Wednesday, January 17, 2007

How Much Is That Doggy In the Window? The One With the Black Eye?

Up until about an hour ago, I had third and fourth roommates who both answered to the name DJ. They were both brunettes. They were both sleeping on the couch. One uses utensils when he eats. The other licked food off the floor.

One is an intern at the folk art museum for the month. The other was a West Highland Terrier/Cairn Terrier mix. The names are coincidental; though they will both look up when you yell DJ, one is more commonly known as Dan, and the other answered to pretty much anything you like so long as you had a hunk of mozzarella in your hand. I'll let you decide who is whom.

They are both transient fosters, and as of today, they both have a set of permanent parents.

We got DJ Barksalot after Brad applied to Waggytails Rescue, an organization that places the dogs overcrowded NYC shelters can't house in foster care until suitable permanent families apply for ownership. The back story on our dog involved a stoner girl who turned him over to a shelter while she was high. His future story is in the hands of a really nice couple. And after spending roughly a week with the yippiest, most easily excitable dog on the goddamn planet, I'm pretty sure my future story should be childless.

DJ was so adorable when he was asleep on my stomach on the couch, his stupid little feet twitching in the air as he dreamed about peeing uninterrupted on my bed (again). However, when he was wide awake at eleven o'clock and barking endlessly and ferociously at, say, a dripping faucet, or the boiler, or toward the silent, visitorless door, or at moving molecules of hydrogen, or maybe just at the thought of moving molecules of hydrogen, he was significantly less loveable.

After housing little DJ, there are two contradictory things that are true about me:

1. I am completely against cruelty to animals.
2. I have fantasized about punching a puppy right in his fucking face.

Before I end up old enough to have much greater responsibilities than a foster mutt, I should probably just have my tubes tied. I never want to augment that list with something like "3. Believes, under certain circumstances, that drugging a baby can be justified."

Now that DJ's gone we've gotten a new foster named Billy. Or Gadget, or Nettles, depending on whom you ask. He's a little high strung, but he's tiny and I could definitely fit him in at least one of my purses. . I've never once seen the appeal of doing so, but perhaps this is just because I've never been able to wear my dog. Billy is, in theory, like getting a whole new wardrobe and correspondingly gross identity.

The music swells in the background. Does our narrator become the kind of person you see in Starbucks, feeding iced lemon cake to the shaky little rodent dog her big ugly tote?

Stay tuned.


Anonymous brad said...

don't be a negative nettles. hey, remember QUAFRA?

3:01 PM  
Anonymous anonymous mom said...

i would have thought brad would also answer to "hey dj"!

12:26 PM  
Blogger Buckley said...

What would you say?

8:16 AM  

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