Lent is more than a four-letter word. For me, the season is not about preparation or soul-searching. I certainly do not give up anything. My human, a moderately High Church Episcopalian (who at different times in his life has either been very observant about services or has missed both Christmas and Easter), is of the opinion that I think of Lent as an opportunity to further hone my many bad habits.

Such is the case. The dude is not off the mark. Hey, a good dog like moi can be a bad girl! Thank the almighty I am pretty because that reality gets me out of a lot of trouble. I understand why you might wonder why I am overly devilish during the Lenten season.

Let me tell you. The answer is quite simple – Carnival.

At this juncture, you might benefit from a mini history lesson. Do recall that my human is a historian. I have learned a thing or two from that increasingly rounded joker.

Someone take the Cheez-Its away from him. Add to that any and all cookies! Give them to me while you are at it! Back on topic, Carnival is a cultural phenomenon with roots that go back to Etruscan culture. Ultimately, aspects of those ancient pagan celebrations were appropriated and rebranded by the Roman Catholic Church and spread all over the world through colonization.

Carnival, with Mardi Gras or Tuesday as its height, has a special place in my town and household. Mobile is the birthplace of American Carnival. The Port City is even known as the “Mother of Mystics.”

The first mystic society, or Carnival organization, in the United States – the Cowbellion de Rakin Society – was established in my fair city in 1830. It was “The Cows” that established the two-part template of American Carnival, the coordination of a parade and a ball united by a common theme.

Papier-mâché floats articulate the given theme in the former, while tableaux or theatrical performances express the theme during the latter. Parades are enjoyed by all. Members and invited guests attend balls. While the Cowbellion de Rakin Society disbanded in the 1890s, Carnival culture thrives in Mobile. It is a glorious living tradition. There are over eighty mystic societies in town. Carnival is now found across the United States, though it has its strongest presence in the Gulf South.

In the 1830s, the parade-ball tradition went up the Alabama River system. Only in the 1850s was a mystic society founded in New Orleans. We are not going there. Those people do have a dog krewe, though!

Now, having the benefit of the preceding history lesson, you may wonder why Carnival impacts my behavior. Not only do I live in Mobile but also my human is a historian of Carnival, among other subjects. He is the curator of the Mobile Carnival Museum.

In addition to place of residence and work, the tubs is a member of a mystic society. All of this translates into my human companion being away from me more often than usual during the height of the Carnival season. Work and play rob me of him. Typical of my breed, I have major separation anxiety.

To add insult to injury, I am often placed in my crate. That cage is like a doggie prison! My human tries to mitigate his absences and my consequent incarcerations by way of walks, treats, and other placations.

Instead of running every morning, the graying fatso will take me on long walks. The man needs exercise. The only six pack in our house is now in the refrigerator. He puts on more weight every year during the annual festivities. His diet is liquid, of course, during this time. I drag him everywhere on our morning walks out of revenge and to help him lose a pound or two.

In previous installments of this column, I have described our long walks. During Carnival Season, there is so much more to them. Lots of more people are downtown during the Season. Parades do not happen during the early morning hours, but lingering elements of them are in the air and on the ground. The stinky air is like Chanel No. 5 to me. Yum, just yum.

Think burned tires, fried food, horse dung, and steam all around you and you have a hint at the aromas.

Maskers on floats toss what are called throws. I like throws. My spare human brings me stuffed animals and balls tossed during parades. Lots of times, people do not retrieve throws that fall on the ground. Street sweepers and leaf blowers remove most of the unwanted throws. Some of the seasonal offerings are missed, while others are smushed by tires and feet.

Foodstuffs comprise a significant number of throws. Moon Pies are the most popular edible type of throw. I am ordinarily not a fan of Moon Pies. A foot- or wheel-trodden Moon Pie is a delicacy. Even the plastic tastes good after being flattened out all of the night.

I use my snout and eyes to scour the streets and sidewalks of downtown Mobile for smooched Moon Pies.

Other foodstuffs far outrank Moon Pies. This Bitch has a discerning and varied palette you know. Nibbles tossed by maskers are low-hanging Carnival fare in terms of quality. The main course in my mind’s eye is street fare. Food trucks, vendors, and concessions abound during the Season.

By the time I get those offerings, they have been discarded, which makes them tastier in my book. Have you ever eaten a week-old hot dog? I have. Let me tell you, they are delicious, especially the pink ones! My human tries to steer me clear of any and all foodstuffs we might encounter on our morning progresses.

I generally snag something on account of channeling my thirty-some-odd pounds into a figure multiple times that amount. I pull my fat-ass human all over the downtown during those walks in search of delicacies, like pink hot dogs, corn dogs, and chicken-on-a-stick. I do not do funnel cake.

