Scratching my head
Oh the irony
The dog is gone, the dog kennel is gone … all vanished. They’ve probably moved the dog to behind the house, and it’s probably all my fault.
But I haven’t heard any whining or crying, so maybe he’s gone. Or stewed.
Last night, the dog was whimpering and crying, so I rang the doorbell and ended up talking to a very nice woman, the daughter of the house, who no longer lives at home but was visiting. She said the dog is her uncle’s and they’re dogsitting for another week. “He misses home,” she explained. “I’m sorry he’s bothering you.”
Naturally, I had visions of the dog being beaten. I offered to take him for the week because he’s stuck in a kennel and we have enclosed yard.
And hell. I would miss home too if I were stuck in a kennel for hours on end, tied up with a shipworthy rope, and left without food and water.
I opened the kennel door and the dog cowered. The ammonia fumes rising from the piece of carpet in the kennel were overwhelming. As soon as I retreated, he jumped out of the kennel and cowered against the side of the house. After about an hour of sitting with him, I finally got him to eat kibble from my hand and managed to pat him. The water bowl was empty, and when I refilled it, it was emptied again by a very thirsty litle dog.
If it’s the same dog from a week ago, he’s lost a lot of weight. I’m not sure it is.
In any case, he was so scared he wouldn’t come with me, even after untying him and trying to lead him with bits of leftover pizza, so I ended up tying him up again. I left him outside the kennel, and he was okay for the rest of the night.
This morning, I ran to the store and got some dog biscuits, but he’s not there. I hope … My mission for the weekend is to get him over here, take off that horrible rope around his neck, and let him roam free in the backyard.
It really pisses me off. I know there are cultural differences — and as the woman said, “We don’t value dogs in our culture, we eat them.” Fine. It’s not terribly different from eating a lamb or even a cow, when you think about it. But why offer to dogsit if you’re not going to take care of the thing? Furthermore, this particular dog was apparently hers when it was a puppy, but she couldn’t take care of it, so gave it to her uncle. I asked what the dog’s name was, and no one knew. Then, when I asked about the puppy, she said it was a pain and her parents got rid of it.
According to the neighbor immediately to their right who was out walking her dog, this is the fourth dog they’ve gone through. She has suspected the dogs are a foodsource too. Of course, she also said she has rats in her garage because her dog returns home with chickenfeet in his mouth, and that the smells coming from their barbecue on the deck make her want to vomit, so who knows?
Anyway. Enough rant.
The latest from our illustrious Prez:
“We got an issue in America. Too many good docs are gettin’ out of business. Too many OB/GYNs aren’t able to practice their — their love with women all across this country.”
Read more.
I called the Humane Society yesterday about the missing dogs and said I had no proof, but …
“We need proof.”
“You mean … ?”
“Yes. You have to see someone eating the dog before we can come out.”
Our neighbors across the way eat puppies.
Well, we don’t know this for sure. But when we moved in, there was a cute little back puppy and kennel in their drive. While I was in Boise, Steve called me in a tizzy and said that the dog disappeared at about the same time they brought in several chickens and decapitated them outside. We wondered …
… and now there’s a new puppy.
The cat’s name is Willy too, short for William. So we’ve got a dog named Willy and a cat named Willy. So do two Willies make an orgy?
I’m not sure which level of hell IKEA occupies.
You might not think it to walk in on a bright, sunny day. The big blue warehouse reaches to the sky. Bright yellow little VW bugs sit jauntily in the parking lot, piled high with self-righteous assemble-it-yourself boxes. There are hardly any cars, because you’re here before the place opens. (You learned your lesson; the last time gave you claustrophobia.) You walk into the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee, before the doors open and read about the history of IKEA: affordable furniture for all. Flushed with caffeine and a pleasant Socialist glow (similar to arguing passionately for national health insurance), you make your way back to the entrance.
And there, waiting for the doors to open, is a herd of people revving their shopping carts. The countdown begins. The doors open; the poor lady offering free coffee ducks. And we’re off, pushing our carts past the living room displays, shooting irritated looks at people who cut us off.
My mission was to find cheap storage ideas for the closets, which are woefully inadequate, especially since I really detest the bookshelves next to the bed dripping with haphazardly folded jeans and sweatshirts. No cigar. Or at least not without paying way more than it would cost for me to build something myself, not that I would ever get around to it. Which essentially means that there was stuff I could have used, but I’m way too cheap to pay $82 for something that’s going to be stuffed in a closet, for chrissakes. (That’s another thing about this place. It’s got weird prices. $197. $74. $689.)
You know, I like the idea of IKEA. I even bought some stuff there–a couple of mugs, many candles, some magazine holders, two plants and planters–but all in all, it’s cheap furniture for that masses that looks like cheap furniture for the masses.