Thursday, July 05, 2007

I Steal Puppies.

So I was walking down the street, heel-toe, heel-toe, a little bit jaunty because I was humming some Al Green to myself, and I was swinging my purse to and fro (I'm a voracious purse-swinger. Lots of times, the straps on my purses will break mid-swing, flinging my purse and its contents far and wide, sometimes directly into oncoming's funny how the strap never breaks when my purse is calmly sitting on the floor of the car or beside my chair at dinner...not, it only breaks when it's mid-air). At any rate, I was safely ensconced in Jamie-bubble and there isn't normally much that would burst it - I could walk by the world's hairiest man wrestling a llama and I wouldn't notice, I could step over a pile of severed limbs spelling out my initials and I wouldn't look twice, I could walk through a replica of castle Grayskull made entirely of gouda and pretzels and notice little more than a rumbly in my tumbly - but a sweet little puppy trotted out to the sidewalk to greet me, and in mere moments I was all moist-eyed and sugar-tongued.

He was a cutie, which is a fancy way of saying I can't identify breeds. But he had short little legs and an ironic smile, and a coat of fur that looked like it would shed very negligibly. But the best part was that he was unleashed and people-less. And did I mention he was about the size of my purse?

The thing is, I don't have a dog but would like one very much. If God himself happens to put a purse-sized dog in my path, who am I to argue? I need a pet, and this dog seemed in need of some water, and it just so happens that I have a tap or two in my house, which is a pretty astounding coincidence, no? It seemed like the universe was practically forcing this puppy into my purse, and then forcing me to run furtively with the squirmy dog back to my place, ignoring shouts of "Stop, thief!" and "Dog-napper!", which, to be fair, could equally have been "Chop beef!" and "Hog-slapper!" for all I know. There are some pretty sketchy butchers in my neighbourhood. And that being the case, thank goodness I've rescued this poor dog before he followed the fate of the skunk.

All right, so I didn't steal the dog. I just thought about it. A lot. I thought about his little eyes, and the way they seemed to see straight to my soul and say "Hey lady, give me a cheese slice!" and how I don't actually have any cheese slices, but I know where I could get some, and how we'd have a happy, calcium-rich existence together forever, or at least until one of us got run over by an ice cream truck.

And then, a couple of days later, I was again confronted with temptation when a dog boarded the bus I was on. This guy was a golden retriever (which is probably the only breed I know, because one starred on Full House), and I could tell he and I were kindred spirits because he got on the bus, looked around disgustedly at the other riders, and then collapsed in the middle of the aisle, taking up more space than he deserved with a definite air of superiority and I-don't-give-a-shittedness. Unfortunately, his owner boarded right behind him, which confused me because he had protuberant elbows and forest-green corduroy pants, so on the one hand I thought clearly this man does not deserve to be a pet owner, but on the other hand I thought perhaps the dog is his only friend in the whole wide world, and as puppy-free as my life is, at least I have proportionate joints and seasonally appropriate clothes. But the pity was fleeting as I am quite self-centered, and I used the rest of my bus ride to establish eye contact with the dog who remained comfortably stretched out on the floor, looking like it quite expected to be fed peeled grapes at any moment. I felt like if only I could catch his eye, we could silently communicate our intentions. I thought that as we approached my stop, I could pretend like it was just another pole on a long and pitted road, but then at the last minute, having fooled everyone into thinking that I was staying seated, I would leap through the doors just as they were swinging shut, sort of Kill Bill-style (if Kill Bill had been a movie about the seedy underbelly of public transportation) (call me, Quentin!), and the dog, casting a "so long, sucker" glance at his ex-owner, would follow suit, and then we'd both stand on the curb and smirk as the bus pulled away with the bamboozled Mr. Big Elbows staring aghast out the window, helpless and alone.

But it turns out that I didn't do that one, either.
I guess I'm just a softie at heart.
Or, you know, a pussy.

One of those two.

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