That is food for another type of Carnival. As if!

Dogs are not allowed to attend parades. My human loves them, but he fails to bring me any offerings from them. How rude! The spare gives me throws. That one is thoughtful like that. Balls and stuffed animals are high on my lists of parade take-homes. Footballs do nothing for me. They are too big.

Soft plush balls the size of baseballs and softballs are more to my liking. Stuffed animals are causes for instantaneous and continued joy. Like having two speeds, on and off, I have two approaches to stuffed animals. I either destroy said offering upon receipt or treat it like a baby. When a stuffed animal becomes my baby (said a la Moira Rose), I carry it on my walks.

I should say I start carrying it and then drop it for my human to carry for me. Seeing him carry a stuffed Smurfette for miles causes me to smile and laugh! A girl has to get here kicks when she can. I never miss an opportunity! I had my stuffed Smurfette for almost a year. One day, I destroyed her, like I do to all of my toys at some juncture. It is questionable what type of mother I would be.

After one particular parade party, spare human also brings me a true Mobile culinary confection of the highest order – a Dew Drop Inn hot dog. The Dew Drop is oldest dining establishment in town. The hot dogs there are the bomb. A pink dog, of the non-canine variety of course, is placed in a bun. Such should come as no shocker, Sherlocks.

With a Dew Drop hot dog, the pink deliciousness is topped by canned relish. I can eat them whole, which is strange for me as I ordinarily do not like it when foods are combined. The lady is quasi-kosher. Main human, the tub-o does not bring treats home from functions, period.

That is downright tacky. I like offerings.

Sometimes, my human allows me to sleep in the bed with him during the Carnival season. This is a special privilege. I try to hop up on the bed most nights but am evicted from the ultimate of soft surfaces. When the Fatso comes home from a function where he has been into his cups, I can manipulate him with my sad eyes into allowing me to hop on the bed and remain there.

He tells me the duration of my stay on the bed is brief. I have other plans, being I stay the night and occupy the whole of the bed!

Walks, foodstuffs, treats, and other peace offerings fail to fully compensate for being deserted, placed in a crate, and having my routine disrupted. I have been sent up the country a time or two for Mardi Gras weekend. Other times, people stop by the house to walk with, play with, and feed me.

Even though these reproachments are nice, they are only temporary fixes. I simply want Carnival to end.

Again, Lent is more than a word. It is a return to normalcy and a return to the status quo after weeks of disruption. I am once again the ruler of the household. Debts must be settled. Revenge is served hot, lukewarm, and cold. I inflict my anger via a number of tactics. Both the performing and fine arts are channeled into glorious expressions of revenge and reconquest.

Like Dorothy Zbornak in Golden Girls, I can cut a side eye. The human is never in doubt as to my take on matters, or him for that matter. My eyes can turn on a dime. There is no subtlety to the evil eye. What is far worse than my glare, which communicates “Eat dirt and die, trash,” is no eye whatsoever.

I regularly act as if my human does not exist. I avert my eyes from his very presence during and immediately after Mardi Gras. I turn my head from him. At times, I face my backside to him to make my sentiments very emphatic. The message is kiss it, bitch! My snout also comes into play. Do not worry, this lady is not a biter, but I do curl my lip at times.

On occasion, a low growl of disgust has emanated from my noble nose. On those occasions, I am dropping the “f” bomb at the disobedient manservant. I swat at things, too. Even if something is presented to me, which under regular circumstances I might welcome, I paw at it with anger or bat it in the other direction.

If the offering is a desirable foodstuff, I retrieve it when the tubs turns his head.

My paws and teeth are vehicles of more than performative artistry. They are the principal means by which I express my disgust in the form of the fine arts of sculpture painting and sculpture. I spit at glass panes of the French doors and use my paws to spread the spittle everywhere. It’s as if I am possessed.

You see why my human has to put me in my crate or carrier when left unattended. Picture if you will a Jackson Pollock, only of dog spittle. It is my therapy and revenge. The front door and the laundry room door bear witness to my talents as sculptress. I have almost eaten the lowermost muntins – the wooden dividers of panes – on the front door down to the glass.

My rage over the abandonment and disruptions of Carnival causes me to be almost a doggy interior designer. My mantra is neither minimalism nor maximalism, simply destruction. See that, I included the decorative arts?! Go me!

Lent has its uses, purposes, and pleasures. After my initial psychopathic escapades, I relax and relate. I celebrate the return of life as I know and like it. After I process my anger, I gradually cool off and show affection to my human again. The weather is warming up, days become longer, and weekends up the country are more frequent again; so too are beach trips.

I am all in on all of the above.

—CARTLEDGE WEEDEN BLACKWELL III