I am halfway through a habeas case at work when Jill, a coworker, turns to me and says:
Jill: “Tornadoes in downtown Minneapolis!”
Me: “What what?”
Jill: “That’s what they are saying on NPR. Check online.”
Posts about Ingrid the Labradoodle and Gunter the Chiweenie.
I am halfway through a habeas case at work when Jill, a coworker, turns to me and says:
Jill: “Tornadoes in downtown Minneapolis!”
Me: “What what?”
Jill: “That’s what they are saying on NPR. Check online.”
Yesterday, I got home from work around midnight.
Working long or odd hours usually isn’t a problem for the dog, unless he has an upset stomach.
So of course, when I open my apartment door I immediately smell that this is one of those nights where Harley made a bullmastiff-sized welcome home surprise.
I let the dog out of the kennel and he skips off to his food bowl. I then grab a trash bag, paper towels, and the bleach.
The little kennel-disaster made me forget about my parking situation: I parked in the nearby business parking lot again because the plan was to just quickly get the dog and move the car.
Now, some of you remember that the last time I parked in that lot, I saw a shooting and had to run from the shooter. And you’d think I would have learned my lesson, but I didn’t. Obviously.
So I finish scooping all of nast out of the kennel and stand up just in time to see a tow truck flying down the street towards my car!
I drop the trashbag full of dog-mess, grab Harley’s leash, and then flee the building like I just saw bejeweled crocs. I run across the street with the dog dragging behind me, waiving my arms – “STOOOOOOOP DON’T TOW MEEEEEEH! I’M A POOR LAW STUDENT!”
I look pathetic enough for the tow truck driver to let me off the hook.
Tower: “I didn’t have you hooked up yet, so you can go.”
Me (gasping): “Thank you, I was just getting my dog……and uh, thank you!”
The tow truck driver’s girlfriend glares at me from the truck. I wink.1
The closest parking space is a few blocks away. I park, walk the dog back to the apartment, chuck the trash bag of surprises, and then decide that it is a good time to go to Wal-Mart since my apartment reeks of bleach and dog poop.
So Harley and I walk back to the car, and go to Wal-Mart.2
What I really needed from Wal-Mart was canned food. I eat mostly fresh food, but once in-a-while I use canned vegetables. And canned vegetables are one of those things best bought in bulk, from Wal-Mart, in the middle of the night…sort of like tiolet paper.
So of course all of the canned-food isles are “closed for waxing” and I was the guy randomly buying nothing but dog treats at 1 a.m.
At least Harley didn’t seem to mind…
1 Now who the heck called my car in at midnight?
2Wal-Mart is by my job actually, so there was a LOT of backtracking that night.
Hey, as long as you’re comfortable.
It finally stopped storming, so I fetched Harley and went to the East Bank to study outside.
Harley got very serious about digging a ditch to sit in:
I went to Wal-Mart1 after work, so I left my backpack in the car to bring my Wal-Mart bags upstairs. I left my backpack, with my school laptop in it, was in the front passenger seat of the car.
After tossing the bags in the apartment and chucking the milk in the fridge, I got the dog for the evening walk. I left my backpack in my car because the car was going to be within eyesight during the walk.2
Harley and I were about a block away when two teenage girls passed us. The girls reeked of pot and shot me the stank eye.
Harley knocked over a mirror last night. It was a $10 Wal-Mart mirror, so it wasn’t a big deal. I cracked open my new box of generic trash bags1 and collected the glass shards.
When I moved to throw out the trash bag, I felt a sharp pain in my thigh – a glass shard had cut through the trash bag, through my shorts, and stabbed into my thigh.
I pulled up the leg of my shorts just in time to see the start of Bloodfest 2009. I grabbed a paper towel, pressed on the cut, and then instant messaged Gibs to see if he could drive me to the hospital.
But Gibs was at work. Drats!
I left work late, so the only street parking was a few blocks away.
When I got out of my car I noticed someone peering from the dirty white car across the street – it was Terry, the toothless man who sleeps in his car.
