So, last week while BMan and I were talking, I told him of these pits that were fought and lived in tiny 2x2 cells, chained inside them where they couldn’t turn around, lay, fully stand. Just a fucking torturous existence I wouldn’t wish on anyone or anything.
Then, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I had to know how they were. I have a friend in the neighborhood, and she told me one was still out there, but the other, sadly, she knew had been killed.
OK. That was all I needed to know.
So, I decided to don my cape and catsuit (don’t fucking judge me, I still look great in a catsuit). I didn’t, however, prepare for the fact that this dog hasn’t ever been walked, in a house, even touched. He is by far the worst case of isolation I have ever seen. He is the animal version of institutionalized. It is fucking heartbreaking.
Still, doesn’t matter one bit to me. He has so far taken a lamp, a cup, and my legs right on down to fucked up town. But he has the look in his eyes, that one, y’all know I know. He looks like he wants to be a good, good dog. And I love good, good dogs, so we’re gonna come to an understanding soon, I just know it.
I wish I could have saved his brother. I still can’t get over that. But I know that I only have so much space and so much energy, at least that’s what I’m trying to tell myself because Brian said I have to. (Don’t tell Brian, but I still hate myself for it).
Y’all know where I’ll be. Also, send me some superglue, I have a lot of shit to fix, but I have a beautiful blonde boy that will live to tell his story. To me, of course, then I’ll retell it to y’all.
Poodie has a playmate now.
I don't know or care if this was a legal acquisition. I do know that you did the right thing, so Bravo! I hope your friend can report what she knows.