Velociworld

Bleary Eyed

A rather pitiful specimen of Labradorous Insanianum, eh? The only reason I post it is because her bloodshot, woeful eyes belie the spastic fiend she were earlier today.

Took the creature to the vet for her last round of shots this morning, including her rabies. She slipped her collar getting out of the truck, and ran like a fucking Kenyan chasing his first Boston Marathon win after that. Hid under a pickup truck, begreasing herself, and took an enormous evacuation in the parking lot before I coaxed her inside with promises of kittens, thus far unmolested.

She bounced off the walls liked a biphetamine junkie until we got her in the examination room, then she ramped up the energy level.

I had to strap her to the scales. 58.7 pounds of consternable retardation. Took her shots like a big girl because I was letting her gnaw my wrist into bloodpulp. But it took the three of us (me, vet, tech) to pin her down to clip her nails. Her eyes were rolling in her head like Catfish scoring pornable stripper pussy, I tell you. When we finally let her up there was a puddle of drool the size of the ever-receding Aral Sea on the floor. Again, just like Catfish.

She needed the shots, though. I'm taking her to the mountains for a bit of vacation Friday, and while chasing squirrels she will undoubtedly find the only rabid opossum in North Georgia (the only rabid opossum in South Georgia being Pogo, of course, in the Okefenokee Swamp). Because there is no way she will grace me, and run away, or get lost. No, Bella will find some rancid dead coon and drag it back. And feast. And snarl and snap should I try to drag it away with branch or limb. It is her nature.

I'd rather not board her, though, because that = $$$ I am unwilling to commit. Plus, the sidelong glances I received today at the vet told me NYET! We take Moose and Squirrel, no Crazy Bella, comrade. Plus I'll need divertissement as I work on the Great American Novel. It being so taxing a responsibility. So far it's a roman à clef. Faulkner is thinly disguised as the Archie character, Hemingway is Moose, and Fitzgerald is Jughead. I'm Mr. Weatherbee, for some reason. Perhaps for the gratuitous paddlings I get to administer to the aforementioned.

I refuse to say who the Betty and Veronica characters are, but you're probably reading this, and I post naked these days. So, as the French say, et voilà! (well, that's what those Frank hotties told me in St. Martin last summer, when they brought me mimosas at breakfast to ease my rheumy eyeballs). Personal follow up e-mails coming. With shameful, but unbelievable, pix. Yes. I really did that. Twicet.

Yes, this has the makings of a disaster. But I'm game. Hell, I'm fucking Weatherbee! Bow before me.

Did I mention I'll be about 15 miles from the rape scene in Deliverance? Why I'm taking the dog. Not for protection, of course. For bait.