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.