So. I needed to take the new puppy for a follow-up visit to the vet to get him another shot. I don’t remember what it was for—was it a parvo or rabies or whatever—just that I had the appointment. Squirt suggested that just the two of us make the trip so that we could do some male bonding.
OK, maybe we did some male/semi-male bonding. Or male-eunuch bonding. Poor Yoda had his little puppy gonads sliced off before he ever got a chance to use them.
So I packed him into his harness and loaded him into the GTO. Which reminds me to tell you that the original subject of today’s bloggie was to have been me telling you about the incredible dream I had last night. I had this absolutely amazing dream. Somehow my subconscious had managed to assemble enough suggestive materials from my other conscious to create the critical mass required of a great dream.
Some of the outside factors gathered by my not-frontal lobes were: Squatlo’s dream story last week; catching a glimpse of Chelsea Handler wearing tight, stretchy Capri pants; the now faint eau de SAC Ellen I can still whiff when I close my eyes and sniff the back of my left elbow; and the internal debate I had with myself over pachyderm versus dromedary.
I had this remarkable camel toe contest dream that was to be the central focus today, but something happened at the vets to disrail my attentions. And don’t even think about telling me I should have said “derail” when I said disrail. Derailing is when your train leaves the tracks. Disrailing is when the train jumps off the tracks.
Yoda and I were already checked-in over to the vets and sitting on the church pew that serves as waiting room chairs. I always sit on the pew when I come to help remind myself of just how much I do not like church. I’d already weighed the little shit and he has gained two ounces, a good sign for my little puppy mill castoff.
He sat at my feet on his leash and wasn’t doing the Chihuahua shaky bones dealie too bad. He’s still scared of other people and dogs but has made much progress. He didn’t freak when the lady sat next to me with a cat in her lap, even when the cat hissed at me. Fucking cats. He managed to handle everything that came our way until the asshole with the Sharpei dog walked in.
First, I don’t give a shit how you spell it, Sharpei, and I’m not looking it up. Second, I don’t like anything about the ugly and mean-tempered shits. This one’s owner was of a similar character as his asshole dog, and walked him into the vet’s office without a leash. Big-ass sign telling him to leash his fucking dog, this asshole ignoring it.
“Would you please leash your dog?” I quite pleasantly asked the man.
“Don’t worry, Emperor Chang won’t hurt your little doggie,” the total dumbass responded.
“Not worried about my dog, sir. This little guy isn’t quite sociable yet and he’ll take a nip if he feels cornered, so you should leash his royal highness,” my second request.
“You take care of your dog, buddy, and I’ll take care of mine.” This got me his rebuke and the shit-eating grin that bullies like to give the weak.
To add intimidation to the mix, the man said, “Emperor, you’re free.”
In this case “Free” meant “free to roam the cabin”[.] The ugly mass of gray wrinkles wandered towards Yoda and me, so I put my foot out to block his path. This got me a snarl and a low rumbled rebuke. “Sir,” I said, “keep this dog away from me and my puppy.”
He pretended to not hear me and acted like he was reading about feline heart disease from a poster on the wall. But I could see him glancing my way and I could see the shitty grin still plastered to his face. “Okay, have it your way,” I tried.
I lowered my foot and Emperor lunged towards Yoda, a ten-pound jumping jack of a dog who has recently been taught several MMA moves by the Squirt. “What you want to do, Yoda, is go for the eyes or the nose,” was the part of the lessons that seem to have stuck in the little guy’s brain.
As the bigger dog lurched his way, Yoda jumped straight up and came down on Emperor’s head, upper front fangs snagged in the Sharpei’s nostrils and bottom sunk into the wrinkled skin at the eyes. I’d never heard dog yelping in Chinese before. It would be very unsettling.
“Release, Yoda,” I said calmly. “Yoda, release.”
He looked at me just for a flash with this “Aw, come on Dad, I’m going for a pin” look, but he let go and jumped beside me on the pew. The bloodied Emperor ran to cower at his owner’s feet.
“Look what he did to my dog, asshole. I’m gonna kick your butt.”
When I’m sitting, I look of average height. I have quite long legs and I like to relax when I sit—slump if you will. My overall height and bulk are disguised. “Oh, alright,” I answered as I stood to most of my original six-feet four. I have shrunk a little as time goes by, but the man was staring at my neck as he approached.
He stopped short and backed away. “You’re not worth it.” And with that he picked his dog up and left the vet’s office.
“That shitball is the preacher over at Bethany Baptist Church, Mooner. He’s always like that when he comes in.” The receptionist and I go way back. “I started to say something but I knew you would handle it.
“Figures,” I answered.
Anyway, last night I had this dream where I was judging camel toes in a contest at the State Fair of Texas. The Fair has started up and I guess that’s responsible for my dream’s venue. This contest was for “Best Painted and Unclothed Camel Toe”[.] You know how an artist will paint a naked lady to look like she’s wearing a tuxedo or a snake or whatever, and it looks all lifelike and shit?
Well, Chelsea Handler was the winner. She was painted to look like she was wearing black Lycra workout shorts and a pale blue top. You know, whoever dresses Chelsea Handler should be shot. She is so pretty and has such a great body, but she always looks as if she were dressed by a color-blind blind man. Thank god that person didn’t paint her for this contest.
Anyway, her camel toe was so plump and juicy that I just knew it was real, and not painted on. The painted on part was the major rule for the contest and one that had already disqualified Michele and her husband Dr. Marcus Bachmann both. She tried to fake a painted-on bikini camel toe with a neon green thong, and Marcus attempted to deceive this judge by wearing pages of a Bible that were papier mache applied with rubber cement.
I almost passed out from the fumes as I tried to read the verses from First Peter and Revelations Number Nine that were all jumbled up on his package. I didn’t need to pick at the loose edges of paper to disqualify Marcus. I was worried he was going to cry. I hate when the weaker sex cries.
As I was declaring Chelsea the winner, Michele Bachmann declared a foul and demanded that I test the winner’s artistic authenticity. I said, “OK,” and bend close to Ms. Handler’s camel tow. I noticed that it glistened in the bright stage lights of the contest pageant. Now, I was dizzy from my proximity to one of the world’s best pocket-meat sandwiches.
I was wavering, worried that I was about to do something so inappropriate as to redefine the word. I looked around for help, but none was there. Michele Bachmann is screaming at me to prove it’s a legal win and the crowd is screaming for the winner. That’s when I feel a tap to the top of my head, and I look up into Chelsea Handler’s quite pretty eyes.
“It’s OK, Mooner, go ahead,” She said.
I must have looked perplexed because she smiled at me and repeated, “I said go ahead, Mooner.”
“Are you certain?” I asked as a final assurance.
“Sure, Mooner, take a taste.”
I awakened licking the leather harness I use to strap Yoda into the car, and I had boot black smudges on my face when I went to brush my teeth. Did you know that Carta Blanca beer will wash the taste of dog sweat out of your mouth?