February 6, 2008
After being rained out for the better part of two weeks, I am finally taken to the park for eleven minutes, including clean-up. I exhibit great forbearance and do not sue or call Oakland "Animal Cops" in spite of this paltry outing. I'll be dead soon from wasting.
She has sent away for a machine, imaginatively called "Peticure," which does nails. In all the marketing videos, actor dogs scream and sink teeth during regular nail-cutting and then sit blissfully while the device, nicely lit but approximately the size of a space station, envelopes their feet, whirring away. Their nails emerge looking like Westminster group winners. Then there are testimonials. From people naturally. Veterinarians, who, notably, hurt me at every opportunity, insist it feels just great. I remain skeptical. I've seen enough torture porn to know that you never, ever insert a limb into a machine.
Jack and I are to be married. We have agreed no children. If he changes his mind and I am caught pregnant, I have it in the contract that I can kill and eat them on delivery.
February 8, 2008
Hunting back on, nice and regular, and the students are generous with yours truly. No foster dogs on the horizon and kitten season coming so all in all looking up. The nail-o-matic hasn't arrived yet but she stocked up on shaved turkey, which suggests I may actually get some training at this, rather than having to white-knuckle it. Will be interested to see whether Kiska's dwarf heart-failure thing survives an insertion before I venture past the "target with paw outside of device" step.
February 15, 2008
Most excellent birthday yesterday. Immeasurably better than last year when, if memory serves, I was drugged, put on the rack and violated. Extra-long hunting with high yields followed by souped up breakfast. Then, mid-day, a party (a **p-a-r-t-y**) for yours truly. Roast chicken, pecorino romano (at perfect temperature), scones and chicken crunchy circles, my personal favorites. At one point a rumor that baby rats were to be brought in. Triple fabulous - for a fleeting moment I felt heard, truly understood. But these did not materialize so I made do with a cadre of buffable dogs, all of whom, incidentally, partook of every conceivable goodie on top of both ID and ice cream cake. The thought of mass Bay Area grunties crises all night gave sweet dreams. As usual I was prudent and selective. Also shrewdly dodged pointy hat for the most part, until she caught me toward the end. What is with that anyway?
Slight hangover and wanting only to graze on crunchies straight up today. She coughs and coughs and appears unwell. Unable to verify her will but dare hope I am bequeathed to either Kiska or Irene and Bill. If the former, will brew a contingency plan to dispatch Violet. Even a subliminal buffing likely to cause cardiac implosion. Labrador might prove trickier but feel creative and so will mull this. If the latter, hello multi-walkies and - heart be still - no more nails. Ever.
February 29, 2008
I am to be married this year to Jack, which I anticipate will be both fun and involve the beach. Of course, lately she is such a train wreck and work-obsessed that it might not happen but assuming it does, I must finish sowing my wild oats. To that end I have upped my attempts to seduce the husky at the park. He is stately, non-irritating and smells excellent, even with slightly muddy feet. I call him my Mr. Darcy. To date he is not impressed but I will keep trying. Until he's ensnared I will not let on that I am a top, as I suspect in his current state of mind this could be a deal-breaker.
Still no nail device, which is neither here nor there. No walkies this morning as I am rendered irrelevant the instant she feels a nano-unit more stressed than usual, shelved in favor of feckless work efforts. Hoping for a Darcy sighting tomorrow, if she deigns to let me see the light of day. Nearly starved on top of it this morning but then scored a mind-blowing galacto-delicious junk-o meal at work.
Why can't she fully grasp that all the paper pushing and computer communing will be rendered for naught when the asteroid hits. It's about w*a*l*k*i*e*s, yeah?
March 24, 2008
At last I have landed an audition at Kiska's. There are two resident dogs, both of whom I could easily outlive and one of which would raise not so much as an eyebrow were she to turn up stiff one morning. I will be quiet, pleasant and refrain from strong buffing until they have sufficiently bonded to me. Hoping for fog walkies galore.
And get this: they who are abandonning me will be off the continent and at some risk *below sea level*. Definite possibilities here.
April 14, 2008
Haley the cheerful Labrador has Personal Cesar Chavezes installed in her yard. This revelation, along with Dax's ability to summon them to her fence at will, make my situation (a deck with tulips and so far no luck at conjuring) all the more stark. And now that I am hauled out of bed before 5 a.m. for walkies in the dark, the resident park population are all on seepies. Yes, it's cooler then, which I get, but also as dead as Mars.
Short visit from Kiska today, notably sans Velveeta. Oh, and I get no presents from Northern Europe, home of the world's largest stores of saturated fat products. Most from Janis today is bread and - get ready - an ID spill. Wow.
*Still* no whirring nail device. Can I stand the suspense.
May 4, 2008
All was well. Daily hunting, still no nail machine and regular extra walkies with Kiska, who is always nice to me. Even saw Mr. Darcy the other day and think I made myself clear.
Then catastrophe: underage foster puppy. Aside from the endless stream of urine, feces and hysteria if left alone for several seconds, the thing eats all - and I mean all - her time. I have been given limited access and slowly rot away in the hallway while she plays deliriously fascinating tuggy-tug tug games with him using *my* toys. I keep listening to hear if he's sneezing or clogging up - not out of the question that he's incubating distemper. Also some small but clear chance he could self-strangle in his little sherpa bag.
May 16, 2008
He's gone. Hot damn. Got my office back and services ramping back up to normal. But temperatures approximating the surface of Mercury and the prospect of ****no A/C**** all weekend very sobering. No matter. No more dogs in the house. Ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!
May 20, 2008
CLOCKWORK ORANGE! CLOCKWORK ORANGE! Held in death grip as pointy metal object is inserted into my ear while they say "it's ooooookay, it's ooooookay."
"OKAY????"
I immediately confess, identifying A-Rod and Dax (who the hell names these dogs anyway?) as witches, and Preston and Henry as members of the Communist Party to no avail. "Saw III" lady keeps coming and yanks a piece of shrubbery the size of a Dodge Caravan (with thorns), out FROM MY EARDRUM. I am no sooner cycling through the bite-sue options when SHE DOES IT AGAIN.
Then it's over. I stand there, shattered and staggering and am offered - get ready - a Science Diet Lite dry cookie. What the fuck planet are these people on? AND WHERE IS PETA?
Small mitigator: Buffy-friendly cat in hallway.
May 28, 2008
New walkies place shaping up better than I feared. High dog density annoying but manageable. Running regularly into Paul and John, who are always nice to Buffy. Getting better at rooting out the crafty Cesar Chavezes there, and score the occasional snack and mild buffing, including a stealth double-team with Preston the other day. Sweep pingy but growing on me.
Nail device is never to come and she now files and files, which does not upset me and obtains quite a smashing result, but is oh-so boring. Chicken would help but she is too cavalier for this.
June 29, 2008
Interesting development. I am brought to my correct walkies place this morning and spend forty-five minutes gunning down Cesar Chavezes. Not sure what brought this fortune on. Apparently she sprouted guts overnight or something. Way fewer foxtails than expected so hope I may not have to wait until the rains. Have mulled and think if I were given lots of happy juice I'd risk another extraction in order to get daily hunting. I think so anyway.
Julie (who is always nice to Buffy) gone, and best foster kitten whisked away. Remaining kitty is grindingly, crashingly ho-hum. I do score some raw kitten food, which is approximately 99% meat. Oh, and cat gets TWO podiums. I, unsurprisingly, still have none.
