Thursday, October 20, 2005

One year ago next month, my dog left her tail at the veterinarian's office.
Without going into the reasons that are now quite obvious regarding my new awareness of not choosing a dog from the local newspaper under 'Absolutely Free', this tale (sorry, Isabella, no pun intended) begins eleven years ago when I selected the German Shepherd mix from a small Lafayette home. I stepped into her life heroically and took her home in a microwave box in the front seat of my 1990 Grand Am. The cutest grey eyes ever, I was convinced.

Shortly after, I planned our first trip to the Wildcat Creek for initiation (i.e- submersion into water, to see if she had what it took to be called 'my dog', which she ultimately passed quite easily, I should say). My first indication that she was no normal canine should have occurred to me that afternoon when we were winding through the trees in the car on our way to the big adventure as she jumped from window to window in the back seat sniffing at the air. Now a 1990 Pontiac Grand Am's back windows only roll down about halfway, but that was quite enough for Isabella because as the car sped around one of the many curves, she tumbled out the window into the street. I watched in horror and wonder in my rearview mirror as she bounced on the road behind me. She was unharmed, miraculously, and we continued on our way to the water.

So the issue of the tail comes as no real surprise:
age + tail cyst + dog who enjoys chewing on it's own body more than I'm comfortable with = $800 vet bill to remove the tail and 11 months of follow up appointments with continued disbelief that she's still chewing on the 4 inch nub.

Man's best friend, my ass.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Opening my wallet and dumping the contents out the car window while traveling at 80 mph down the interstate would have yielded the same results.

So I took on a job recently that left me with that feeling of, 'Shit, do I really want to be doing this type of work?' and, 'Damn, who can I underpay to get this job done for me while I make a little something for myself?'. This met with disastrous results by way of several deep scratches in the tempered glass upon delivery, by the way; but I digress.

The idea of being able to 'do it all' in my field of work is enticing; as, no doubt, in many other careers, I assume. So all of this not-wanting-to-be-outdone-by-the-overachieving-high school-age-supermarket-clerk-who-displays-his 'perfect-attendance' pin-with-pride, all of this social pressure led me to agree to take on a project that was neither carefully planned (on my end, apparently) nor profitable to anyone but the giant local hardware store that received a panicked phone call from me on Saturday evening at, say, 8:12 pm to reorder another door to begin reworking the order.

So the next time I see Lance at the Payless Supermarket, with his dumb little shiny pin, I'll be sure to squint my eyes and crinkle my nose nastily at him for the unintentional contribution he had to my recently failed project and at my own stupidity for subbing work out to an artist with an abundance of testosterone and a Popeye complex.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Art from the Heart: The Hurricane Relief Silent Art Auction
If you're local, and by local I mean anywhere near Indiana and give a hoot about the displaced victims and the destruction of the Gulf region caused by Hurricane Katrina, this is an event not to be missed.
Get in on it.