Damn Lucky

If it seemed weird that my online blog had been spotted with a full-grown dog and not much else to mention, then it was an entirely accurate record of real life. There was one time when I broke free of its separation anxiety long enough to be scanning the shelves at our used media store and an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in years asked me what I’d been up to.

“There’s this dog,” I said, keeping my eyes on the CD cases. And that was as far of a hole as we would be digging on that spring afternoon.

You know when you hear someone trying to sound clever by depicting the beginning of the end? “It was the beginning of the end” is a load of dog shit resting on a Frisbee. More times than not, the end had been all around them for a very long time, as staggered issues slowly failed to hold the weight on their shoulders. During the pup’s rough week stay at Autumn May Enterprises, the knees of these uncomfortable little issues all buckled and our south wing crumbled to the ground.

Our county has a community forum where you can place classified ads and I had made several for the dog with no success. No one responded to our newspaper’s found ad and it seemed that this little campaign to “Save Just One” was about as functional as my family. I sat in my big chair, contemplating whether or not I really had any tricks left. I thought about the history of my online journal:

People respond as long as you have pretty pictures and a sad story.

Now there was something I knew for a fact. An hour or so of trying to photograph an animal that wouldn’t sit still, I finally managed a decent shot:


And let everyone know that if no one came to get her this weekend, I was taking her to be injected with death. It was just short of holding a knife to some puppy’s throat and screaming, “LOOK! I’LL DO IT, BASTARDS!”

The replies came pouring in and I was woken early by telephone. Before noon today, my inbox was stuffed with people up to an hour in every direction from here, in all kinds of situations, who wanted to come by and visit her. We did interviews all day long and she finally went home with a woman who knows what she’s doing and can provide her with space, another dog, and young people to play with.

Then Dad asked if the phone was free so that he could call his mother and talk about having fallen sick for the past week and a half.

“I hear it helps to drink from 11 a.m. to three for 30 years. Oh, wait! I was thinking of something else.” That was my reply.

Now I have a carpet to scrub stains from and a pen filled with little piles of poop and dead grass. There are holes in some of my blankets and pillows, and all of my money is gone. And so is that damn dog.


Love You This Much

Raining mashed potatoes, I looked across the kitchen and saw the stray grabbing a piece of fried meat off the floor. She seemed undisturbed by the current domestic violence and my thoughts of hatred turned to oh no, she can’t have chicken bones while simultaneously dialing 911.

It was a long weekend, and I spent some of the more frustrating silences cooking up elaborate stories about Lucky, Sandi, The Dog, Puppy, or whatever half-ass name I’ve considered but neglected to begin using. She was kidnapped by students who hated their professor and later dumped when they realized what kind of trouble they could land in – she was out gallabanting with the older foxhounds and beagles when the trail of a rabbit sent her miles away from the first year of her life – she was puked up by a magic well and teleported from whoever took the time to teach her “no” but neglected to potty train her –

She jumps up to greet me, accidentally drags her sharp nails across my bare leg, and I think about how love is just like this.

She simulates seizures at night, yipping and pawing at something in her dreams. Brad wants to know why everyone is acting as though nothing happened and I try to explain that it’s not that the situation isn’t going to be handled – it’s just that I have this potential disaster on my hands that will urinate on our carpet every hour or so if I don’t focus for the time being.

I gave her a toy tonight and she adores it, but felt that it required some adjustments.
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A lot is about to happen.

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Yesterday, Dad was standing in front of the well, the lid thrown off, staring down into the hole of bricks and soil. I could see him throwing his arms up, cursing at something as I pulled into the driveway, careful not to hit our apparent visitor. It would seem that along with a well draining into his basement, a red Geo had driven by and turned around to tear off in the direction it came – having abandoned this little girl:


Although he was yelling at her for being one more problem, I could see that his heart was broken. The last time this happened, a drop-off remained in the road all day, hoping for its master’s return, only to be struck and killed before sunset. I remember driving by the fluffy corpse, vowing to round the next animal up.

“We stood at the wishing well
Our dreams like coins into the water fell
The water so cold and black
There was no going back -Springsteen

Time to find this mutt a new home.