Been through the country with a dog with no name

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Six years ago, when I interviewed for my current job, they said, “The other copy editor on this account is a poet! A fancy, famous, celebrated poet!” They said this like it was a good thing, all smiley, and I was all, Oh, fucking fuck.

I mean, a poet. Who would hate me more than some deep, slant-rhyming, everything-is-a-metaphor poet? Okay, an athletic, no-nonsense girl. She’d hate me more than a poet. That type always abhors me, but a poet would be a close second.

“I think you’re going to be good friends with that poet,” said my mother, who’s generally good at predicting things. But I was all, pfft. A poet. In a million years, I was never gonna be friends with someone who sat around all moonily, saying things like, “The sky opened my heart like a vintage melon.”

Why didn’t you go into poetry, June?

The point is, of course, The Poet at work wasn’t remotely awful, and we did become good friends, and in a million years you’d never know she was all award-winning and fancy and poety unless you Googled her, and in short she’s way less full of herself than I am. Which is a stretch.

This past year she’s had some shit-ass luck, which I won’t go into other than to say among other things, her very old Pomeranian died, which was the last thing she needed, and nothing’s better than a sentence that has a comma followed by “which” in it twice.

After much debate, The Poet decided to adopt a new pet, and it was my feeling that a cello-playing, fancy awards-ish poet should own black cats, but she has always liked Pomeranians, and after a long search settled on one. Or two.

They were mother and daughter, and both were available after the people who owned them ran into some financial struggles. They were also 34884939393 miles away.

“Oh, I’ll go with you to look at them,” I said, because you know how I am.

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Thelma and Louise road trip begins, and fortunately does not result in parking lot rape and/or vomiting tequila and then murdering anyone.

 

So on Friday evening after work, we loaded up the car with maps, snacks, a carrier, a carrier pigeon, Walter Pidgeon, Burt doing the pigeon dance, Danny Terrio from Dance Fever, which lead to us having a fever for the flavor of a Pringles, which thank god takes us back to snack so I can stop.

Car was full, is my point.

It was a really pretty day, and a really pretty drive in the country, mostly on two-lane roads, and I was having a lovely drive that I could not shut up about and am certain a poem is being written right now called, Get the Fuck Over Our Country Drive Already, Bitch Ass.

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Roses are red, violets are blue, shut that piehole, June, before I bitch slap you.

 

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Finally, we were in the teensy town in which The Poet’s teensy dogs were residing. We were absurdly happy with the idea of going to Buzzard Law Firm, but soon we decided we must carrion.

I’ll be here all week. Stop telling me I don’t have to be. I’LL BE HERE ALL WEEK.

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We drove down a cute country road, and The Poet noted we were to look for a blue house.

“Well, it’s a blue [um um um um] HOWSE,” I sang, because everything needs to be made into the song Brick House with me.

“She’s the one, the only one, built like an ankle massage,” sang The Poet, who in case you didn’t know has been featured in Paris Review, and once I wore perfume called Paris, and also I know who Paris Hilton is, so.

The point is, IT TOTALLY SOUNDS LIKE THEY’RE SINGING BUILT LIKE AN ANKLE MASSAGE, and I’m afraid I got those kinds of giggles where you just wish I’d evaporate or something. As we climbed the stairs to the blue [um um um um] HOWSE, I said, “I hope they’re not assholy dogs or anything. What if we get here and you hate them?”

“Or what if they like you better?” she mused, and it was right about then we walked in, both dogs burst over, and got right on my lap, never wanting to move again.

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Like seriously, they were so Team June. If we’d been on The Bachelor they’d have given me a rose. If we were in a pageant, I’d be sportin’ the sash, the Miss Pomeranian sash. I was the pick of the litter.

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Did yuuu even MEET ant June before? she amaaaaze! no lap eber exceed ant joon lap! ant joon da–wat you meen we not going home wit ant jooon? mommy the pommy be PISS.

 

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Eventually they sauntered on over to The Poet, their rightful owner, and it was about three seconds in that she consented to get both dogs, the mom and the daughter. They have ludicrous names, so now she’s working on names that sound a lot like their old names, only not as horrid. One is most def named Minka, but the other we aren’t sure of yet.

“I say you change their monikers altogether to big, solid woman names,” I said, because both dogs smooshed together form one-eighth of Edsel. I think. We’re taking maths. They’re small, is m’point. Petite. Teensy.

Bertha and Marge. Madge and Bernice. See? That’s the route I’d take, but who listens to me? Helga and Maude.

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we shur we can’t go home with ant jooon? as long as she not name us?

 

Oh my god, if I’d been The Poet I’d have cockpunched me. The one time I didn’t want dogs to be all over me, and they fall deeply in love.

The Poet signed all the papers and took another carrier, a folder, two leashes and the dogs themselves and put them in my already The-Beverly-Hillbillies-moving-to-California loaded car, and she held them on her lap while we drove home.

