When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies?
We’re hanging out in the Cave Canem, and gauging from the antics of the inmates, somebody done broke into granny’s cough medicine. The wood floor amplifies the sound of their hooves to the point that it would be easy to imagine that I’m in the midst of a buffalo stampede instead of mentally afflicted canines, and the fracas shows absolutely no sign of abating anytime soon.
Oh, and 1.34 seconds? That’s the amount of time I have to pet one dog before the rest of the herd realizes that attention is being unfairly administered and the real stampede begins. Four of the inmates have heads constructed from medieval battering rams, with the other three just waiting for the perfect opportunity to spot a chink in my armor and insert themselves into the mix. Claire especially has perfected the art of using her nose to expertly flip my hand(s) from another dog onto her; this does NOT sit well with Ajax. Although as round as a hairy Butterball, he can still leap above the fray to land uninvited amidst my tender vegetation and changing my singing voice from a baritone to a falsetto, or even a castrato. If you don’t know what that is, I advise you to look it up, as I don’t want to talk about it, and can’t believe I even brought it up.
And then as soon as it began, it’s over. The only sound to be heard is the hissing of the propane heater punctuated by the snores of sprawling dogflesh, renewing their strength so that they can resume hostilities just as mom and I are trying to turn in for the night. Charlie raises her head to check my status and seeing that I’m sitting unmolested, her streak of jealousy for once doesn’t manifest itself. She heaves a massive dog-sigh and resumes her slumbers.
As much as it pains me to admit it, the inmates of the Casa really do run the asylum. It is becoming obvious to me that I am but a peon fit only to answer their every whim. And to prove my point, I did a very ridiculous thing today: I bought a dog trailer. Yes, you heard right, a trailer to pull dogs behind my bike, aptly named the “Tail Wagon”. And no, I did not go in search of such a weapon of my own humiliation; I just happened upon it covered with dust in the back of a bike shop, a consignment that had just sat there for years waiting on the right idiot to walk through the door. I made them a ridiculously lowball offer, and to my horror, they accepted my cash along with what remained of my dignity. It remains to be seen who will claim the rights to this chariot; right now my money would be on Claire, but what do I know? I just have to pull the dang thing…
It’s always a party at the Casa del Whackos.
And you can support the lunacy here; no amount it too small: