For those of you whose first thought was, “OMG she’s knocked up!” – bite your figurative tongues!!!!
No, there will be no further spawn from this end! But we did drive to the Virginia/North Carolina border today to pick up the newest member of our family! Yes… we got a dog.
Not just any dog.
We got a gorgeous, sweet, slobbering, affectionate, snuggly 130 lb. Saint Bernard!
“Oh, but she’s crazy!” you say. “Why would she do that in times of economic hardship?”
Well, this is one way I choose to give back. This is one way I choose to help. I like to rescue animals. I like to help ensure that sweet, defenseless creatures who are abused, neglected or otherwise forgotten by incapable or ignorant humans get a loving home. With so many animals out there needing loving homes, I figured it’s the least we could do, especially since so many people want to adopt puppies. It’s tough to find loving homes for adult dogs. People are skittish. They’re always afraid of what they are going to get. They’d rather get a pup and train him. I guess I can understand that. It takes a special person to adopt a grown animal – especially since that animal could have been abused or neglected.
Tucker is a rescue dog. I will be posting more about the Saint Bernard rescue here in our area very soon, and believe me, it will make your heart ache. Tucker is about three years old. His family had to give him up because his mom got real sick, so they called a rescue. Tucker wound up in a foster home, and we picked him up from his foster family today.
He’s a smooth-coated, beautiful bundle of pure love. As I sit here and type this, he’s on the bed next to me, panting and drooling. And snuggling my leg. He looks content.
My buddy Poet decided to come with us this morning. She brought her SUV, and drove both ways! She’s an awesome friend! Have I mentioned this?
We started out at 0600. Yes, on a holiday. At 6 bloody o’clock in the morning. We wanted to beat the heat, and we wanted plenty of time for Tucker to hang out and become accustomed to his new home. We were grumpy, and the first thing Poet wanted was to find a Starbucks.
Her first text to me was: Dude. Do you realize how fucking early it is?
Did I mention said text was at 0530?
Now one would think that with a damn Starbucks about as omnipresent as God around these parts, there would be a damn coffee to be had at 0530, since that’s when they supposedly open. Nope. All were either closed due to oversleeping staff or shut down thanks to last night’s thunderstorms! Lovely.
If you’d like to see what two women look like before they’ve had their coffee early in the morning, here’s a depiction…
We did finally find a Starbucks, and Poet did finally get her triple mocha something or other.
First, we discussed her hot hookup the night before.
Poet: He’s actually from Morocco.
Me: Did he try to sell you to some Saudi Arabian for some cash and a camel?
Poet: No, but he has a sexy, bald head.
Periodically, I would whip out my Blackberry and read from my new favorite site. This is a site that documents texts from this British guy’s bulldog. It is literally the BEST. THING. EVAH. For instance:
The dog also at times pretends to be a superhero.
Poet and I decided we love Batdog with the burning passion of Independence Day fireworks.
Yes, we are strange. Why do you ask?
Later, we drove by Gander Mountain, and noticed a “CLOSING SOON” sign.
Poet: Oh, look! Gander Mountain is closing!
Me: Oh, cool! We can get redneck stuff cheap!
We also made a scary new discovery. You know how there are these Furry conventions, were people get together and dress up as gigantic furry animals, and sometimes they get together and somehow manage to hook up while wearing said costumes? Well, I present to you something a bit more disturbing: BronyCon!
This is where grown men gather together to worship at the altar of…
My Little Pony.
That’s right, the friggin cartoon. Grown men get together in a gathering that makes a convention of Richard Simmons impersonators hosted by RuPaul appear like the epitome of brawny masculinity. Don’t believe me? Check this shit out!
And yes, they claim they love the show for its storyline and writing, which is a bit like guys claiming they “read” Playboy for the articles.
Poet: We should put blue wings on the dog on Halloween!
Me: I think Rob may kill you.
Rob (from the back seat – we thought he’d been asleep): I will SLAY you!
