Some of the things Daddy said were arranged so that you might think you were having a conversation. But you were really being directed.
As I mentioned in Part 3, my father's soft heart shone through, even in some of the dictatorial moments.
He found a shaggy, flea-ridden, puppy behind a dumpster on his rural mail route one hot summer day when I was in high school. He put her in his car, gave her melted ice from his Coke, and drove around the rest of the route with a scroungy little passenger. We already had two dogs. When he came home with her that afternoon, Daddy poured himself a glass of iced tea (sweetened, of course), suggested