The Sisters are always wanting to leave behind the drudgery of our day jobs, and our search for something else to do with ourselves never ends. It’s constant.
We considered running away and joining the circus last week. Sadly the role of Fat Lady was already taken.
Haha, we jest. Sort of. Hold on – I need another cookie.
Ava had an epiphany last week and we may have found the job we need.
Long-haul truck drivers.
That’s exactly the same expression I made when Ava suggested it.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I scoffed from across my desk. “I’d have to do all the driving.” Ava has never voluntarily driven anywhere if she can make me do it. Generally, I don’t mind. I like driving.
“True,” she agreed without the slightest bit of apology. “I’d keep you awake.”
I still wasn’t sold and my face must have been pretty clear about that.
“There’s a $4,000 signing bonus,” she told me.
I rolled my eyes.
“And–” she paused for effect “–you can bring a pet with you in the truck.”
Have you ever felt this way about someone?
How about someone you work with? I can’t even look at her.
Dear Faithful Reader,
You may recount many tales the Sisters had riding around in Dave Durango. He was an awesome vehicle and he treated us well for ten solid years. He carted us on many road trips – around our own state and all the way to San Antonio and back.
We loved Dave.
Sadly, Dave grew old and tired and a bit cantankerous and it was finally decided that Dave would be sent to a farm to live out the rest of his life, running around in the fields with other Durangos, maybe chasing VW rabbits.
He’d lived a very good life. We lamented his passing. Ava had a harder time giving him up even that I did.
“We love Dave,” she kept saying. That was beyond a doubt. We did love Dave, except that Dave kept over heating and blowing through oil and I was tired of always driving with one eye on the gauges.
Enter The Chrysler 300. A grown up car. I’ve been driving the family truckster in one form or another for the last 15 years.
Her name is Leanidas, because she’s one of the 300. Please tell me you get that reference. Sometimes people laugh when I tell them this line and I can clearly tell they don’t get the joke.
Lea, it turns out, is a bit bossy. It stormed last night and consequently this morning it was chilly. A drop in temperature can drop the air pressure in your tires. Seriously. Look it up. Lea didn’t like this, not one bit.
I received an email from her demanding “Immediate and urgent attention.” She informed me in no uncertain terms she’d like 3 more pounds of pressure in her left front tire and she’d like it now. Right now. 10 minutes ago would have been better.
Dave never yelled at me like that. His email would have been more like your stoned cousin – “Dude, you know, like, when you have a sec, float a little more air in one of my tires. No biggie. Cheers!”
Cars have definitely changed in the last 10 years!
The Sister’s aren’t particularly enamored of pumpkin spice or guinea pigs for that matter, but we are in love with these talking dudes.
Because they’re hysterical.
Quentin, AKA The Velvet Menace, is nuts. My Honey prefers the term, “bat-shit crazy”. He’s very…kitten-y. A kitten who very much believes that he’s a tiny panther.
I am concerned by the fact that he doesn’t seem to sleep enough. Aren’t felines supposed to sleep like 16-20 hours a day? This one doesn’t. You’re probably saying, “I bet he sleeps all day while you’re at work.”
Not so. We have proof in the form of destroyed household items. We had a sealed bag of bedding that goes in the bottom of a hamster cage tucked away after the untimely demise of those animals. He shredded it all over the family room. All. Over.
When we went into the laundry room to fetch the broom and dust pan, we found this laundry basket.
You can’t blame in on either of the dogs. It was on top of the dryer. Also, Jojo Kitty is in the clear. I can almost hear their conversation.
Jojo – Dude, what are you doing?
VM (Velvet Menace) – Nothing. Go away.
Jojo (with an eyeroll) Why are you eating a laundry basket?
VM – I’m killing this evil holder of clothes.
Jojo – Whatever, dude. I’m off to take a nap.
VM – (gnaw, snarl, mangle)
It has come to the Sisters attention there is a new fellow out there we should be aware of.
We introduce you to Emerson Spartz. We understand that he holds the record for the longest distance ever to purchase a book. Mr. Spartz flew 3,950 miles to buy a book.
With that kind of dedication, we have to salute him, don’t you think?
The man flew from Chicago to London to purchase Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
If we had the money and the ability to do it, we’d have flown right over the Atlantic to buy that book, too. Harry Potter just happens to be a Sister favorite and J.K. Rowling one of our patron saints.
You go Emerson Spartz!
So there we were: the Bright Family was down two pets in one week. It was heart breaking. Winnie was missing and Geddy had passed away. Our spirits were low. Ava lamented with us. It seriously sucks to lose one pet, but two IN ONE WEEK was more than a person should be expected to bear.
We looked for Winnie with constant dedication. Jojo Kitty and Roscoe the Idiot Dog sat around and looked at us with sad eyes. Sometimes there seemed to be an accusing glint to them that I couldn’t really blame them for. We were trying to keep the faith that Winnie would be found, but each day stretched into weeks and naturally we began to despair.
My Honey had a gig one Saturday night and he sent me with the children to Animal Control to do our daily investigation. I warned him that I was not an adult and could not be expected to behave myself with out supervision.
