Every now and then, when I get tired of singing to myself, I like to recreate my favorite scenes from Coal Miner’s Daughter. Where Sissy Spacek, as Loretta Lynn, is singing to her babies, and then her husband Doolittle "Doo" Lynn, who is a complete asshole (at least in the movie) but also her biggest fan, tells her damn she’s good and he’s taking her to Nashville. Doo is played by the lusciously odd Tommy Lee Jones, in the best role of his career.

In my version, I’m singing to my dogs. I’ve got four of varying sizes and breeds. They add up to a little over two hundred pounds. Between the moving hair and the stationary hair, I usually leave the house looking simian. Which is appropriate, I guess, since my dad likes to say that our family is only two generations from shit flinging.

Because I refuse to pay them union rates for speaking parts, the dogs play the role of the Lynn children. Because it’s my guitar and I’m funding this production, I play Loretta Lynn. I tried, once, to cast my husband as Doo, but he kept talking about dinner and rubbing his belly theatrically. When I told him he was supposed to take me to Nashville, he said, "Is there food in Nashville?" Asshole. Odd. Only occasionally luscious. So now there’s a perpetual casting call for Doo. Meanwhile, we film without him.

The dog wrangler – that would be me – gets the dogs lined up on the couch. The director – also me – patiently instructs them on how the scene will go. How it’s their job to sit there and listen in rapt attention, while looking cute. No sniffing. No yawning. No scratching. Absolutely no licking. I take my place, standing, facing the couch, my guitar slung over my shoulder. And....ACTION!

"This is a new song," I say. "One I wrote for my babies. I love you guys..." I blow a kiss toward the couch, to magnanimously encompass all of them. And I sing. My fingers dance flirtatiously across the guitar strings. My voice rises and trills like a lovestruck songbird. My eyelids flutter with emotion. My eyes are nearly closed. I am at the bridge, which features a nifty key change and some interesting minors, when I hear it. Very loud and very enthusiastic licking.

I palm the strings to halt my guitar, and scan the couch to see which Lynn bastard has ruined my scene. It’s the big brown one. He is old. In people years, he’d need velcro and a stick to fasten his shoes. But there he is, his leg hyperextended, contorted like a yogi.

"Dammit, Jeb! Stop that!" I holler.

His head pops up when he hears his name. His private parts glisten with slobber.

"For heaven’s sake, this song is about you," I say. "About how I rescued you from that terrible house filled with dogs, and healed your broken spirit. Do you know how hard it is to find a rhyme for Rhodesian Ridgeback? Where’s the respect? Where’s the gratitude?"

He checks the words I’ve spoken against the list of words he knows. Finding no matches, he goes back to his noshing.

Enraged, I smash my guitar and storm off the set. Or, I put my guitar on its stand and go wash dishes, but not before I make all of the dogs get off my damn couch. That’s a wrap.