There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


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Hey, Andrew! Go fuck yourself in your own ass!! Diaryland is just like being part of a family! I hate you!

So, I just spent 20 minutes trying to upload photos -- all less than the size limit -- and I keep getting a fucking error message because Andrew is an alien homo cock-sucking terrorist.

Anyhoo, -- it's been a busy few days. I have been to Santa Fe and back, therefore having experienced a level of humidity less that 120%. Santa Fe is both lovely and creepy, and while I wouldn't mind visiting again a time or two, I find the enforced adobe and dried chiles a bit tacky and overwhelming. I mean, I have hardly ever seen a Cadillac with longhorns on the hood in Texas, but EVERY FUCKING BUILDING in the whole city is daubed with mud. Give it up, people. Or move to Orlando. It's a small world, after all....

On one occasion I left the never-ending practice session to get some Diet Cokes. I walked for block after block. Everywhere I turned I saw !leather goods! Trinkets! Beaded shit! Really, really, seriously shitty art featuring "Santa Fe colors" and chunky native Americans. Bookstores! Faith healers! Crystals! Not kidding! So one of my colleagues, CrazyWheelChairLady, is sort of from New Mexico (she also claims to be from Minnesota and to have many wealthy relatives), claims to speak six Navajo languages, and is "on the board" of various arty committees and pueblos, and is a certified Braillist, and I whined quite a bit about the lack of usefulness of the entire metropolitan area just to piss her off. I can't even remember the point of all of that. Oh, CrazyWheelChairLady. I may have mentioned her before. She claims to be wheelchair-bound, but when she gets out to her car after work, she GETS OUT OF HER WHEELCHAIR, LIFTS IT INTO THE VAN, AND WALKS AROUND TO THE DRIVER'S SIDE. She then GETS IN and drives away. Because there's some sort of magic bubble around her. As I walked past the front desk of the hotel at which we stayed, I heard the front desk crew making fun of her because she paddles herself along with her feet while sitting in her chair. Join the club, kids. And she tried to take the whole crew on a forced march of NM, but only the weak succumbed. And just because she's such a fucking ass, I mocked Santa Fe's uselessness (a reality) just to piss her off.

I had an excellent meal at Geronimo, one of those places which is eternally cursed with having a possessive attached, although it's incorrect. It's Geronimo, people, not Geronimo's. He's like all dead 'n' shit. He's not a chef. It's Geronimo. And it has some damn good food.

So this weekend, Pumpernickel did one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. As my regular reader knows, my cat(s) frequently believe that they're dogs and walk along with the dog walking. I am a local celebrity. I am frequently asked "Are you the lady who walks two dogs and a cat?" This usually occurs when I am standing next to two dogs and a cat. So Pumpernickel (ugly photo follows) was with us on Sunday. The following events tood 3 to 4 seconds to transpire:

Katy shoved her head under a bush, flushing out a very young sparrow. The sparrow fled in terror across the yard. The cat witnessed all of this with her chin chattering and her tail twitching. The bird alit in a branch of a small tree. The cat arrived at the tree fractions of a second after the bird. She leapt about 5 feet into the air, twisting and spinning on the way. She plucked the tiny bird from its branch at the apex of her leap. She landed with the bird in her jaws and shook it hard, once. That broke its neck. Then she tossed it a couple of times, mentally screaming "PLAY, motherfucker!!" But the bird was dead, alas.

The dogs and I stood there with our jaws gaping. The greggers jumped up and down, yelling "Didja see that?!? Didja?!?" Like Corky. Pumpernickel eventually left the carcass behind and continued acting like a dog, crapping in the yards of strangers.

Here's a phot of just how scabby Pumpy looks with her allergies 'n' shit.

Then there's this

And this

So I really do have an appointment for Pumpy to go to the vet and figure out a) what she's allergic to, and b) how that can be mitigated. I just got promoted, meaning that I now have to supervise someone, which is essentially my worst nightmare. My supervisee is LoudGirl, who sits next to me and told my boss that I puked at her house. woot. gah. At the lovely restaurant Geronimo, the waiter damn near smirked at her because her cocktail order was Captain Morgan's and Sprite. She is truly Master Shake. Classy. Next time, it may be Malibu Rum and root beer. Big Red and Jaeger. This is the person I get to supervise. She and CrazyWheelChairLady will someday fight to the death. I hope. I vowed on my trip to Santa Fe to take pictures of something that is not one of my pets. I photographed a lovely piece of art that looks just like Buster, but that rotting piece of maggot-riddled flesh named Andrew won't let me upload it.

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