Possible Giardia, and Can Somebody Bring me a Beer?

Yesterday I came home to a living room full of shit. I’m not sure how else to emphasize that last sentence. The entire floor had shit all over it, in piles and splatters. Apparently, Charlie didn’t feel so good. I fixed it with laborious creativity, and medicine paste, but today Lucky Lou has poo all over her bloomers from her own self and the litterbox made me gag. I cannot wait for Chi Chi’s. Hers will be the most innovative.

I am exhausted and also very tired from my own excretions as well, and after camping on a Thermarest (TM), I’ve realized how crappy my own bed is. That thing really wants to make my life miserable. No amounts of smudging or orgasms will help me sleep better on that piece of BaltarBalls. But first I need a raise, kitty vet dental visits, and a poke in the eye.

So I’m bent over naked

trying to flush, and the dude that walked into the campground’s potty is all, “Uh, Sorry.” So what do I do? I turn around. And show him the front. Then I realize what I’m doing and I put my hand there to try to cover it, like that works.

So I left him a grumpy as a third present.

The Most Awesome Dog

A sneak peek of the much needed vacation. He’s so frakkin’ rad, this duder:

Fatties with Crunked-Up Grills

Dude, the vet said they are fat and need to be put on a restricted diet and that they have the gums of a cat 10 years older than them. But that their fur is real pretty. And at least they’re not as fat as your mom. Their mouths will cost me about $200 each every year for the rest of their lives. They have to be put under like surgery, and that’s at the cheap-ass clinic. She said it’s because of being bottle-raised, or genetics, or whatever, but it really made me sad and mad. It looks so bad in their grills that they could loose some teeth if I don’t whore myself to find some more money. Mama’s on a tight budget, bitches.

From the start they’ve been money-taxing, terrible felines. They almost died, had fleas and ringworm that they gave to the rest of us, infected who-ha’s, constipation, and I can’t even tell you about the long nights. I mean, look how awful they were:

Princess, Slut, and Jack Rabbit

The cats hate me when I give Princess Charles a bone. They treat him and I with such disdain, it drives me to grab another beer just to tolerate their protest.

Chi Chi is such a slutty whore with wanting to smell the treat, I have to monitor the situation. Charlie gets confused with her advances.

This is what my summer eves consist of. I really need a vacation.

I’m still not over you.

I’ve sat teary-eyed at work for two days. I don’t know what to say; the words are just on the brink of being there, then I don’t have the adjectives. I don’t even know if I’m using semi-colons right. All the memories wash over me in waves, and I smile a sad smile or shake my head in disbelief. I try to focus on the memories that make the most sense, and I play them over and over again. Which is just craziness.

See what the frak I’m talkin bout: click on this, and click on THIS, yo.

It’s crazy. I cannot bring myself to complete thoughts about what happened at the end. It blows my mind and puts me in humble awe, yet I still haven’t reconciled with it.

That universal language that brings everything together. Layers of intuitively knowing. The music is in the frakking Earth. Every once and a while somebody picks it up and channels it out, rare and beautiful. Stop and listen.

The pit in my stomach feels like it’s renewed energy, reminding me of what my connection to Earth and creativity means. Should mean.
It’s wackadoodle to put this kind of weight into story and music, but it moves me so. I need something to move me. We all do. At least this didn’t cause 50K in student loans. My regret is not being at that show. No, Frak regrets, I’m sick of them.

I Die

I have died from the heat. The End.

Gorram Magic Dog

It’s Charlie’s fault. He finds dying kittens, lost dogs, deer, coyotes, and welcomes coons and birds. He got his ear sliced by the brother of Gus, but cats are, you know, bitches. Charlie sure is a looker, but the dude can’t keep paying his rent in rescues. I reckon he doesn’t know how to write grants, either.

Am I the only one faced with these decisions?

I think not. I know this happens to almost everybody: You see a dog wandering the streets. What do you do?

a) Say to yourself, “Bummer. Oh well, he’ll go home – he knows where he’s going.”

b) Say to yourself, “Stupid dog, stupid owners, not my problem.”

c) Pause and gauge the danger from other traffic vs. the dog. Then drive slowly away.

d) Corral the dog, call the owner via any dog tags, ask neighbors, or take him to the pound.

e) Take it home and put him on Craigslist. Then take him to the pound the next morning.

f) Get to your destination, then call Animal Control and report the dog.

I’ve done all of the above at some point in my life. I chose “f” today because I felt I had stretched work to its limit with my recent rescue activities. I’m known as the “Cat Broker.” NO I WILL NOT FIND A HOME FOR YOUR FRIEND’S KITTEN. I needed to come to work near on time today. I could have put her in my fence and then called Animal Control, but Gus was all, “Hail No, Lady. WTF?” So I left that sad, lost yellow lab. She looked right at me as I drove away and she said, “Oh no, what am I supposed to doooo?” It’s when they look at you like that. That’s the thing. How can you turn away?

Hope she’s okay. Hope is basically worry and leaving it up to others. Hope is lame.

UPDATE!!!:

There she was again this evening. Charlie helped me coax her into my yard, and I posted on Craigslist because Animal Control was closed. 15 minutes later the owners came and got her. Then I got 4 phone calls from people who had seen their post on Craigslist and matched it with mine. Then I got 4 more people emailing me matching the postings, all within an hour. I guess I have a little hope now.

Pairs

What do you do with a cock?

I make sounds to attract it, chase it with a blanket, run and laugh, and trap it behind something so I can hold it like a football. Then I take that gorgeous thing somewhere where it can have a harem.

You stupidass green yuppies who think chickens will cure everything. What do you do when a chick grows into a cock? Do you really think there are enough “farms” out of the city limits who will take it? Chances are grim, you idealist fool. You cannot kill and eat what you raise, urban preppy, you just will not. So what then? You take it to the only rescue place that is too full and does not place chickens anyway? You take it to the mountains and leave it to it’s doom? You drop it somewhere where there is land and you think nobody will notice the cockadoodle in the mornings, so inevitably it becomes somebody else’s problem? How very irresponsible.

It’s okay though, right, cuz you think you’re entitled to help yourselves help the world. It ain’t helping. Abandoned cocks is only one problem caused by the ignorant bliss of urban chickens and you.

I hate you. I really do.

Upon threatening to take her to the pound, somebody has claimed her.

That’s how I roll. Tomorrow she will be rescued from the rescuer. A person from work will giver her a loving home, as opposed to the terrible prison of regular eating and Chi Chi growls.