A miracle happened.
Fluffie, the maltese-poodle mix, escaped the Dog Pound some weeks ago: He was my dog, cause after the Dog Pound picked him up -- looking like a rastafarian with very bad hair, it cost me $50 to save him from death row at the Pound. Why do you want this dog, lady? Fluffie isn't tame you see. He's Street. Not a bad type, just keeps a safe distance from people. At the pound, on Death Row, I explained my whole year of trying to catch this cabron. So, they felt sorry for the little hellion, and he got registered, neutered, shots, micro-chipped, and shaved down to his nakedness.
I guess Lady Destiny had something to show me, cause when I went to get him the next day, he slipped under his collar and ran for the hills as he was getting into the back of my car, thanks to the help of a Dog Pound staffer who thought I was abusing Fluffie who was doing some twisty-tango moves. It wasn't all my fault, I asked the Dog Pound Clinic to make that collar tight, the assistant swore he'd never get out. I've seen this dog on the street for a year, I told her. Tried dog traps, barely legal drugs, and weinies. He takes the weinies, eats the drugs, ignores the traps. This dog came from a family that ran with the mustangs. He's the boss of the barrio, trust me.
The dog will not be able to get out of this collar, she repeated. Five minutes, later, he was running across the lot toward the Food Bank, at the corner of 90 and 151, on the far westside of town.
The dispatchers came out, the big guys with the bigger hooks, who all ran toward the lot after a dog that weighed maybe 15 pounds and bare-assed. I didn't even try, had to go to work, and cried myself that night with guilt, anger at ACS, Fluffie, and my checkbook.
The next day I got on the phone and called everyone I could at the Dog Pound and blamed them. Got a personal call from the Director, the Protector and Killer of Dogs, depending on how you look at it, and he assured me that the Dog Pound had two dispatchers looking, a trap set up outside the Dog Pound, that Fluffie would be back, they always do. Don't worry, ma'm, we're gonna catch this dog.
Yesterday I got a call from Michael, from Fluffie's barrio, Ruiz and San Jacinto, way across town from the Dog Pound. "Hey, I barely recognize him, you really shaved him, didn'tcha? Sure good to get him back."
Fluffie travelled about fifteen miles through traffic, scorching heat, and big dogs that could mistake him for a live weinie. Gave him some smoked ones today, and said hello. He's happy, and I have to figure out what to do now. Here's the before and after pics:
Fluffie says, Come Get me Now, Fools.
Fluffie, the maltese-poodle mix, escaped the Dog Pound some weeks ago: He was my dog, cause after the Dog Pound picked him up -- looking like a rastafarian with very bad hair, it cost me $50 to save him from death row at the Pound. Why do you want this dog, lady? Fluffie isn't tame you see. He's Street. Not a bad type, just keeps a safe distance from people. At the pound, on Death Row, I explained my whole year of trying to catch this cabron. So, they felt sorry for the little hellion, and he got registered, neutered, shots, micro-chipped, and shaved down to his nakedness.
I guess Lady Destiny had something to show me, cause when I went to get him the next day, he slipped under his collar and ran for the hills as he was getting into the back of my car, thanks to the help of a Dog Pound staffer who thought I was abusing Fluffie who was doing some twisty-tango moves. It wasn't all my fault, I asked the Dog Pound Clinic to make that collar tight, the assistant swore he'd never get out. I've seen this dog on the street for a year, I told her. Tried dog traps, barely legal drugs, and weinies. He takes the weinies, eats the drugs, ignores the traps. This dog came from a family that ran with the mustangs. He's the boss of the barrio, trust me.
The dog will not be able to get out of this collar, she repeated. Five minutes, later, he was running across the lot toward the Food Bank, at the corner of 90 and 151, on the far westside of town.
The dispatchers came out, the big guys with the bigger hooks, who all ran toward the lot after a dog that weighed maybe 15 pounds and bare-assed. I didn't even try, had to go to work, and cried myself that night with guilt, anger at ACS, Fluffie, and my checkbook.
The next day I got on the phone and called everyone I could at the Dog Pound and blamed them. Got a personal call from the Director, the Protector and Killer of Dogs, depending on how you look at it, and he assured me that the Dog Pound had two dispatchers looking, a trap set up outside the Dog Pound, that Fluffie would be back, they always do. Don't worry, ma'm, we're gonna catch this dog.
Yesterday I got a call from Michael, from Fluffie's barrio, Ruiz and San Jacinto, way across town from the Dog Pound. "Hey, I barely recognize him, you really shaved him, didn'tcha? Sure good to get him back."
Fluffie travelled about fifteen miles through traffic, scorching heat, and big dogs that could mistake him for a live weinie. Gave him some smoked ones today, and said hello. He's happy, and I have to figure out what to do now. Here's the before and after pics:
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