I nodded politely but Terry just kept giving me this blank-yet-rabid-stare. I could sense his eyes following me as I walked down the block…ugh.
After getting home and walking the dog, I realize that I left my laptop in my car. I decide that it is more prudent to fetch the computer than to explain to the cops why I left a laptop in a car parked next to a crazed semi-homeless man.
Harley is afraid of fireworks and gunfire-like popping noises.
So, he’s spent the past week cowering in the bathroom because it’s the only room in the apartment without windows.
It’s 1am. I’m in my boxers, crouched in my living room, wiping-up a massive pile of diarrhea.
I lysol. I wipe. I lysol again.
The trash can fills. I get a strong whiff of the nast and shoot the dog a “fuck you and die” glare.
He cowers in the corner.
The same thing happens every night.
Harley hears me brush my teeth, dashes into the bedroom, and lunges on my bed.
I then spend the next 15 minutes explaining to him why he can’t just commandeer my sleeping space, as he shoots me the “bitch boo bye” look.
Harley then closes his eyes and starts snoring, and I get frustrated and shove him out of the way.
The compromise usually consists of half the 100-pound snoring-farting-mess sleeping on my leg…
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Actually, yesterday I decided that there was no way that my 9am vet visit was going to happen because I was out late at Jack’s b-day extravaganza and Gib’s afterparty.
But for whatever reason I wake up at 8am and decide that I probably should drag myself out of bed and take the dog to the vet.
So, an hour later I’m standing in an examination room listening to a chipper veterinary assistant run down a list of extensive care plans for the dog.
I was quietly calculating how many hours worth of wages I was going to burn on this visit when the young-ish vet comes in.
The vet looks freaked out.
Vet: “ Oh my god, your dog’s heartworm test is positive!”
The assistant (gasping): “Oh my god!”
Me: “…um, okay, what does that mean?”
Vet: “Oh my god, I can’t believe he tested positive! I mean, I haven’t had a positive case in two years!”
The assistant gasps again. We all look at the dog as if we expected him to drop dead right there. Cue the ominous music.
Me: “Well is he going to die or…?”
The vet then adopted that tone that TV doctors use when they tell parents just how painful their child’s cancer death is going to be.
Vet: “No, well, I mean, probably not. We don’t know how serious it is because if he has had the worms for a while then they may cause heart failure. See what happens is that the heart enlarges…lungs filled with fluid…then horribly painful death… gory details… But I need to do some x-rays to be sure they are about $200. Sign this paper.”
While the vet left to re-check the test results, I called madre.
Me: “I’m at the vet’s. Harley has heartworms.1 It’s going to be like $700.”
Madre: “Hm. Well, how good is the prognosis? Because that’s a lot of money to spend on a dead dog…”
The vet did not take my mother’s practical question very well – although the vet explained the three levels of heartworm (and the fact that the third level was basically untreatable) he seemed aghast at the notion of putting a dog down.
Vet: “Well, we will talk about our, uh, options, when we get there. We need to keep him here today to observe him just in case he has an adverse reaction to the medicine and faints or dies or something…”
Me: “Dandy. I’ll be at work.”
Vet: “Great. See you at 5. You have to go to the reception desk and put down a down payment. That’s our policy for all of our costly procedures.”
Dandy.
So I drive off to the suburbs and worke for 5 hours before heading back to the animal hospital.
Apparently Harley did not take his stay very well.
Assistant: “So I took him out but he didn’t go. But when I put him in the kennel he just looked at me and started peeing a lake!”
Me: “Oh my.”
Assistant: “Oh, and you were right about the flatulence.”
Me: “I wouldn’t joke about such things.”
Assistant: “Oh, and he also pooped in the kennel as well. It was soft just like you said it would be!”
Me: “I wouldn’t joke about such things either!”
They brought the dog out. He looked tired, unamused, and like he just got beaten up.
