This week has been quite the adventure. I have tons of photos to show you of poker nights in the neighborhood, parties, birthdays, date nights, nights on the town… but who cares about all that? Seriously, everyone posts about how great life is; I want to post about how my life sucks.
I live in an 18-square-mile golf course neighborhood. Basically, that means you pay a monthly fee to watch others hit golfballs into your windows. Fortunately for me, I couldn’t afford a house that faces the green, therefore I was forced to stare at the naked backyards of my neighbors. This wasn’t a problem for me, because I happen to own some binoculars, and often I get bored playing Candy Crush for a living. Being too poor for the nicer houses has its entertainment perks. But, as I’m talking about how my life sucks… my neighbors are super boring and the ones who aren’t close their blinds.
The other perk of the neighborhood is a Facebook page, where you get to verbally ejaculate all your complaints about living in the hood. You know, posts like: “The Pooch Parlor (a doggy wash and groom room) didn’t have the good smelling shampoo”, “Did you notice that my neighbor’s house has grass .000002 mm over neighborhood regulation?” ,”I’m selling cigarettes for a school fundraiser. Would anyone like to buy any?”… that sort of thing.
I’m a sweet dog and I have an orange bow-tie. Who doesn’t trust a boy in a bow-tie? Not creepy at all.
This week I woke up to a Facebook alert posted by one of my “neighbors” two miles away and one town over. He had found a wandering dog along one of the trails. The man had left the dog in the Pooch Parlor if anyone knew whose it was. He was worried that with the temperature hovering around 32, it was too cold for the dog.
Later, when I got to the gym, the dog was still there. The poor, pitiful creature was crying at the door. I had a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach which I was pretty sure was the result of last night’s dinner. But then I remembered my dinner had been Southern Comfort, so that couldn’t be it. Jason was there, and he told me the feeling I was experiencing was… ohh, what did he call it… ummm… sympathy. I checked to see if Muttley the mongrel had a tag with his owner’s number on it (I wasn’t planning on spending any reward money, I swear). He didn’t, and it was freezing in there, so I let the HOA know and took him home with me. At this point, Jason’s sole mission was to jump into the line of
fire dog bites. He failed… seriously. No I mean there is failing… and there is what Jason did.
This dog was so sweet. He went potty outside. He snuggled up to me. He seemed to feel at home. So much at home that he decided to make my leg his snack. I found out later that the dog belonged to the lovely gentleman that yelled out, “Yay, titties!” at the New Year’s Eve party I attended. Intimidated by the owner’s sophistication, I didn’t tell him about the bite. Unbeknownst to me, the dog is a known vampire. He lures in practically perfect bloggers, and then sucks the blood right out of their throbbing (recently worked out) calves.
After I cried in my Cocoa Puffs, the dog made his way home and all was well… or so I thought. Nope. Jason had to travel to his “brother’s wedding” AKA: Becca please watch my dog for me while I get to frolic in the ocean and use my brother as an excuse. I told him I wouldn’t, but then realized I needed to look helpful so I could continue to boss him around. Reluctantly, I took on his mangy mutt for the weekend.*
When Jason returned from his brother’s wedding, he was disappointed to find out his dog had become a Beccaholic. She completely ignored him, and glued herself to my thigh. As I am never happy with my thigh appearing larger than it already is, I dared to stand up and sit somewhere else. This pissed her off because, like vampire dogs are known to do, she had marked me as hers. The idea that I would get up without her permission made her so livid she decided to mark me permanently. Ohhh the bite earlier was nothing compared to what she did. I’m pretty sure she’d been seducing me for weeks, waiting to get her fangs in this practically perfect blood.
“I would never eat your yummy blood Becca. Now lets cuddle.”
After being bitten twice in one week, I think the vampires might leave me alone for a bit. I wish there was a doggy jail for doggy outlaws. But, alas, there is not. This sucks, as there are vampire dogs out to get me. I need someone like, Frontier Justice: Bass Reeves, Deputy U.S. Marshal, to help me out of my troubles. But since I don’t have someone like that, here is the next book I’m pimping for one of Ladyornot.com’s supporters, who also is a loyal reader.
Charles Ray has several books published, but he asked me to share his fictionalized story based on the life of Bass Reeves, who was the first African American U.S. Deputy Marshal west of the Mississippi. If you’d like to purchase it click on buy now:
You can also purchase his book or any Amazon products though my Amazon store by clicking here. Remember that anything you buy through my links helps support ladyornot.com. You guys have been amazingly supportive. I want to thank each and every one of you while I drink lots of wine and cry though my twice dog bitten tears. Next week, maybe only one dog will bite me.
Lady or Not… Here I Come!
*Okay… so maybe I was the one that picked her out and convinced him he needed to adopt her… but that doesn’t mean I like her in any way.