There are no bad owners, only bad dogs

2005-09-22

It's not even going to rain.

Iím not sure what kind of karmic situation causes one to make a reservation at a beach house for a long-awaited, much-needed, perhaps even well-deserved vacation involving the coordination of many schedules and many opposing desires during a point in time when a fucking hurricane may or may not be bearing down upon said beach house, but I swear upon all that is good and holy that I have never, ever, ever really enjoyed making fun of other people, their spelling, grammar, punctuation, and/or fashion choices Ė it has always been more of an obligation than a pleasure to mock the shortcomings of others, because, letís face it, I myself am mock-worthy each and every single day that I am conscious and also each and every day when I am not. I did not mean it.

Except this part, this I really do mean. Letís set the stage. Lovely Rita is heading toward the general area of Houston/Galveston-ish. The Texas coast is a long, long piece of real estate. The news reports keep saying that Rita is heading for the Texas coast, but, duh, thatís like saying itís heading for Earth or that Kirsty Alley has a mole on her belly. So thereís this huge span of coastline thatís gonna get slammed, but an equally huge part that will get rainy and windy, but not much more. San Antonio is, I think, a bit over 180 miles inland from the coast, about 3 hours driving from either Houston or Corpus. Those two places are far enough away that Houston is going to get creamed and Corpus isnít. The weather forecast for San Antonio for the weekend is cloudy and windy. Maybe a bit of rain, maybe not. Corpus Christi is on the coast and itís not going to be inundated. Weíre not even anywhere near the coast. Weíre just not special enough to be singled out for Armageddon. Weíre underachievers. Weíre nice, generous, dull people. This is neither Sodom nor Gomorra.

My shorty had to go to two different gas stations to get gas because the stations are all running out of petrol. People are going insane, buying bottled water and canned goods and batteries and propane. Shortyís friend Randy had to stock up on pot, just in case there was some sort of emergency that required one to be stoned. Itís the same story of demand and not enough supply where Randy lives, in Austin, which is farther north and also smarter. But apparently not much smarter, because for fuckís sake, WE DONíT LIVE ANYWHERE NEAR THE COAST. The power is unlikely to go out, TIVO will be uninterrupted, your pate will stay refrigerated, the cucumber slices you wish to place over your eyelids will be chilled, the servantsí quarters will stay dry. We live in the desert. The desert, yíall. Whatís wrong with you people?

When my cats were born out in the converted garage, they almost immediately had distinctive personalities. One was initially named Adventure Baby, because he was always climbing up something, leaping off something, dangling from something. Intrepid! Fearless! (A reader or two will recall an incident wherein I saw the kittens playing with toy mice and then realized OH MY F-ING GOD, THATíS A REAL RAT THAT KITTEN IS PLAYING WITH. That was Adventure Baby.) Lazy Baby, on the other hand, slept a lot and purred if you just looked at her. Glance Ė purrrrr! They are now cats who firmly believe that they are dogs and insist that, as dogs, they should be walked twice a day. Many of my neighbors find this very entertaining and keep threatening to call the news to have the local reporters come out and film this miraculous event of CATS WALKING WITH DOGS. Because outside of hurricanes that are not headed this way, not much happens in the ninth largest city in the nation (Oh, yes it is.) Adventure Baby is now officially named Junebug, and as it turns out, isnít adventuresome at all. Heís just a big dope. He walks halfway around a block with the dogs, then gets petulant and decides that heís not walking any more. Heís totally had enough, and he just refuses to take another step on this Bataan Death March that Iíve cruelly dragged him on, so he just stops and sits in someoneís front yard. I had always assumed that he just went home from there, because, duh, he is always disappearing and re-appearing at home, so clearly he knows the neighborhood. As it happens, though, heís not quite the navigator that I had assumed he was. He has demonstrated again and again that when he stops and goes on strike, he just sits there and waits for me to come back and get him. I have had to go fetch that yowly dog from a block away about 500 times in the past two weeks, and thereís really no prospect for improvement.

So, anyhoo, Iím off to buy bottled water because itís not like I can just fill up containers with that crap thatís currently dripping from my faucets. That would just be gauche.
Addendum: I am having multiple orgasms right now because GEORGE CLOONEY is on the Daily Show with JON STEWART. ahhhhhh. ooohhh. mmmmm.

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