Six years ago, when I interviewed for my current job, they said, “The other copy editor on this account is a poet! A fancy, famous, celebrated poet!” They said this like it was a good thing, all smiley, and I was all, Oh, fucking fuck.
I mean, a poet. Who would hate me more than some deep, slant-rhyming, everything-is-a-metaphor poet? Okay, an athletic, no-nonsense girl. She’d hate me more than a poet. That type always abhors me, but a poet would be a close second.
“I think you’re going to be good friends with that poet,” said my mother, who’s generally good at predicting things. But I was all, pfft. A poet. In a million years, I was never gonna be friends with someone who sat around all moonily, saying things like, “The sky opened my heart like a vintage melon.”
Why didn’t you go into poetry, June?
The point is, of course, The Poet at work wasn’t remotely awful, and we did become good friends, and in a million years you’d never know she was all award-winning and fancy and poety unless you Googled her, and in short she’s way less full of herself than I am. Which is a stretch.
This past year she’s had some shit-ass luck, which I won’t go into other than to say among other things, her very old Pomeranian died, which was the last thing she needed, and nothing’s better than a sentence that has a comma followed by “which” in it twice.
After much debate, The Poet decided to adopt a new pet, and it was my feeling that a cello-playing, fancy awards-ish poet should own black cats, but she has always liked Pomeranians, and after a long search settled on one. Or two.
They were mother and daughter, and both were available after the people who owned them ran into some financial struggles. They were also 34884939393 miles away.
“Oh, I’ll go with you to look at them,” I said, because you know how I am.
So on Friday evening after work, we loaded up the car with maps, snacks, a carrier, a carrier pigeon, Walter Pidgeon, Burt doing the pigeon dance, Danny Terrio from Dance Fever, which lead to us having a fever for the flavor of a Pringles, which thank god takes us back to snack so I can stop.
Car was full, is my point.
It was a really pretty day, and a really pretty drive in the country, mostly on two-lane roads, and I was having a lovely drive that I could not shut up about and am certain a poem is being written right now called, Get the Fuck Over Our Country Drive Already, Bitch Ass.
Finally, we were in the teensy town in which The Poet’s teensy dogs were residing. We were absurdly happy with the idea of going to Buzzard Law Firm, but soon we decided we must carrion.
I’ll be here all week. Stop telling me I don’t have to be. I’LL BE HERE ALL WEEK.
We drove down a cute country road, and The Poet noted we were to look for a blue house.
“Well, it’s a blue [um um um um] HOWSE,” I sang, because everything needs to be made into the song Brick House with me.
“She’s the one, the only one, built like an ankle massage,” sang The Poet, who in case you didn’t know has been featured in Paris Review, and once I wore perfume called Paris, and also I know who Paris Hilton is, so.
The point is, IT TOTALLY SOUNDS LIKE THEY’RE SINGING BUILT LIKE AN ANKLE MASSAGE, and I’m afraid I got those kinds of giggles where you just wish I’d evaporate or something. As we climbed the stairs to the blue [um um um um] HOWSE, I said, “I hope they’re not assholy dogs or anything. What if we get here and you hate them?”
“Or what if they like you better?” she mused, and it was right about then we walked in, both dogs burst over, and got right on my lap, never wanting to move again.
Like seriously, they were so Team June. If we’d been on The Bachelor they’d have given me a rose. If we were in a pageant, I’d be sportin’ the sash, the Miss Pomeranian sash. I was the pick of the litter.
Eventually they sauntered on over to The Poet, their rightful owner, and it was about three seconds in that she consented to get both dogs, the mom and the daughter. They have ludicrous names, so now she’s working on names that sound a lot like their old names, only not as horrid. One is most def named Minka, but the other we aren’t sure of yet.
“I say you change their monikers altogether to big, solid woman names,” I said, because both dogs smooshed together form one-eighth of Edsel. I think. We’re taking maths. They’re small, is m’point. Petite. Teensy.
Bertha and Marge. Madge and Bernice. See? That’s the route I’d take, but who listens to me? Helga and Maude.
Oh my god, if I’d been The Poet I’d have cockpunched me. The one time I didn’t want dogs to be all over me, and they fall deeply in love.
The Poet signed all the papers and took another carrier, a folder, two leashes and the dogs themselves and put them in my already The-Beverly-Hillbillies-moving-to-California loaded car, and she held them on her lap while we drove home.
It was dark at this point, and starting to rain hard, and as we tooled back down the country roads, there came a possum. He was strolling, merely strolling, across the street, and given the rain and the two-lanedness and the dark and the dogs on The Poet’s lap, I could not swerve, but instead had to pray the timing would work out just so, but no.
I killed that poor opossum. This of course has haunted me all weekend, and I feel awful, and I will never forget the feeling of killing that poor animal. I am the worst. I am the enemy of the opossum. His family is probably still waiting for him to come home.
Will never get over.
But other than my murder of innocent marsupials, it was a fine trip, and when I speak to The Poet on Monday, I’ll let you know if she came up with names and/or flipped them on Craigslist for a profit.
“Flipping Poms” is a great idea for a poem. Right? Be sure to ask me about all my poetry awards.