Ed Grimley voice: "I must say, I'm disappointed, you know."
I write about being kind enough to stop and pick up a lost dog in the Fourth of July write-up. I figure that some of you animal worshipers out there would have contacted me by now and said, "Hey, dannye, how's that lost dog doing? Have you found the owner yet?"
Well, to answer the unasked question, "Hell fucking no, I haven't found the owner yet!" This damn old dog sits here every freaking day, eating my expensive dog food, making my dog jealous as all getout, and whining and barking like a downvoted newbie, all night. Just 'cause I ask him to go sleep on the screened-in porch. Screened-in porch! Do you know where this dog could be right now? Under the wheel of a Chevy Blazer, or in the Animal Shelter with 120 hours left to live.
He's a nice enough old dog, but we've named him "Huffer" 'cause all he does is lay there and pant. It's sorta like moJoe's last girlfriend who paid us a recent visit. (Forget the address, darling.) How can you be panting when all you've done is get your ass up to eat (again)?
He's not fat, and he's trimmed up like whoever owns him takes good care of him. So why hasn't the owner called around and checked with the five fucking thousand places I've left my phone number? Why hasn't the owner looked in the paper for the ad I paid for with my own goddamned hard-earned money?
I swear to God, this dog is gonna be on the treadmill to oblivion soon. This is no idle threat. Where is the one bleeding-heart when I need one? I'll mail this damn dog FedEx to you, anywhere in the world. He hasn't humped my leg once! Hell, he hasn't gotten off the damn floor, except to eat. He'd make a good pet for you sedentary noders. Every time you finished a little work of your art and hit stubmit, you could look down and see his loving approval. With just a little drool thrown in for ching luck.