...then you know that a couple of months ago, Cary Grant picked me up in a bar.
(Here's where you get all pissy about the fact that Cary Grant is DEAD, and I haven't been in a bar in forever. Details, details. I HATE it when people mess with my editorial license.)
It was actually the liquor store, and he was actually a Golden Retriever. And he's still here. Sleeping in the floor at the bottom of my bed. But y'all....this is the most elegant, regal and composed being I ever met. Ever. Bar none. He is a King.
Last week I broke down and took him to the groomer...who asked me, "What's his name?" My reply? "Technically, he's not my dog. But he's been technically not my dog for six months so in spite of newspaper ads and signs in bizneses and FaceBook...we call him Red Dog."
And that's what they put down. Red Dog. And they did a lovely job.
So, Sunday The Nice Kid was picked up from a weekend Baptist retreat. I am not Baptist and my children attend Catholic school but...I'm keeping my mouth shut here. I married into the clan.
We are on our way home, in the rain. Coming down the back country road that leads to our house and there, right in the middle of the road, is this small dog. That's all I got...small dog. And he/she/it wasn't moving. So we stopped, to let the dog get out of the road, and...............IT RAN UNDER MY CAR.
Oh, y'all. Where I thought I had "sucker" branded on my forehead? APPARENTLY, IT'S WRITTEN ACROSS THE FRONT OF MY CAR.
The kids get out, fish around under my car and pull out this very small dachshund.
I hate fucking weinie dogs.
I know you all have them and my best friends have them but...no. Ain't doing no weinie dogs in The Institution. Ain't gonna happen.
So we bring the dog home and care for him. He is SO cold and SO wet and SO miserable. We feed him and wrap him in a blanket and carry him around and...I hate yappy dogs. Got on the computer and posted a "found" ad in the paper.
Okay. He wasn't THAT ugly. And he ran around the house and jumped in your lap so he wasn't THAT ugly. He was young...not long and weenie...and interested in EVERYTHING so he wasn't THAT ugly ;)
This is NOT going to happen.
I made The Nice Kid get up, and we started knocking on doors. Down our road, then down the road where we found the dog. No one knew him.
There's a new neighborhood on the way to our house, so we pulled in and The Nice Kid and the dog got out and started walking down the street and knocking on doors. Not their dog. I am following, with my flashers on.
And at the end of the street comes...this mom. With a four-year-old son. Knocking on doors. Looking for their dog.
The little boy started running when he saw us. We had his puppy.
This is good.