I’ll be using a lot less of my little stepper machine in future, I think…
Since I bought the Prissy-Van, “Walking-About” has declined to “walking across the street”. Ky and I (who has yet again been re-named – she is “The Evil Hypnotist”, and you’re about to find out why) both worried this would happen.
And that our bums would suffer for it.
Which they have. Mine started to get flabby, so I bought one of those little stepper things that look like bike pedals. I will attest that they work wonders on flabby bums.
Ky’s bum got big. Er. BiggER. Not big (She’s bigger than me, now. She may read this. I may suffer.). Thankfully, the little stepper-thing works wonders on big. er. bums, too.
Finding time to go on Walk-About disappeared about the same time the snow flew for the first time last fall. We were going to get snowshoes, just like the last five winters, but, just like the last five winters, winter came and went, but we are still snowshoeless. The stepper made us feel a lot less guilty.
We will be walking again. And again… and again… and again… because…
We now own that dog you see up there at the top.
The Lily-Dawg was ours for her first couple of years, until we moved into a squinchy little apartment that was not dog-conducive. Ky could see Lily whenever she wanted to, though, so she didn’t really get the chance to miss “owning” a dog.
Two days ago, when she went over to visit Lily, there was no Lily there. The cat was gone, too. They both just up and ran off. Together, apparently.
Yesterday afternoon, after I worked the first of several night-shifts and just got to sleep, the phone woke me up. It was Ky’s dad, calling to tell us that he had discovered Lily’s whereabouts.
She was at the pound. Of course.
It would cost $160 to bail her out.
Plus a fine because she hadn’t got her yearly registration.
Plus a fine because she’d wandered off possibly-rabid to spread infection throughout the neighbourhood. No, Sir and Madame, telling people that “the dog is friendly” does not protect her from rabies.
I knew damned well, too, that they wouldn’t let me take that dog out of there without proof of ownership, fines paid or not, and my name is not Terry Becker, is it? No, it is not. I would have to take him with me to pick Lily up.
He couldn’t come with me when we wanted to go, and Ky was in full “THEY’RE GOING TO DESTROY MY DOG!!!” mode.
So she and I went by ourselves, hoping that her freaky ability to talk anybody into (or out of) almost anything might spring the dog. And between Ky’s freaky ability and my $160, the dog was sprung. See…? “Evil Hypnotist”.
Although the Dog-Jailers didn’t want to give up the dog to anyone other than the registered owner, my child suggested that since he hadn’t registered Lily this year, he possibly hadn’t done so ever. Could they go back to the 2001 records to find the registered owner of the imprisoned? Please…? Pretty, pretty please…? Yep, they could. Turns out…
*I* own the dog. Which means *I* own eight years of fines. So said the lady at the pound with a wicked grin, just before telling me that they don’t generally pile fines on top of each other like that. And just after that, she told me that they would waive the non-registration fine altogether and just give me a warning. And if I could find a vet willing to spay a ten-year-old dog within 30 days, she would be happy to give me back $90. Again… “Evil Hypnotist”.
I called around… I can kiss my $90 goodbye.
Ky is painfully aware that we may not be able to keep her dog. We have no room. We have travel plans. I have my Big Dream Fund to continue funding. DOG was not part of my agenda.
We’re going to give it a month and then see where we’re at. If money/space/dog-hair concerns get to be too much, Ky will attempt to find a new owner for her Beloved Lily-Dawg. One that doesn’t let her out the door for the neighbours to call the dog-catcher on to come out and “pick up a stray off my lawn”.
So it seems that my lucrative days of Ends-Meeting-and-Even-Over-Lapping will temporarily come to a halt until I find out how much this animal is going to cost me in food, shots, fees, vet visits, and allergy meds. The meds are for the allergic kid. I thought cat hair was bad. Holy shit.
Anybody out there want a dog? Please…? Pretty, pretty please…?
Random Song-for-the-Day: “World of Two” – Cake