There are no bad owners, only bad dogs

2006-05-11

I once asked what "donzerly light" was.

So we were walking the dogs and cat yesterday evening, having a lovely time, when a neighbor who lives a block and a half away pulls up in her enormous SUV and gets out. This sends Buster into a tizzy, because he has a big crush on her and gets an enormous erection every time he sees her. And she’s talking and petting the dogs, blah, blah, blah, and Pumpernickel, the cat/dog, decides she’s not getting enough attention and jumps to the hood of the SUV (which is like a 9-foot jump, because, did I mention, it’s enormous?), then proceeds to get into the vehicle through an open window and explore.

All quite charming, so far. So this woman is a crazy stray cat lady, which I applaud in spirit, but I really don’t want another cat. If I bring a feral cat into the mix, one of my own will just leave and either find a new home, become feral, or become road kill, so thanks, but no. So she had stopped to tell me to get my doorbell fixed, because she had brought Pumpernickel home the other day, and had knocked and rang the bell and I didn’t answer. Which, frankly, I wouldn’t have done if I had known she was at the door, but I didn’t answer because I WASN’T HOME. Then she told me how she was worried because Pumpernickel was panting and didn’t have any water. “I have a cat door and a dog door. She can get in the house anytime she wants to.” Since she was wrong again, she asked where the other cat was, and I answered that he doesn’t walk with us much anymore, what with the three legs and all.

Well. You would have thought I had admitted to enjoying a fried kitten from time to time, because boy howdy, did that set off another little storm.

First, she alluded that I had let Junebug wander around dragging his rotting limb behind him for weeks before I got on the stick and had it removed. Then she backed off that a little and said it must have been his TAIL, not a rotting leg, that she had seen. Then she started on about how he shouldn’t be wandering so far from home because he doesn’t WALK very well and he just hobbles, so I said, “He can climb any fence and when the two cats are running together, you can’t tell them apart.” But she had to ARGUE with me about how gimpy he was. If he’s so damn gimpy, then how does he get to the next block? I really need to talk to Buster about his taste in women.

About two weeks ago the greggers told me, very excitedly, that the freakin’ Amish guy was going to be on 20/20. I was puzzled, because I didn’t know which specific freakin’ Amish guy he was referring to. Turns out that it was the dude who had written Freakonomics. The Freakonomics guy.

Then last week, he had a flare-up of a continuing eye injury that makes him look like a 2nd grader with pinkeye, and he told me he needed to go to the doctor. “I have a tooth-hurty appointment,” he says. Tooth-hurty? Why was he going to the dentist when it was an EYE problem? Turns out it was a 2:30 appointment with the eye doctor.

Then yesterday, as I was driving home with the Van Halen on the radio, I was singing along… I’ll lose her in the turn… I’ll get her…. Cannonball!! Cannonball! And I realized that for the last, oh, 20 or so years, I have been singing Cannonball!! every time David Lee Roth says Panama!!

The greggers says it’s me. I think it’s everyone else.

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