It was dark at this point, and starting to rain hard, and as we tooled back down the country roads, there came a possum. He was strolling, merely strolling, across the street, and given the rain and the two-lanedness and the dark and the dogs on The Poet’s lap, I could not swerve, but instead had to pray the timing would work out just so, but no.

I killed that poor opossum. This of course has haunted me all weekend, and I feel awful, and I will never forget the feeling of killing that poor animal. I am the worst. I am the enemy of the opossum. His family is probably still waiting for him to come home.

Will never get over.

But other than my murder of innocent marsupials, it was a fine trip, and when I speak to The Poet on Monday, I’ll let you know if she came up with names and/or flipped them on Craigslist for a profit.

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“Flipping Poms” is a great idea for a poem. Right? Be sure to ask me about all my poetry awards.

Adoptively,

June

43 thoughts on “Been through the country with a dog with no name

  1. Carrion. Ohmygawd you killed it. Your post. Also, opossum, but, hey.

    Also? You almost cock blocked The Poet. Then you would have been punched.

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  2. Years ago I got a used dog (get it? previously owned/used? Nobody else even cracked a smile when I said that, but I loved myself for it), a probably full poodle whose tail was not docked, and the lady I got him from said his name was Chuck. I loved that name; I had never heard of a dog named Chuck before. He was the BEST dog. Those toothy Poms are really cute. I’m glad The Poet has some new canine companionship. I love how you both got right down on the floor to meet them. That must have made the people who had to give them up happy, knowing they were going to a dog person who would love them.

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  3. Laugh out loud funny! The-Beverly-Hillbillies-moving-to-California loaded car, your poetry and the singing. Funny from beginning to end. Well, not so much for the opossum that is, apparently, now playing possum in Heaven.

    Love Poet’s new mama Pom and baby Pom. Glad she got both of them and hope the lucky duo change her luck.

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  4. Simply adorable! I’m glad the Poet has these two bright spots in her sucky year. They look like they’ve got personality coming out of those pointy ears!

    Lovely post, pretty June.

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  5. puppies always make life better. Yay for The Poet! (and you get to visit them and they will love you and then you get to go home, like a grandma.)

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  6. Great post, June. There’s nothing like a two-lane road(s) trip on a beautiful April weekend, especially when there are cute new doggies involved. They look just a little bit active. I am always impressed with how you build your credentials to fit any situation.

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  7. You’re a good friend, June Gardens and I know The Poet has been a good friend to you too.

    GO STEAL THEM PUPPIES RIGHT NOW, POET WILL NEVER KNOW THEY’RE GONE!

    Of course I’m kidding.

    It’s a conundrum how you’ve never been approached to publish a poetry book.

    Peed my pants during most of this post. Mostly from laughing but that road with stuffed animals on the side did look cute but also a little Deliverance scary-ish. Which always make me think of Burt Reynolds in that one magazine. Not sure if I can say it here on the new blo-website.

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  8. Only animal I’ve ever run over was an opossum and it still haunts me a bit. Not because opossums are so wonderful, but he managed to dodge the car in the next lane and as I read the expression I briefly caught in the headlights, it was one of amazed relief followed by horror as he realized he was after all toast.

    He did try to cross a busy highway in the dark though, so I may be attributing too much of a thought process to the situation.

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  9. Since I seem to be forbidden from making a second comment, don’t they know me?, I will have to reply to my own self. I loved writing that sentence. If one were interested in becoming familiar with the poet’s work, how would one find such work when one knows neither the poet’s name, nor the name of any of the poet’s slant saying? Might one ask a friend of the poet? Or is the poet to remain anonymous?

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  10. The poet looks so happy! Thank God she took both dogs. I can’t imagine only taking one of them. I feel bad about the opossum, too. Are you sure he wasn’t just playing possum? They’re good at that, you know. I’ll tell you a little secret: One of my dogs killed one in my backyard, so I know how you feel.

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  11. Awww, sweet little blacky, fuzzy, toofy Poms. They are too cute! Congrats, The Poet! Poms are the happiest dogs.

    What the hell with the stuffed animals on the table along the road? Stuffed animals generally annoy me.

    Built like an ankle massage!

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  12. Congratulations to The Poet on the sweet Poms! I can’t wait to hear their new names.

    In roadkill stories: I was driving around Savannah, Georgia, once and had seen on the map that the really big, beautiful bridge connects Georgia to South Carolina. I was waiting on my husband to attend a meeting, so I had time to kill. I drove up and over that big, beautiful bridge, oohed and ahhhed over the view, and descended down the other side into South Carolina, where immediately I hit and killed a squirrel. If I hadn’t driven over the bridge just for the hell of it, that squirrel may have lived a bit longer. I cried and cried as I turned around to head back to Georgia, which meant I had to pass the scene of the roadkill and I just cried even harder. I felt so guilty!

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  13. Those babies are cute. That’s one of my favorite songs, so thanks in advance, it will be in my head all night.
    Once I was with my sister and she hit a squirrel, she started freaking out and decided to back up because she was going to save it.
    She ran over it again.
    I feel bad but I could not stop laughing, she’s was in hysterics and I almost pissed my pants.