You know me pretty well, Dear Readers. Anything that happened after he made me go by myself was really his fault, don’t you think?
We walked by every single pen and talked to every single dog. None of them new Winnie, or if they did they were staying quiet about it.
As a lark and with no actual intent – that’s my story and I’m sticking to it – the kids and I went into the cat room.
The tiny black kitten chose us. I know you’ve heard that line before, but I’m very serious. He meowed LOUDLY and kept sticking his little leg out and grabbed our clothes. When we took him out of his cage, he purred like a motorboat. I can’t believe rumbling that loud came out of such a tiny dude. We were in love immediately.
In my defense, I did text My Honey a picture of Sassy holding him and he never said no.
So now Quentin has come to live with us. He’s named Quentin after San Quentin Prison since we got him out of kitty jail and Folsom isn’t as good a name. When we took him to the vet for his check up and vaccination follow-up, we learned that he had a tattoo on his tummy from Animal Control when he was fixed. So, yes! My kitty has a prison tat!
He’s completely gorgeous, absolutely all black – possibly even his soul – with golden eyes. It’s been years since we had a kitten and I forgot that they’re alternately awful and completely charming. His feet are enormous and his tail is ridiculously long – I can’t wait to see how big he gets. Already he thinks he is a panther and he weighs less than 6 lbs.
There is not one thing in this house that he hasn’t tried to kill from the 70lb hound dog to the dryer. He will destroy a bag of kitten food in mere seconds, shred it into oblivion. If you wear clothes with any dangly parts you’re taking your life into your hands. He’s vicious I tell you, except when he wants to cuddle, then you’re definitely required to use both hands. It doesn’t matter if it’s noon or 4am you’re going to need to be awake enough to pet him with both hands and if you can get a foot into the action then all the better. He’s loud and bossy and nuts.
He also has exquisitely soft fur and smells fantastic.
We call him the Velvet Menace and he’s damn near perfect.
So, a day or two before Geddy died, Winnie the Wonder Mutt disappeared.
Frankly, this wasn’t shocking. That dog is 1/2 kangaroo. We’ve not been able to keep her in the yard. She can clear that five-foot block wall like it was a curb in a parking lot.
Up until this point, Winifred just visited the neighbors. She had a buddy around the corner–another black lab who enjoyed a good romp. She’s been fixed, so there’s no worry on that account.
This particular day had called for rain. Not a big deal, we thought. No where in the weather forecast had there been any mention of a typhoon. The rain was torrential, a deluge, plus there was more thunder than usual. Both My Honey and I work on the other side of town from our house. When my family got home right after school, they called, slightly hysterical, that they couldn’t find Winnie. They’d already been canvassing the neighborhood and calling animal control.
We can only suspect that she ended up on the wrong side of a wash or something.
Over the next couple of days we walked and cruised the neighborhoods, we visited all the pounds, we posted on Facebook, Twitter and Craig’s List. Our friends and family were all keeping an eye out. We posted one hundred and fifty Lost Dog posters. We always checked the DOA lists and were thrilled to find that she was never on any of them. At least there was that.
Over the course of the next three weeks, we searched constantly. We got several calls from people who’d found black labs and I visited at least three of them with the possibility that they were Winnie. No luck. As the weeks spread on we began to despair.
Nothing is more depressing that touring the pounds at Animal control and the Humane Society day after day looking for your long-lost doggie and having to leave all those poor animals there alone.
Then Geddy died and now Winnie was lost–our remaining animals Jojo Kitty and Roscoe were seriously depressed, nay despondent. They kept eyeing us suspiciously like, “Which one of us is next?”
It was awful and we were all very sad.
Then one morning, around 5 freaking 30, there was howling. I kept kicking Roscoe the hound dog at the foot of the bed to shut up. My Honey, who was already up for work, stuck his head out of the bathroom and wondered aloud what the hell that was. I didn’t know and I didn’t care; I just wanted it to stop. Once I get to bed, I’m very serious about sleep.
When he opened the back door to let Roscoe out to pee Winnie ran in! She’d hopped right back over the wall and was under our bedroom window howling to be let in.
There was celebratory barking and much frolicking through the house. Jojo Kitty crawled all over her in his excitement. He seriously missed his best friend. She looked great for being gone for 3 weeks and 1 day. There were some cuts and scrapes but nothing we wouldn’t have expected from three weeks of shenanigans. We did think it was unusual that she wasn’t skinny and her coat was shiny. She looked remarkable all things considered.
Now comes the weird part. When My Honey left for work a few minutes later, there were hamburger balls on our front porch. Like the size of softballs, hard, round balls of cooked meat. Very odd, right?
The best we can think, someone had our Winnie for quite a while. They fed her and took care of her because she’s very sweet and pretty, but then she drove them as crazy as she drives us and they brought her home. Our phone number and address is on her tag. Someone dropped her off at our house at 5 in the damn morning and left her meatballs to make her stay.
What the hell is that all about? Why would someone do that?
What ever the reason, we’re so, so happy to have the world’s prettiest hybrid kangaroo home where she belongs.
Do you have any other theories on what the hell happened?