The good news is, Tallulah is out of surgery already and I get to get her at 3:00. As soon as we got in the car this morning, she started shaking, so she knew it wasn't just a fun trip to dog day care.
They have two doors at my vet–one for white people and one for black people. It's the South. No! One for dogs and one for cats. They probably also have to have a separate door for gay people now, too. Stupid North Carolina.
My point is, I should just bring her in the cat side, because you can imagine what a charming Southern lady she was when we walked in and there were other dogs. It's so dumb. On the leash, she is an absolute dick. If I had unhooked her? "Oh heyyyyy! How you do? I Talula. You want see my canser lump?"
Anyway, the worst was the poor woman holding the little dog, but fortunately the vet tech came right away to get Lu. I wonder why. BARKBARKBARKBARK! BARK! YOU LITTLE AND STOOPID! YOU NOT ENTER THRU STOOPIT DOOR? STOP BE LITTLE! GROW! GRRRRROW!
Anyway once they put the official sad blue vet leash on her, I started to cry, and hug her neck, and humiliate her in front of stoopit little dog. One hopes she won't remember that when she gets out.
Tonight …friend is coming and bringing Thai food and we are gonna stay in, because I don't want to leave Luis the gracious dog. I want to lord over her and poke at her incision and pet her head, which she hates, and kiss her, which she also seems to kind of hate, and generally bug the crap out my own sick dog.
And eat Thai.
In other news, I got up with Dick Whitman last night. I been working in the Winston-Salem for a month now (yes. A month. It was supposed to be a three-hour tour.) and he wrote, "I had all these dreams that once you started working in Winston we'd hang out all the time after work, just talking shit. Literally. I thought we'd talk about bowel movements."
Well, once THAT opportunity was presented I got Marvin to let the dogs out (who, who who) (you're welcome) last night, and I had me the coffee with the Richard. Of Whitmans.
Afterward, I made him take me to a card store, because I needed to get, you know, cards. I wanted to send his mom a Mother's Day card.
Dear Actual Mom: I sent you a very nice and rather costly thing from Etsy, but never did find time to buy you a card. I know, dude. I been busy.
Oh! But before we get to the card store, and you know how I ADORE people who say, "Let me back up" when they tell a story (do you EVER want them to back up? Ever? You do not. Most stories are just for getting through till you can tell your own), but the place where we were having coffee apparently used to be Dick Whitman's orthodontist's office.
"You had braces?" I asked, learning a new thing about Dick Whitman, seeing as we had exhausted the subject of our bowel movements.
"I did. I had a terrible underbite."
"Just like Edsel!"
"Edsel has an underbite?" he asked.
Y'all. Most of you have not even MET Edsel, and how many of you are incredulous right now?
you can't NOT see that underbite. YOU CAN'T NOT SEE IT. And yes, that picture of him holding hands with Roger IS killing me, thank you.
How indifferent to dogs do you have to be to not see that underbite? Dick Whitman. Irking me since whenever he started irking me, but particularly yesterday.
At any rate, once we got to the card store, I forced Whitman to get a card for his mom. Dear Dick Whitman's mom: He thought the part where he is taking you to lunch counted as his Mother's Day gift to you. As a girl, I know how cards matter to us. You are welcome. Oh, and don't look at the photo above cause I'm pretty sure that's the one he ended up getting you and your surprise will be ruined.
All right. I had better go. I feel guilty that I have a whole day off and all I've done is nap and blog and email with …friend. Who probably wishes he hadn't asked, "What can I do to help the day of Talu's surgery?" because now he has to fein interest in every detail of that dog and also run hither and yon for Thai food. Southern people. Too nice for their own good.
Unless you're gay.