After three hours on the road, we finally arrived in some backwoods town called Bracey – right on the border of Virginia and North Carolina. The meeting spot wasn’t difficult to find. It was likely the only sign of actual civilization in the entire area – a gas station and a Pizza Hut. And then we saw our new
On the ride back, Rob sat in the back with our newest family member, who hit his rather large noggin on the ceiling several times before settling down with his head partially in Rob’s lap. Poet and I would periodically reach back and scratch those gigantic ears and wipe slobber off our arms.
We had lunch at Sonic, where I discovered that the path to Tucker’s heart is through his stomach. I fed him most of the grilled chicken breast out of my chicken wrap, because frankly I don’t like chicken, and I haven’t the slightest idea why I ordered that wrap. Tucker had no such chicken hangups. He gently engulfed my entire hand until I released the piece of chicken into his mouth. Yes, I fisted my dog’s mouth. Several times. He liked it. Trust me.
We continued on our way, as Rob snuggled our new
baby pony in the back.
After some miles, we realized that Tucker was… um… flatulent. Poet noticed it first. I knew something was wrong when she gagged and opened her window. I didn’t smell anything until the second ass bomb rocked the back seat!
After a while, however, both boys fell asleep in the back seat, although I had a sneaking suspicion Tucker had something brewing.
Overall, Tucker traveled well, snuggled up in the backseat on top of a blanket and several towels to collect the drool.
We giggled over the Kia Soul that was being driven by a human – not a rodent in Hammer pants – alongside us. I have this urge to sing the Party Anthem and do the Kia hamster dance every time I pass one of those goofy vehicles. They’re not hipster. They’re not inventive. They’re weird. and they make me worry that one day I’ll pass one of those goofy looking cars and a hamster with its baseball hat on backwards will be driving it. I doubt that’s conducive to highway safety!
The conversation also turned back to Poet’s hookup.
Poet: I’m going to stalk the Moroccan. I like camels.
Me: Blink! Blink!
Poet: ROFL!!!! I could stand being Wife #3!
Me: No! I can’t see you as a #3. Head wife, or nothing.
At this point I was thinking both the
dog pony and the man in the back were counting down the actual miles until we got home. The chick talk was hitting weirdness once again, especially when Poet threatened to get a pair of antlers from the Gander Mountain and glue them on the dog pony. We may have also talked about possibly combining a BATDOG costume with a pair of My Little Pony wings. Once again came the glaring threat from the backseat – from the man, not the dog pony, who just wanted to lie there and drool in peace.
There was a untold number of cops on the road. I stopped counting after about 17, when I saw a herd of them – both marked and unmarked – congregate in one of those shaded areas on the side of the highway marked “for authorized use only.” Poet got sick and tired of slamming on the breaks every time she saw one of these vultures sitting by the side of the road looking for a victim or flashing blue lights on the other side of the road having stopped his prey. We thought we were going to fly and get there as quickly as possible. She wound up just hitting her cruise control and setting the speed just a few miles above the posted speed limit.
The next time we passed one of them, waiting patiently for his next conquest, we both simultaneously stuck our middle fingers in the air through the sunroof.
CRUISE CONTROL, BITCHES! – that’s what they would have heard come out of our car had we bothered to slow down.
We arrived home and Tucker immediately ran inside and began to sniff around. He noticed the two cats, and wasn’t sure what to make of them. He came up to them hoping to introduce himself and play. The ginger cat looked a bit horrified, but held her ground. The fat cat looked like someone had just stuck a thermometer up his ass… again… (We took him to the vet last week, and as she tried to take his temperature, he accidentally backed up into the thermometer hard and anally raped himself). His fur stood on end, and he decided the best place to escape from the large, drooling
dog pony was a window sill. I tried to gently pick up the fat cat and explain to him that Tucker meant him no harm…
I have the claw marks on my shoulder and back to prove it. I think from now on, I’ll let the cat get accustomed to the
dog pony at his own pace.
As for Tucker…
He fit right in.