Vet: “He’s going to be a little sore, but that’s to be expected. Here’s his medicine. And remember he cannot get excited or exercised for the next few months OR HE WILL DIE. Okay? Short walks are fine, but nothing strenuous.”
Well, gee.
Brought Harley home and went back to work for another 5 hours.
When I back home Harley and I are going on a brief, non-strenuous non-death-enducing walk.
1 So about this heartworm business…according to the assistant it takes 6 months for heartworms to show up in test results. I got the dog in March, so he had heartworm when I bought him. I call the animal rescue where he came from and the rescue manager says, “Oh, that’s a surprise! But yeah, we don’t test the dogs for heartworm. That costs extra. You gotta tell me first if you wanted that done.”
The dog’s shedding.
For the past few days I’ve found little tumble-weeds of dog hair all over the apartment. I expected that cacti and cowboy shootouts to materialize any moment…
When I got home today there was a little mound of hair near Harley’s kennel and I had had it.
I looked at the dog and informed him it was on.
So a few minutes later I was wrestling a 100lb dog into the bathtub…and Harley got his first-ever bath.
So yeah. He was not thrilled.
But I’m glad I did it because:
I know. Ew.
But better in the tub than all over the apartment!
Oy vey. The past two weeks? Well, I started summer school and stopped petitioning. Once I stopped petitioning I focused on getting my apartment in order and then tried to maintain my enthusiasm for Professional Responsibility.
I also worked a lot, and ran from random teenager shooters when I came home. Oh, and of course there were drag shows and random hot messes too…
Minneapolis has been Renaissance-fair soggy1 for the past few weeks, but today the temperature was in high 70’s and it felt unbearably hot.
I walked Harley around campus and he was all, “Okay, seriously, this heat is some bullshit.”
“Yea, this heat thing? No. It’s not working. FIX IT!
He didn’t stop shooting me glares until I let him run in the river:
And it was hot enough that he dried out before we got back to the car. Score.
The summer is shaping up to be wonderfully breezy: work, class, hanging out, repeat.
The marathon training is not going well however. I need to unleash my inner Jillian Michaels this week… it’s just a matter of finding the appropriate wig and snarl…
1 Seriously, mold and plague.
“Oh, I see. Why doesn’t my Kennel have fancy blue sheets?”
“I unleash the dragon…breath.”
“You are getting sleepy.”
Funny, I was thinking the same thing:
I am so glad that the cover for my kitschy Ikea sofa is machine washable…
Harley doesn’t run around the apartment because prefers lounging about with chew toys. This is usually nice, but I (for whatever reason) decided to mess with the status quo and be playful…
So I walked into the dining room and crouched down on all fours, then called Harley over…and hilarity ensued.
I had that stance that dogs take when they are about to jump (see picture here).
This was an extremely bad idea, because what does Harley do when he sees me? He barks, runs back into the living room, jumps on the sofa, and STARTS PEEING!
What the hell….
And then of course, I was crabby, and he was crabby because I was crabby…and an hour of laundry ensued…
Gibs and I walked Harley last night. We are crossing a street when Harley stops in the middle of the street:
Me: “What is in his mouth?”
Gibs: “Oh, it’s probably just a piece of bark…”
Me: “No, I think it’s a DEAD ANIMAL!”
Gibs: “But it’s so dark and flat.”
Me: “Maybe you’re right…”
Gibs searches his pockets for his cellphone and I search my pockets for a doggy bag. I’m using the doggy bag to remove the thing from Harley’s mouth when Gibs uses his cellphone to shine some light on the thing:
Me: “IT’S A SQUIRREL!”
Gibs: “A squirrel?”
Me: “A pancaked, run-over squirrel! That is disgusting! Remind me not to let him lick the squirrel juices on me later, because I’m going to forget...”
I chuck the squirrel-cake in the bushes and we keep walking.
Later that night we are walking up Nicollet Avenue when we see this guy stumbling towards us. The guy is in his 20’s, has a big frizzy ponytail, and is high out of his mind. So of course Friz wants to meet the dog.
