Summer Of the Mutt 2: Lucky Returns

This morning a woman and her alleged daughter showed up to return the dog I had found on my dirt road as an abandoned pet. I had gotten her a few shots to boost her image with possible takers and this person had replied to my ad with enthusiasm. The agreement was, just in case this dog got to its trial home and turned out to be defective (despite the vet having examined it beforehand), she could return it rather than pay to have it put down. And if she decided not to claim it anyway, I would accept it back to handle matters from there.

I received several e-mails about how Lucky had been renamed (to Birdie – ew), was loving her new home and by the end of the month, her new owner went to the court house and got the dog licensed. In other words, she decided to keep the dog – meanwhile, my family confronted me and explained that I could never again disrupt their lives by allowing a stray dog onto the property. It had traumatized our house pets and upset my family members with mental disabilities who are hard enough to handle under normal circumstances, to put it shortly.

A few weeks later, however, Lucky’s owner turned around and said that the dog wasn’t making her happy anymore and that she needed directions to my house again. The dog had urinated indoors several times which would not be tolerated.

“They won’t accept it from me because I’m the owner,” she reasoned.

Her shelter wasn’t accepting animals, either, due to an outbreak of parvo. So, with a heavy heart I accepted some papers from the little girl on my doorstep. The woman offered very few words and promptly returned to her vehicle. I would have to take the animal in to the shelter myself. I didn’t realize at the time that she was talking about the same shelter I was about to visit, nor did I know yet that it would turn out to be one rough afternoon.

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Technicolor Snow, or, Fuck You I DID Use LJ-Cut

Life has been most difficult to record for multiple reasons, all of them from different regions of why.

The redheaded princess was gliding across a choppy ocean in her golden carriage harnessed to two gigantic albino frogs. It was symbolic of my affection for the freaky water pets, deserving of the fairytale image. But a few days ago the female turned to the male and swallowed it from behind, holding it underwater long enough for the male’s skin to become partially digested. I would be leaning over the bathtub, pouring a solution of water and salt onto lifeless limbs.

“Autumn, I’m sorry – let it go. There’s nothing you can do,” Mom noticed.

As I nudged its webbed feet along the white porcelain, its corpse was stiffened and clearly a dead, clammy bunch of ick that is a dead frog.

The carriage tipped sideways and crashed into the water, my curls instantly a drenched mop of tangles. The concept was history and to make matters worse, I’d wake up the next day to find that the remaining frog had crawled into the filter, popped the lid off and hid somewhere in my bedroom. This was just the kind of headline to be squeezed somewhere in the middle of the Autumn May monthly newsletter. So there you have the part about not wanting to admit to something that was previously so much better.

My little brother has become a nut job. He never got the chance to learn the value of money and so spends his settlement on pepperoni pizzas with three orders of bread sticks a day, marijuana and whatever impulse that keeps coming back to him. This month you are unlikely to see him without his trusty bebe gun – one of those made to resemble a real hand gun – or one of those see-through ones that shoot the lighter, plastic pellets and fires them like a machine gun. Depends on his mood.

I step around the bright green marbles on my way up the front porch stairs and just about everywhere else. Is this what happens after Grand Theft Auto gets old?

It’s interesting to see thousands of dollars disappear within a few months on odd delicacy as he reaches for the Count Chocula and doesn’t hesitate to grab every game console and twelve or so games per each that he thinks might be fun to play. The huge TV – the killer computer – these are things he has yearned for but never earned. Now he simply dreams up what would make him happy, goes out and gets two of them.

He has that tree and his best friend’s piss poor driving skills to thank for his sudden fortune. It’s a fucked up thing. On one hand, he is a damn fool but on the other, a perfect example of living only once and doing whatever you want during that time. My only concern is that at the rate he’s going, he only has about one year to carry on this way.

I am dreading whatever lies beyond those bebe pellets, but will do my best to be there for him when reality comes to collect.

In Dad’s little corner of the world, he recently heated oven fish sticks and fries before raving about the “amazing” meal that he probably got for free at the grocery store with doubled coupons and every other trick he’s master at pulling.

“What? A register error? I’ll be collecting my five dollar reward fee then, please.”

I could smell the glob of off-brand ketchup and tartar sauce he had squeezed onto the paper plate and it made me gag (as though the limp fish sticks weren’t enough to induce vomiting). He scarfed it all down and bragged about the dinner he had cooked even though if anyone else had presented that to him as dinner, he’d certainly have declined and started shouting.

If he catches you using more than 2 paper plates stuck together, it’s all over. You know, cost him a penny for the entire stack but, you know. Crisis. You can be in the opposite end of the house with the door closed and still hear him complaining to someone about what they’re doing wrong, and what’s wrong with everything.

And you find yourself praying, even though you know religions are bullshit, that his jaw will fall off.

Speaking of religion, I had my yearly chat with in-county friend David, good friend of 7 years. Unfortunately, he went crazy a little while back and we no longer hang out.

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Heh.

It was an impossible mission to be scanning the radio stations in Detroit without hearing about Kid Rock’s weekend at The Palace, where they’d be filming his concert for a DVD release. I’ve never really explored the artists’ work thoroughly, lacking motivation from his singles. But he called in last Saturday and said something that gave me a reason to like the guy:

“I’m devoting my life to something new – this is how you know I’ve made too much money – wherever Tom Cruise goes, wherever he is appearing, I’m gonna have a plane fly behind him every time with a long sign that says ‘Tom Cruise Is A Turd‘.”

Beautiful.

Congratulations, You’re Stupid

Dear Pussycat Dolls,

I suggest you cease the non-stop “empowering women” shtick during interviews and TV spots, because they make you look silly. Your first single was about asking the opposite sex if they might want their girlfriend to be more like one of you, which – unless you’re speaking for strippers looking for tips from involved men – is not empowering. You screwed up again when releasing a song about wanting men to see more of you than your bodies while flaunting around in a music video wearing very little (and, might I add, had the stupidity to be quoted saying that you’re careful about what you wear so as not to be exploited).

Don’t mistake a few catchy singles for all they really are. You’re a lounge act with a mediocre pop album featuring worse cover songs than I’ve heard in karaoke bars. We all know this, but it’s about time that you did, too. Live however you like but just consider for a moment that you might be embarrassing yourselves in front of anyone with half a brain.

I kind of like your “Buttons” song and think that most of you are pretty hot. I’m always sampling your music in hopes of hearing tunes that aren’t too bad. So far, you all still seem to be one Josie short.

Remember – less talkie, more ass-shakey,
Autumn May

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In other news, I’ve been recovering from a severe throat and chest infection. I would say more but the Codeine won’t let me. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz