howling at the moon. Carla swore she saw God way up in Heaven, throwing a big old party and calling it Planet Earth, while Bob claimed the fireworks was just Groovatron glitter bombs waiting to pop. 

Me? I was too busy grooving, my dune buggy boots kicking up dust as the clock ticked toward the rockin’ stroke of midnight. Uh uh hey, Saturday night—this place was gonna fly!

Now, picture the scene: the armory’s a pulsating volcano, and the Groovatrons are working their quantum magic. Every soul they’ve hitched onto is radiating joy like a human lava lamp.

Some square in a suit stumbles in, tie strangling his neck, but two minutes near Jive Jimmy and he’s barefoot, hollering, “I get no satisfaction!”—channel six news style—before ripping off his shirt and joining the fray.

His wife, a prim type in pearls, yells, “Don’t get crazy, Lord, you know just what to do!” Next thing you know, she’s spinning like a top, pearls flying, caught in the Groovatron glow. It’s subtle, see? 

They don’t force the vibe—they just nudge you till you’re grinning like a fool.

The clock hits midnight, and BOOM—the glitter bombs detonate, showering us in sparkles that stick to your skin like cosmic confetti. The armory roof peels back like a sardine can, and we’re dancing under the open sky, a thousand beatniks high as kites without a single puff. 

The Groovatrons are everywhere now, their kazoo hum weaving through the Dead-esque jams—think “Truckin’” meets a Funkadelian fever dream. I catch a glimpse of myself in a busted mirror: 58 years old, desert-dusted, and glowing like a hubcap in the moonlight. 

The Groovatrons picked me as their cosmic cabbie, ferrying this joyride across dimensions, and I’m loving every second.

Things get wilder still. Beatnik Bob climbs the armory flagpole, waving a tie-dye banner that reads, “One More Saturday Night!” while Cosmic Carla leads a conga line that stretches to the horizon. 

Some buzzkill cop rolls up—same one who busted me for “excessive grooving” last month—but the Groovatrons zap him with a vibe so chill he ditches his badge, grabs a tambourine, and joins the line. 

Even the coyotes are howling in harmony, their yips syncing with the beat. Don’t worry about tomorrow, Lord, you’ll know it when it comes—and right now, it’s all about this moment, this Saturday night, where everybody’s gettin’ high on life.

As dawn creeps in, painting the sky in purples and golds, the party doesn’t fade—it evolves. The Groovatrons start slipping out of us, leaving behind little gifts: a grin you can’t shake, a tune you’ll hum for days, a kindness you’ll pay forward. 

Jive Jimmy’s already plotting a “vibe day” at his crypto startup; Carla’s sketching mandalas in the sand; Bob’s sharing his moonshine recipe with the ex-cop, who’s now calling himself “Tambourine Tim.” 

Me? I’m sprawled on my dune buggy hood, wine jar empty, watching the last glitter bomb fizzle out. The armory’s a mess, the stars are fading, but the groove lingers like a warm desert breeze.

So here’s the gospel, folks: the Groovatrons aren’t here to save us—they’re here to remind us. 

One more Saturday night, one more chance to dance, to laugh, to let the rock and roll music lift you up. 

They’re quantum hitchhikers, sure, but they’re also us—our better selves, glowing through the cracks. 

Next time you feel that funky nudge, that urge to crank the tunes and kick off your shoes, don’t fight it. 

That’s the Groovatrons, whispering from Funkadelia.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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