Friz: “Can I pet your doggy?!”
Gibs is giving me the “WHAT THE HECK/OH MY GOD/DON’T YOU DARE” look.
Me: “Sure.”
Friz falls to the floor, grabs Harley’s face, and starts cooing and kissing him. Gibs and I exchange a “Is this guy serious?” look.
Friz then lets Harley lick all over his face.
Me (to Gibs): “Are you thinking about the squirrel too? Muhahaha…”
Friz then gets a little too comfortable with Harley. He gives him a full body hug, and then tries to PICK HIM UP.
Gibs’s face says: “WHAT WHAT WHAT?”
Harley’s face says: “Um…thou did not.”
Friz stumbles back and drops Harley. Harley walks away like, “No, fool, you are done.”
Friz: “Come back!”
Harley gives him the “bitch please” look and we keep walking.1
1 Gibs thought it was crazy that I let Friz pet the dog, but I explained that the dead-squirrel-licking made it totally worth it. Also, I trust that a bullmastiff will let someone know when they cross the line…
Most dogs have a habit of kicking their hind legs to cover up their business.1 But my dog has a habit of kicking his business.
So I’m standing on the corner of my street, texting.
Harley finishes his business, and I am not paying attention so I don’t catch him before he starts to kick his back legs and launches his business into the air.
Poo flies everywhere. I hear screaming from around the corner:
Mel: “WHAT WHAT WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? IS THAT SHIT? WHO IS THROWING SHIT?!”
Mel turns the corner and glares at me. Molly is sporting her standard uniform of daisy dukes, flip flops, dirty white tank top, and the overstuffed Cub grocery bag…and she is livid.
Mel: “Why, it’s that BIG ASS DOG again! And he throws shit now!
Mel (talking to the dog): “You think throwing shit is funny? THROWING YO SHIT AT PEOPLE DOG! YOU CANNOT DO THAT! You’re exactly what’s wrong with this country. YOU ARE A TERRORIST! TERRORIST!”
Harley walks towards Molly and she storms off screaming “terrorist.”
I exchange wtf-looks with the Somali men at the bus stop and keep it moving…
About ten minutes later I’m near Loring Park, texting again, and not paying attention to the crazy she-mullet approaching.
This lady had a fountain of spiky 80’s hair with an extra long rat tail. I really suspect she fluffed out a dead cat and decided to wear it as a headpiece, but maybe she just wants to bring back 80’s Tina Turner.
Tina: “Is that dog named Caesar?!”
Me: “Uh… no. He is not named Caesar.”
Tina: “Are you sure?”
Me: “Quite.”
Tina (bending down to pet): “Oh, well, I see a couple walking a dog like this all the time, and their dog is named Caesar!”
The full line of questioning and cooing followed – how old is he? Oh what a sweet dog! Is he mixed with anything? What a cute baby! Yes you are! How is his temperament? Oooh gimme kisses!
I almost felt like telling her about the poo flinging incident but didn’t want to prolong the Vh1 flashback.
We get away from Tina and turn the corner. We near the 19 Bar when a short stocky guy walks out from the bar’s parking lot. He reminds me of Buzz Lightyear, minus the cool costume.
Buzz: “Cute dog.”
Me: “Thank you.”
I start to wonder if Buzz is cute or not when Buzz’s cologne hits me. Actually, the cologne doesn’t just hit me, but it punches me in the gut, drags me around the corner, and then waterboards me. That’s how bad it was.
Buzz: “Are you okay?”
Me (gagging and wincing): “Oh, I’m fine. Have a nice day.”
Buzz looks at me like, “freak.” And prances into the bar. Buzz’s toxic cloud2 followed.
I hope tomorrow’s walk around Calhoun is less eventful.
1 Yes, this post starts with dog poop. Welcome to 1L summer!
2 And I swear my clothes smell of whatever cologne he showered in. He’s wearing it for the entire bar…my goodness.