So many things happened this weekend that I don’t even know if I can cram it all into this tiny closet but Ima try.
I see that I literally did not take one photo on Friday, which tells me Friday was some sort of hellish one-thing-after-another day that likely involved work and neonatal kittens and maybe eating things.
On Saturday, I had to get up early for my trainer, and really, is there anything worse than having to set your alarm on the weekend? I mean, maybe you’re one of those go-getter types who loves to arise at 5 on Saturday and take a jog over to TJ Maxx to be the first in line as soon as they open and then you run to the garden store and re-sod 90 acres and then cook an elaborate meal for 40 of your friends, and if you are that type why the HELL would you read this blog?
I have never understood people with drive and ambition. Doesn’t it suck? Like, don’t you feel a terrible urgency that isn’t there?
After the trainer (I’m benchin’ 30 now, and I realize I should join the circus, what with this freakishly strong upper-body strength), I planned to drive to Blueberry Thrill, which is this pretty farm out in the country that sells peaches and blueberries and the like. Since I’ve aged, I’ve gotten oddly intolerant of everything, but also of anything sour or bitter. So while I USED to enjoy a blueberry, the random sour one is now so repulsive to me that I just can’t.
So I was headed into the country for peaches but not blueberries when I saw a kid pulled over, attempting to lure a Beagle running into the road and then away, into the road, then away. “Oh, for the love,” I said, and pulled over too.
“Is that your dog?” I asked the kid, and for all I know he was 16 or he was 30. They all look the same.
“No, but I saw him running and pulled over. There’s another one, too. They’ve been swimming in the creek.”
Sure enough, from out of a very green creek came a white-faced pit, waggling and smiling and happy as shit to be loose, high and free.
“There’s a number on the Beagle’s collar,” said the kid, who was able to just, you know, look at the collar and read the number. He didn’t have to pat himself all over, looking for reading glasses. I suppose I was that person once, too.
He read me the number and I called it, and while that was happening, that damn Beagle kept running into the road. “Wanna go for a ride?” I asked, in my Edsel exciting-news voice.
I want you to gird your loins, but she did. She did wanna go for a ride.
No one answered my call, which I wrote off to me being a weird number. They were probably certain I was calling from Internal Revenue Service about Social Security number. Do you get 90 of those calls a day? “This is Internal Revenue calling.” Sure, Jan.
“Well, I’ll keep the Beagle in my car and you can put the pit in your car,” I said, and we tried that, but that pit would not budge. He stared longingly at my car.
“You wanna go for a ride with your sister?” I asked, and I based the sex of the Beagle on her name being Dixie. Maybe she was part Whistler. I realize there’s no breed called a Whistler. Cut me some slack. I’ve been busy. My funny is buried under all my Outlook meetings. Anyway, I hope you didn’t de-gird your loins, because the pit also too was down for a ride in the car.
Eventually I decided to drive the dogs to my house and await the call from the owner. Yes, I understand I have a dog-hating dog and many tasty cats here. But what else could I do?
I just came up with those names, and hang on while I capture self in oil.
I had my lure-a-dog crackers with me, and while I drove I handed those into the back, where Brad Pit ate all of them. He may’ve been unwilling to leave his Beagle sister, but he sure was willing to let her starve to death. Of course I worried either of their brains would snap and they’d commence spontaneously eating my throat, but they were very good dogs. We were halfway home when my phone rang. Sure enough, it was the owner, and I turned around, Bright Eyes, and took them home.
They live on lots of land, where they can roam for ages, but when you’re a Beagle, that’s not good enough. Talu had Beagle in her. I know of what I speak. The Beagle urge to roam is mighty.
Fortunately, I still had 45 minutes after my heroic dropoff of the dogs to get to Blueberry Thrill before they closed. I dropped off the pit to get to the Peach Pit.
Dear June: Just don’t try to be funny. We’ll all be better off.
As I drove there, I realized the best part of life is the thinner slice, and also that I had had two giant mugs of coffee before the trainer, one large glass of water after the trainer, and suddenly I had the urge. The call of nature. I had to shake the dew off the lily. I fixed my friend Sleeping Beauty up with a friend once and he SAID that on the FIRST (and only) date.
Anyway, I was tempted to just drive home, but the Google said I was only 5 minutes away from Blueberry Thrill, so I said, Look. You can hold it. It’ll be OK. Just get’cher peaches and go.
It was the CUTEST place, by the way. And fortunately for me, there was a port-a-john. I never go in those unless I’m completely desperate, but I can tell you that the dew needed to get off that lily, man. So even though I was convinced I was peeing on a copperhead, I did it and was glad to. There was even a little sink outside with running water. I was so happy, and I walked happily along the happy road to the happy store to get my peac–
SON OF A…
I see that typing this has taken up my whole lunchtime, and I only got to Saturday afternoon, which leaves out the many things that happened on Sunday. This means I’ll have to come back, and I just remembered I told you LAST time that I’d tell you about The Poet and me trying to buy bandanas, as we have big plans to rob a train, so now there are myriad reasons for you to return to the serial drama that is my life.
I’ll try to write tomorrow. I have one of my old movies tonight so I’ll be out late, and also I have many bottle-consuming kittens, and also my job, and also my regularly scheduled pets, and also…
Look, I’ll TRY. OK? I’ll TRY.
With only 4 days left till she’s 56 and even more lame,