current mood: eh
Today the dog that ate my cat just had a batch (a litter?) of bastard puppies that I can’t help but fall in love with because–hello, puppies, cute!–and also feel totally responsible for their well being. Dammit all to hell and back again. The funny thing is (and this is probably only funny to me because Mexico has made me even more insane than I was before) that the cat that this dog ate was named Cow because she looked like one and one of the puppies of the dog that ate Cow looks like a cow. So now I want this cow-dog and I’m feeding and hovering over the mom like she was mine all along and didn’t eat my little Cow.
Cow was just the latest of my pets that have kicked the bucket. I have a long torrid history of pets that just seem to all get killed in horrible ways. I feel a bit responsible in the way that I have boat loads of bad luck and maybe this is transferring to my pets in a really bad death sort of way because they are smaller than me. I don’t feel responsible in the way that I didn’t personally kill any of my pets and I did have good intentions each time I “rescued” my animals. Poor things. When I walked into the humane society to pick out my kitties there should have been someone behind me yelling “dead cat walking” as I walked from cage to cage picking out which one’s time was up on death row instead of adopting it.
Before Cow there was Chloe. She was a Mexican puppy that some waiter we met named Flash (don’t know why he was called Flash) left behind when his dad came down here and forced him to go back home to the states because he was not being good in Mexico. (People usually aren’t.) So I take the little nugget home and for the longest time I think it’s a boy dog and am calling him Efren after the nice Mexican cop that helped me get my car out of the Impound where the cops killed our first Mexican puppy, Squishy. I had Chloe a grand total of maybe 3 months in which she grew exponentially and continued to want to sleep on my head. (I am a cat person. It freaks me out how big dogs get in such a short amount of time and how clingy they are.)
To make a long story short Chloe bit it. The dust, that is. Some bastard poisoned her. Not sure why someone would go out of their way to kill a dog in Mexico that actually belonged to someone instead of the random packs of crazed scraggly dogs I’ve talked about previously. Not sure why someone would go out of their way to kill a dog in Mexico in general.
Now we will move further back in time to my first Mexican pet mentioned above. A puppy I met when I first moved here whom I called Squishy because he had a broken leg. So my boyfriend Scott and I try to fix him up and take him in and feed him and he becomes our Squishy. The cops ended up killing Squishy in the Impound. They left him in the car but did take the time to steal my prescription Coach sunglasses. I hope that whatever bitch is wearing those sunglasses right now gets strange and horrible behind the eyeball headaches each time she puts them on.
Before my move to Mexico I lived in Arizona where I lost 2 cats to evil cat-eating coyotes. One named Ragamuffin (brother to Pootie), the other Lola. My mom always tries to tell me that they just got out one day and were roaming the neighborhood and some nice family took them in thinking they were strays and are now living on a ranch with lots of other cats to run around with and mice to eat.
She told me the same thing about the one and only dog my family ever owned: a retired greyhound named Susie-Q (she came with that lame name, I had nothing to do with it). Since we were much more a “Cat Family” than a “Dog Family” my mom told me that she and my dad gave Susie-Q to a nice family in Texas that owned several other greyhounds on a ranch with a lot of land that she could run around in circles on for the rest of her retirement. My mom, bless her heart, always lets it slip out years later that the lies she tells to placate us are complete fabrications and that Susie-Q got out and ran away and they have no idea what happened to her and that she probably got hit by a car or something. It’s not that my mom is a bad liar, it’s that she either feels really bad about lying in general or she just plain forgets that she was “trying to make you feel better.”
I’m a bit reluctant to get a new pet, but not reluctant enough to not get a new kitten. And I’m not getting a new kitten to replace Cow (and Chloe and Squishy and Ragamuffin and Lola and Susie-Q) but–actually, yeah, pretty much to replace Cow. I went out to look at a batch (once again, litter? Cluster? Whole heap?) of kittens to pick one to be my “New Cow” and as I pointed to the little white one and said “That one” in the back of my mind my finger turned into the boney finger of the Grim Reaper pointing to the little white cotton ball of fur and doomed the poor thing before it even had a chance to live it’s silly little cat life. I should probably just name it R.I.P. and start making the little kitty headstone now. (Now thinking about it, what would the headstone say? R.I.P., R.I.P.?)
I’ve been told that it is my bad luck that is killing these animals and that by wanting them, feeding them or just plain being around them is giving them their death sentence. Like I was walking by this house one day and they have this sort of doofy looking mini horse thing. He’s smaller than a pony but bigger than a mini-horse. He’s brown and white and his mane is black and sticks straight up in the air like a mohawk. I immediately loved him, named him Dexter, and wanted to take him home with me. (They never said anything about pets on my lease and he’s just a little horse.) Scott put his foot down on trying to liberate Dexter from his pseudo-mini-horse poo-covered coral and leading him to our apartment where I would have proceeded to tether him to the bars on our front window. So I resigned myself to feeding him carrots and apples and petting him and talking to him whenever I pass by.