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  14. Toofies and Tongue. New pom names, done. I once raised a baby possum whose mom had been roadkill. Well, until it got big and ugly and then mom made me let it go. It probably ran right into the street but I didn’t stay around to watch. Possums name was Henry. Mom was a saint when it came to animals that I drug home.

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    1. Can’t reply to self, apparently, so I’ll reply to you that Toofies and Tongue will just have to get used to their new names. Just wanted to confess that I used my real name by accident, because WordPress confused me. Hashtag computer fool.

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  15. Minka is on my lap even as I type this. She has been diligently licking my pants–I must have knelt in some bacon without noticing. Her daughter is in the living room. I walked in and her pretty little face popped up alertly–from the middle of the card table.
    Daughter was named Teeny Tiny, TT for short, and yesterday she acquired the name Nefertiti Miranda. (So Titi can be her nickname, because she comes when she hears it. Otherwise she should be named June.) She has reserved the right to change my mind.
    They are Pom-papillon mix, and wonderful. When I come home from, say, getting the newspaper, they jump up and down, and if I kneel I get one’s tongue in my ear and the other’s little paws climbing over the back of my neck and I can’t believe my good fortune. Also they’re almost identical. And they sleep in the same crate, they eat together, they wag together. We are preparing for the next Olympic Games in the synchronized peeing event.
    June, you’re the best Thelma or Louise ever.
    “Vintage melon” and “carrion” are a slant rhyme.
    And I heard they found the possum’s suicide note.

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    1. Trying again to reply to myself w/ sleeping dog on arm–WordPress has revealed my real name because I filled the blanks in the wrong way. Hashtag computer fool.

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    2. Awwww. They love you. They really love you! How sweet that you were able to give them a new, happy home. I’m sure they sense how lucky they are, and will forever be appreciative.

      Amazed that June can drive with a never-ending gobstopper of a migraine. Plus make-up! Plus a pretty necklace!

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    3. I’m so happy for you, Poet, and for Minka and Titi. While their original owners had to be sad to give them up, they must be relieved to know they now have a loving home. Here’s to lots of cuddling and kisses…and to bacon.

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    4. This is great to hear that your puppies are adjusting really well to their new home. I know they are going to be the queens of the house and they will bring you so much joy.

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  16. Hilarious post and exciting, well the part where The Poet picks up her little puppies. Don’t feel too bad about the opossum, just think of it as road kill for someone that eats road kill. That is a purely disgusting thought! The little town kind of reminds me of Tiny Town.

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  17. So happy to see you with your Poms Poet – their happy smiles tell the whole story! I chuckled at Titi – that’s what my grandma used to say when she had to pee. So, it’s fitting! Little dogs are the bomb. As are big dogs. And medium sized dogs… and, well, you know!

    I could not post on this ding dang blo-website ALL DAY yesterday. Cockblocked by a website!

    I LOLd my way through this one, June, Buzzard Law Firm – so many jokes. But you nailed it with carrion. The only one not laughing is the possum, who is literal carrion. Unless he was just playing possum? No?

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  18. I hit a dog once. On the same night a friend of mine committed suicide. I still consider that whole week the worst week of my life. Awful feeling. It was a big dog too. I called my dad and he asked me if my car was ok. I was like, are you kidding me? Fuck the car, I just killed a dog! It was very dramatic. I stopped at the grocery store for a bottle wine on the way home and proceeded to finish the whole thing that night. So many other awful things happened that week and it marked the beginning of the end of the job I had at the time. Worst week of my life, by far, was the week of 10/16/11-10/22/11.

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  19. Our rescued adopted boxer, his owners previously (who should be banned from ever having a furry member in their family again) called him Butler. We brought him home and changed his name to Tiberius Pumpernickel Cornelius Reschke the third. Tiber when you love him, TIBERIUS PUMPERNICKEL CORNELIUS RESCHKE III when he is in trouble. Somehow he adjusted to the new moniker rather quickly. Do Tiberius and Butler sound similar?

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  20. The pom poms are adorable! I’m smiling at the Poet’s comment that the possum left a suicide note. And cracking up at your “Roses are red, Violets are blue…” poem. Also, LOVE your necklace.

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  21. Clearly Tiber was as eager to shed “Butler” as you were.

    Long formal dog names are good. Book End Lillington Minka Minka Minka Zhivago and Book End Lillington Nefertiti Miranda agree.

    My sympathy to Laura Lee and others with unhappy driving memories, and thanks to all!

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  22. Love that the dogs’ names are longer than they are! And, June, two small black dogs are as close to two black cats as I think The Poet the will get. Just my gut feeling.

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  23. I love this post to death. And I always thought of pomeranians as tannish , brownish, blondish doggies so I absolutely adore knowing they come in black too! I want them! Poetess is so lucky, and I really like her typewriter key bracelet!

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