7:05 a.m. (Hah! Remembered!)
If you tuned in yesterday, you'll recall, with your sharp precision that knows no bounds, that I said, "I haven't saved the bird yet or seen the muskrat or closed down two more places or gotten to Peg or talked about Boomer the big-headed dog, so I guess I'll write more tomorrow."
Well, here it is. Tomorrow. Let's not adieu any further. Which I think means "goodbye" so that made no sense.
After my near-brush with lawn-guy death on Saturday, Ned and I returned to my abode and did not bid adieu but instead let out aLottie. See what I did, there? We got the leashes and took everyone on a walk, and by "everyone" I don't mean you were the only one not there. I just mean in my dog kingdom.
So we'd rounded the corner toward the park for The Seeing of the Chickens in That One Back Yard That Faces the Park, when I saw a bird just motionless in the middle of the road. "Oh, no," I said to Ned, handing him Lottie's leash without another word. Ned used to walk the dogs with me all the time, although they contained a calm Tallulah and not a berserk Lottie. But he's used to my oh no-ing and handing the leash off thoughtlessly. I'm just glad he didn't lose a hand since our breakup, and my thoughtless leash-handing would have resulted in tragedy.
Why does my brain work that way?
The poor thing was motionless, with his beak open like he was gasping for air, although he didn't seem to be. I used the (unused, calm down) poop bag to try to pick him up, he wriggled away, and so I sat and talked to him for awhile.
And that is when he started following me around.
Oh, it was cute. I'd walk a little and he'd hop after me. Finally I got him, took him to the shade under a person's bush, and I mean, like, foliage, pervy. Then Ned and I screamed the poor dogs home (Edsel was all, wak abort again so mom can save dum burd), got water and a shoe box Ned punched holes in and drove back to the spot.
Ned parked and stayed in the car to search bird rescue places and I got my shoe box, my cup of water, my tiny dish and spoon and was hunching in the bushes talking to a bird when the people who owned the house with the bush drove up.
You know how this hair looks crazy anyway?
"Oh, hai. I was just talking to a bird under your...your...trying to capture and rehabilitate...okay, nice to meet you." Once they arrived, the bird flew off, so then I looked COMPLETELY sane. I was just talking to this imaginary bird in your bush. Hey, you on NextDoor? Me too! Looking forward to the warning about me on there!
Are you guys on that thing? Go see if you have one for your neighborhood. You get all KINDS of good gossip, and all sorts of drama from busybodies. They should've named it Gladys Kravitz, not NextDoor. You also get to see people pictures so you can check if you have any hot neighbors.
News flash: I don't seem to have any hot neighbors. A lot of very involved 42-year-old women, though. "Did anybody hear those sirens? Is everyone okay?" Oh, please. You don't give one fuck. You just want the guff. AS DO I.
After I, you know, got up from under those people's bushes and said my name was Peg so she'd look crazy and not me (and there's a giant chance they'll mistake us at the next block party), Ned and I decided to go ahead and walk in the park anyway, even without my poor dogs, who were probably home ordering giant bones online.
"heyyy. bonez dot com do not haff anytheen edzel wan--well, hai, fyrmenz!"
"Oh my god!" I screeched, and Ned is used to my random screeches as well. But in the creek, there, was a swimming little muskrat! Oh, he was cute. We could see him all sleek and swimmy, and then he got out and showed us his little muskrat head, and I got the water and shoebox and tried to convince him it was great at my house.
I Googled to show you a cute picture of a swimming muskrat and came across this horrific picture instead. Are those, like, his innards up top? What IS that? Somewhere, Muskrat Susie is very sad.
Finally, Ned and I stopped looking at the muskrat, and went to our respective homes and showered, because neither of us had yet that day, and it was 10 p.m. when we finally went out to dinner. I'm sure you recall, from your Big Book of June Events, that in June of 2012, we went to a restaurant and sat clean in the dark. Like, they'd failed to light the damn outside portion of the restaurant, and so we sat in utter darkness and despair. Except we didn't, because we'd been dating six months and it wasn't complicated then and oh, June of 2012. How I miss you.
The point is, we ended up closing that place the other night, although this time it was at least lit. This town goes to bed early. Then after, we wanted to try this new brewery, but first I wanted to come home and check on Lottie, and guess who's a pain in my ass.
So when the doorbell rang and it was quite late, I was glad Ned was there. Because scary.
It was Peg. Of the kneel-in-the-bushes-in-people's-yards Pegs. "My lights are out!" she announced, stomping in defiantly. "I see yours aren't."
Ned called Duke Energy, and it turns out most dukes have a ton of energy, and also it turns out 35 houses in my neighborhood were out of power, as was the blinking light on our corner. Something about a bird coming back to life and wreaking havoc on the power lines.
I told Peg she could stay at my house and watch TV, but she demurred. "I'll just go to bed," she said, so Ned and I headed to the brewery. Which we closed down.
And also, at said brewery, right next to us, in a chair like he was a person, was a big big big, big-headed dog named Boomer and I LOVED HIM SO BAD. I tried to act like I was taking an asshole selfie and get him in the background, but the angles didn't work. OH HE WAS A PUMPKIN.
I kept hearing people ask Boomer's owner, "What kind of dog is that?" and she kept saying, "He's a mix." Yes, we KNOW he's a mix, but get your hundred dollars together to find out he's a Boxer/Pit/Shep/Lab/Golden mix when you know perfectly well he's a Blackmouth Cur and they don't test for that.
Not to be specific. Which of you emailed to tell me Lottie's a Blackmouth Cur? Because I think you're right. Here's a regularly scheduled BMC, below, at three months old.
Here's my "shepherd mix" at three months and 19 days.
Anyway, that sums up my adventure-filled Saturday. Yesterday I found a tick on me, so now I'm Yolanda from Real Housewives. You have THAT to look forward to.
From my cryogenic tank,
P.S. My latest Purple Clover, about the day I called all my exes and discovered I'm crazy.