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Greetings from the musty townhouse.
Trinity here. I apologize that it’s been several months since my last article, and I blame my pet Doug for that one. He’s been reminded several times my words were in demand, but forgot to remind ME. He’s lazy, forgetful, and annoying. But he takes doggone good care of me and my fiancée Trina, and I’m not about to look a gift human in the mouth.
Lessee; what’s been going on since I last wrote? Well, for one thing, we learned there’s a good reason for my inexplicable obesity, lackadoggical attitude, and patchy coat. I suffer from the same malady as my pet Doug, called “hypothyroidism.” Ol’ Doc Moore says my reading was one of the highest he’s seen in a coon’s age, and ironically, it’s the same thing ol’ Doc McCue told my pet several years back.
So we’ll be on the same meds for the rest of our natural lives – mine being about 15 more years – his not as long, I fear. So hopefully, with the jury back in on my blubber trouble, I hopefully won’t hear the constant derision like, “Hey, there goes ol’ Alpo Ass,” or “Wasamattah Porky? The truck seat getting higher every time?” I found very little humor in it, and it’s no wonder I’ve looked irregular and crabby.
Now, I AM a hound with goals, but as far as ever getting through our pet door again, I’m not hopeful. It was only about a year ago that ceased to be in the realm of possibility, and I’ll never forget the indignity of being wedged with my keester exposed to the rest of the inhabitants. I won’t soon forget the cat sneers either. Paybacks are a bitch.
Speaking of bitches, I mentioned my beautiful, beloved Spaniel fiancée, Trina earlier. But enough can’t be said for this seductive pooch. My life became complete the day my pet led her from the shelter and she jumped into the our 2nd home, the ’78 Ford F-150. It was truly love at first sniff, and I says to her, “Mmmm; how YOU doin’?”
We’ve been inseparable ever since, and I don’t mean the kind that requires cold water from the business end of a garden hose. We’ve both had operations that seem to have left us craving only foreplay. After the foreplay’s done and we’re both exhausted from face wrestling, we both love to cuddle. What’s missing in between, we can’t even remember and don’t care. I love her mind. Her heart. The sound of her bark. And of course, the wiggle of her cute little buttocks, (I said I’m neutered; I’m not DEAD!) Hey, if loving her is wrong; I don’t’ wanna be right.
Lemmee see; what else has been happening? (Excuse me while I chew on my foot). Ah yes, the city animal contract. Now THAT was a blessing. Hey, I’ve done my time out at that shelter. Of course, in my day, there were no playpens, no “guillotine doors” (such a frightful term for a welcomed window to the outside), and now I hear there’s a “cat room” in the works.
Like a cat needs a ROOM?!! Gimme a break! But more power to ‘em, I bark. Everyone needs social interaction, and a cage is no place for any creature, (not even a human for that matter). As I said, I’ve been in a cage – and for darn near a year – and I’m here to tell ya: It’s no day in the park with a Frisbee.
Some would have my friends at the shelter “put down” after a few months of confinement. To that I say, “GR-R-RR!” No, the cage and lack of a real home wasn’t any Beggin’ Strip, but it sure beats the fleas out of the alternative. And now, even though the East Sheridan townhouse is a newspaper fire waiting to happen, and shared with too many of the feline persuasion, I always have a pillow to lay my head, (his if he leaves the room for more than a second) and a bowl to overeat from. That’s all I want for my compatriots at the Humane Society. God willing, they’ll all find such a home. (Not HERE though. There’s no more room at the Inn, and with the 3 MORE kittens recently added to the mix, I’ve notice the neighbors getting ju-u-ust a little catty.
But with the city contract awarded to those kind, good-hearted (although a little dysfunctional) folk running the asylum, ethical treatment and a dogged reluctance to pull the plug has been assured. There’s GOT to be a loving home somewhere for all those crazy kids out there
Hey, let’s talk stud to man here. Support your Humane Society. If you don’t have the biscuits to offer financially, get your tail out there and visit the poor prisoners. Pet ‘em. Talk to them in a patronizing way – they don’t mind. Take them for walks in the hills behind the shelter. Take it from me: It means everything. God bless you all for giving their lives some meaning and hope. It shall sustain until freedom reigns.
Sincerely Doug’s,
Trinity Blough
P.S. I HAVE to say it and hope you don’t mind constructive criticism. I find your habit of closing doors before relieving yourselves perplexing. This isn’t meant to be a solo endeavor. I’ll tell ya what: If Trina stops at a bush, I guarantee you I’ll be the next visitor to that bush. I don’t give a hoof if I’ve just left my own bush…there’s always a little left for my woman. Come on you two-leggers; learn how to love completely and unconditionally. Stop and smell the urine.
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