When our neighbor Mike found out that I’d been feeding Dexter he shook his head and said very matter-of-factly that we should expect a meteor to shoot down from the sky any day now and squish Dexter into oblivion. But then he was kind enough to tell me that I could name the crater left by said meteor after Dexter. If I didn’t deep down know that he was most likely right I would have kicked him in each shin. Be on the look out for Dexter Crater coming soon to Puerto Peñasco.
Cow was just the latest of my pets that have kicked the bucket. I have a long torrid history of pets that just seem to all get killed in horrible ways. I feel a bit responsible in the way that I have boat loads of bad luck and maybe this is transferring to my pets in a really bad death sort of way because they are smaller than me. I don’t feel responsible in the way that I didn’t personally kill any of my pets and I did have good intentions each time I “rescued” my animals. Poor things. When I walked into the humane society to pick out my kitties there should have been someone behind me yelling “dead cat walking” as I walked from cage to cage picking out which one’s time was up on death row instead of adopting it.
Before Cow there was Chloe. She was a Mexican puppy that some waiter we met named Flash (don’t know why he was called Flash) left behind when his dad came down here and forced him to go back home to the states because he was not being good in Mexico. (People usually aren’t.) So I take the little nugget home and for the longest time I think it’s a boy dog and am calling him Efren after the nice Mexican cop that helped me get my car out of the Impound where the cops killed our first Mexican puppy, Squishy. I had Chloe a grand total of maybe 3 months in which she grew exponentially and continued to want to sleep on my head. (I am a cat person. It freaks me out how big dogs get in such a short amount of time and how clingy they are.)
To make a long story short Chloe bit it. The dust, that is. Some bastard poisoned her. Not sure why someone would go out of their way to kill a dog in Mexico that actually belonged to someone instead of the random packs of crazed scraggly dogs I’ve talked about previously. Not sure why someone would go out of their way to kill a dog in Mexico in general.
Now we will move further back in time to my first Mexican pet mentioned above. A puppy I met when I first moved here whom I called Squishy because he had a broken leg. So my boyfriend Scott and I try to fix him up and take him in and feed him and he becomes our Squishy. The cops ended up killing Squishy in the Impound. They left him in the car but did take the time to steal my prescription Coach sunglasses. I hope that whatever bitch is wearing those sunglasses right now gets strange and horrible behind the eyeball headaches each time she puts them on.
Before my move to Mexico I lived in Arizona where I lost 2 cats to evil cat-eating coyotes. One named Ragamuffin (brother to Pootie), the other Lola. My mom always tries to tell me that they just got out one day and were roaming the neighborhood and some nice family took them in thinking they were strays and are now living on a ranch with lots of other cats to run around with and mice to eat.
She told me the same thing about the one and only dog my family ever owned: a retired greyhound named Susie-Q (she came with that lame name, I had nothing to do with it). Since we were much more a “Cat Family” than a “Dog Family” my mom told me that she and my dad gave Susie-Q to a nice family in Texas that owned several other greyhounds on a ranch with a lot of land that she could run around in circles on for the rest of her retirement. My mom, bless her heart, always lets it slip out years later that the lies she tells to placate us are complete fabrications and that Susie-Q got out and ran away and they have no idea what happened to her and that she probably got hit by a car or something. It’s not that my mom is a bad liar, it’s that she either feels really bad about lying in general or she just plain forgets that she was “trying to make you feel better.”
I’m a bit reluctant to get a new pet, but not reluctant enough to not get a new kitten. And I’m not getting a new kitten to replace Cow (and Chloe and Squishy and Ragamuffin and Lola and Susie-Q) but–actually, yeah, pretty much to replace Cow. I went out to look at a batch (once again, litter? Cluster? Whole heap?) of kittens to pick one to be my “New Cow” and as I pointed to the little white one and said “That one” in the back of my mind my finger turned into the boney finger of the Grim Reaper pointing to the little white cotton ball of fur and doomed the poor thing before it even had a chance to live it’s silly little cat life. I should probably just name it R.I.P. and start making the little kitty headstone now. (Now thinking about it, what would the headstone say? R.I.P., R.I.P.?)
I’ve been told that it is my bad luck that is killing these animals and that by wanting them, feeding them or just plain being around them is giving them their death sentence. Like I was walking by this house one day and they have this sort of doofy looking mini horse thing. He’s smaller than a pony but bigger than a mini-horse. He’s brown and white and his mane is black and sticks straight up in the air like a mohawk. I immediately loved him, named him Dexter, and wanted to take him home with me. (They never said anything about pets on my lease and he’s just a little horse.) Scott put his foot down on trying to liberate Dexter from his pseudo-mini-horse poo-covered coral and leading him to our apartment where I would have proceeded to tether him to the bars on our front window. So I resigned myself to feeding him carrots and apples and petting him and talking to him whenever I pass by.
When our neighbor Mike found out that I’d been feeding Dexter he shook his head and said very matter-of-factly that we should expect a meteor to shoot down from the sky any day now and squish Dexter into oblivion. But then he was kind enough to tell me that I could name the crater left by said meteor after Dexter. If I didn’t deep down know that he was most likely right I would have kicked him in each shin. Be on the look out for Dexter Crater coming soon to Puerto Peñasco.
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