I am including herein some doodles that were inspired by Miss Doxie and her explanation of how bathing dogs tends to lead to wine, with or without bugs.
This is what happens when Katy finds something stinky:
This is what happens when baked goods are nearby:
This is what happens at 9 p.m. No one knows why:
This is what happens 22 hours each day:
This is why Katy’s fur is so shiny:
Last night was a fairly typical evening here at La Maison des Chiens Mechants. Around 9:30-ish, Junebug came in meowing loudly, but muffledly. What’s muffling the Bug? I wondered. Oh, it must be that baby rat he’s holding in his mouth. Buggy brought me a gift! Awww. How sweet. Uh-oh. Buggy did not kill the gift before he brought it in. It’s in the bathroom! Well, if he goes in there too, he’ll catch it and give it a hard, quick shake. Nope. He’ll just corner it, then settle down in front of it and stare at it. He’s going to stare it to death. He looked away because staring at a mouse isn’t as interesting as he thought it would be. There it goes! It seems somewhat impaired, but not ready for a wheelchair yet. Oh, good! It’s under the bathmat. Buggy is just going to play with it to death. He’s jumping on the lump in the bathmat and it’s squealing quite loudly. Shit. Here comes Pumpernickel. She’ll kill it. Quickly and painlessly, so the poor little thing can stop suffering, even though it is a rat in my house. She’s got it in her mouth! C’mon, Pumpernickel. Shake it! Nope. She dropped it and now it’s in the hall closet. Do I really have to get involved in the drama of the life and death of this little creature because my cats, cats who bring dead stuff home all of the time, won’t finish the job? They’re going all Reservoir Cats on me, and they’re both Michael Madsen. Are they going to douse it with gasoline next? Just kill it.
I manage to trap the little critter in a plastic container that used to hold frozen cosmopolitans.. Ok. Now what? I really can’t let it go outside, because that would just put it through more terror and a long death (it wasn’t bleeding, but had been battered quite a bit). I wasn’t about to call any wildlife rescue organizations. Then I turned to my trusty friend the Internet, the friend who never lets me down, unless the Fugly girls fail to update, and asked it how one can quickly and humanely kill a mouse. Boy, there are some really sick people in the world, aren’t there? I already knew one way to do it, but I didn’t want to do it that way and was hoping to find a less hands-on method. I didn’t. I found that a lot of people need counseling. So I put on the gardening gloves, took a few deep breaths, went outside, and whacked it on the head really fast and hard. It was deeply unpleasant. I just hope that next time, Junebug brings me flowers or a couple of fleas instead.
In addition, I had to work all weekend, while wearing pantyhose. Of course, the work was in a ski resort in a big square state, but it was still work. Hot meeting rooms. Bad food. Diet Pepsi. Torture. I spent several hours stuck in the Denver airport, which seems to have it in for me big-time. The plane intended to take me home circled the airport for so long it ran out of gas and had to go to Colorado Springs to get more. Then when it finally got there at around 11:30 p.m., we sat for a long time with no air circulation while waiting for bags to be loaded. I was sitting next to that traveler’s nightmare, that evil demon, the cranky small child. His mother was completely oblivious to everything he did. He kicked the back of the seat for a VERY long time before the husband of the seated passenger got up and asked her to stop allowing her child to kick the seat. She didn’t punish him. She didn’t really even admonish him. She shoved him farther back into his seat, then shut her eyes as he went immediately back to the kicking. He took the free headphones and tried to break them. He unbuckled his seat belt and stood on his seat during the taxiing toward takeoff. She did nothing. He took the airphone out and started banging on the buttons. Nothing. Except to tell him that of course he could go see “Cars” the next day. As a treat for kicking the back of this poor woman’s chair for over 3 hours. We finally landed at 2 a.m., got our bags at 2:30, and I was home a little before 3. Oh, and I had lost my parking ticket, but it was OK because when you lose your ticket, they charge you for parking in the most expensive lot, which was where I had parked anyway. I had to park there because I almost missed the plane on Friday. It was just a crappy weekend all around. And as long as I’m bitching, let me just say that I read that “Cars” has more than 350 marketing tie-ins. Disney is a whore!
Wow, it’s been a long time since I updated, so now I get to try to remember just how it was that I came into possession of David Cassidy’s shoes. The short story is that I stole them. Well, traded them, because I no longer have the shoes I had. I went to a party at the home of the Drama Queen, who knows all of the lyrics from every Broadway musical ever, and is not shy about busting into them at any given moment. She was raised by actors and has a lot of weird stories, as well as theatrical memoirs. After a hell of a lot of drinking, she brought out David Cassidy’s shoes and I felt like Cinderella, because they fit so well, I knew they must be mine. She told a story of how she came to possess these magical objects, but I can’t remember it. Then somehow most of the female party guests ended up wearing knit cocktail dresses with sparkly crap sewn onto them and swimming in the pool. After this, I was pretty much fried. There was one party guest who had let it be known that he wouldn’t mind “getting to know” Drama Queen “better.” Well, hallelujah, because she has needed a good boinking for ever since I’ve known her. So the greggers was aware of this (due to his mantuition) and just started rounding up people and herding them out the door. Another of the party guests ended up outside on her way to the Pig Stand wearing David Cassidy’s shoes, only she was not Cinderella. So I traded shoes with her, and now I am holding David Cassidy’s shoes hostage, because no one can love them as much as I do.
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