Last night I was enjoying the overcast spring night that is the South in May. I was walking the hounds, as I am wont to do. The Hounds of Bastardville. Old Digger and Dugger, there, for all your grave extermination needs.
Guess who is still irritated.
Anyway, there we were. It was lovely and cool; it had rained all afternoon but now it wasn’t, the sun was beginning to set, I could hear the neighbors clearing their dinner plates, all the flowers were in bloom…
And all of a sudden m’arse itched so bad I wanted to die.
It wasn’t really my ARSE so much as technically my tailbone. It was like a feather was trying to poke out of there, like I was that poor girl from The Black Swan. Did you ever have an itch that was so bad it actually kind of hurt? That is what was going on with my hind end, over there, half a mile from my house.
And did every nighbor on planet Earth have to be out?
“Heyyy, Tallulah! Nice to see ya, girl!”
“Hiiiii, Ethel! Hiiii, Lalula!”
“Are they walkin’ you or are you walkin’ them?” Didn’t one of you say that is your peeve? People say that to me all the time but it does not bug me.
“Are they twins?” People also ask me this all the time, and that is really an asinine question, forgive the pun. First of all, my dogs are the same color, but they don’t look that much alike. Second, dogs don’t COME as twins.
So there was everyone, you know, IN THE WORLD and I got what feels like a million brand-new mosquito bites right where the good Lord split me. I waved at people, then kind of pretended my lower back was sore. I put my hand back there and tried to scratch that way.
Yeah, no. I had on my trench coat, and it was not getting to the itch to do that. So then I pretended my lower-back pain was REALLY GETTIN’ to me, and I even did a back-and-forth twist, in case anyone was studying my every move, then I gave my moneymaker a good shove with my fist.
Still. With the ITCH!
“Hey! Those twin dogs walkin’ you? Heh-heh!”
Those beasts have never had a brisker walk. When we were near my house, I RIPPED open my coat, and SHOVED my hand down the back of my pants and scritch scritch scritched till I dug to China. I don’t even care what the neighborhood association is saying about me.
I can just see the next newsletter. “Just a friendly reminder to put your recycle bins back on Tuesdays, and please, no scratching your ass on our neighborhood streets.”
As usual, I remain Grace Kelly and you, t0o, can come to my etiquette classes.
And now here are some obligatory blurry Roger shots.
I do not know why other people take pictures with their iPhones and they do not look like the viewer has cataracts. Anyway, here is Roger, who I keep wanting to call Henry, reacting to my hand moving across the floor.
Do you want to know what’s an excellent idea? Teaching a cat to play with hands. Oh, it’s cute now when he weighs an ounce, but when he’s an adult 16-pound cat who attacks your hand? Delightful.
I guess that kind of SCRATCHES THE SURFACE of what’s going down in my life. The end.
Good heavens, I’m sexy.