To paraphrase Robert Frost, leashes make good neighbors. I do think every living spirit deserves to, you know, celebrate itself in its own special way and everything, but I have become a believer in the leash. And not just because my guy is a wanderer. A leash might have prevented the sad guy in the minivan from having to drive around this morning asking people if they’d seen a little white dog. And Charlie, the gallumphing sparkle fresh from an early fishing outing with his person, while perfectly charming and friendly, was also soaking wet and large and gallumphing. Ramona may not discriminate, but Jones and I would rather not have dog encounters forced upon us. Leashes provide a boundary which, in turn, allows for choice.
Cat poop consumed: no
A few years back when they were relevant, I read an article in one of those magazines about Sporty Spice vacationing on some tropical island. As soon as she arrived she did a vigorous workout to combat travel fatigue and jet lag. I was all, yeah right, but there were, like, pictures to prove it! It does seem counterintuitive to believe that exercising a weary body will infuse it with energy, but I just have to say that tonight when I was feeling tired and mopey and swoll’, a loop around the neighborhood perked me right up. And I even got a little upper body work done yanking Ramona away from cat poop.
Cat poop consumed: yes
My brilliant system for hands-free transport of my iPod nano in my feminine support garment has proven to be a poor choice, as it expired yesterday, drowned in perspiration. I’ve been meaning to wean myself off the podcast dependency I’ve developed and clear my head of the newsy clutter, but I’d hoped to get to it, you know, later, and with my iPod still intact. Now I’m forced to reorganize my mental feng shui and just be here now. Oh, the rain-fresh morning, oh the black-eyed susans. Oh, the warm poop in a plastic bag. Oh, the house for sale on the corner.
Cat poop consumed: no
Poor Jenna. She’s curious. She’s probably friendly. She has a mandate to patrol the perimeter. Her people let her hang in the yard without a collar. It’s only natural that she’d come over and check us out. This takes some time and care, so she didn’t respond immediately when her person demanded she get back in the house. We hustled past but not fast enough to mute the sounds of her cries when they punished her. Judge not lest ye be judged and everything, but come on.
Cat poop consumed: yes
The extremely skeezy Club 420 (a supposed reference to its address, not its guiding principle) lost its liquor license two weeks ago and there seems to be a domino effect happening downtown. The stalwart guns & ammo store has “closed until further notice.” Lifetime Ink has relocated its needles and naugahyde lounge furniture further down to 14th, one assumes so they can be closer to the inspired patrons of the the strip clubs that cluster there. Dancers A La Carte (serving all of your dancewear and erotic housecleaning needs) is also closeing [sic]. But if you still have needs there is a number to call in the window. And the strip club that tried to open across from the arts magnet high school has finally removed the Opening Soon! sign. I doubt that my colorful burg will ever really gentrify, i.e., open a dog treats bakery, but is it possible that vice and dissipation may give way inexorably to day spas, Jazzercise, and soul food?
Cat poop consumed: no
The anti-anthropomorphists would caution against ascribing too much agency to dogs, I suppose. Their argument being that dogs, like all animals, are ruled by biological impulses, not cheeky personality quirks. But I would swear that Jones had a secret conversation with Ramona to promote the delights of cat poop, which she has taken to eating with as much vigor as Jones. She doesn’t even have to slow down on that particular stretch of sidewalk across from the Bungalow Market. She just lowers her head and inhales it as we go, like a whale trolling for crill. Vitamin deficiency? Increasing reproductive success? The shifting pack hierarchy? Does this also explain her newly acquired love of cherries, and how she and Jones find the shriveled old ones fallen in the backyard and crunch them together in a chummy huddle?
Cat poop consumed: naturally
The chatty kid with the yappy little black dog at the corner of 10th and F was out in the yard with his friend eating popsicles. Is that dog part bagel? the friend asked, pointing at Jones. Yes, he’s part beagle (subtle correction to help the earnest young person learn the appropriate names for things). Good call, I said loudly over the hysterical chihuahua. Not to be outdone, Mr. Chatty attempted to plumb the depths of the universe’s most mysterious secrets and pointed at Ramona: What’s that other one? I think it’s a Cuban. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that one’s a Cuban.
Cat poop consumed: yes
