It’s been a rough year kids. When I was five, my dog Misha died and I pretended I was a dog for a week. This year, two of my dogs died. I didn’t go so far as to walk on all fours at school, but they’re missed severely by me and my crumbling family. Plus, two nights ago, Rocky Raccoon said Danny Boy, this is a showdown to my one remaining duck, Pippen. The song didn’t play out–Rocky drew first and Pip fell. The feather trail lead over the fence, into the neighbors yard, along their far fence and toward a shed where he was either eaten or I just lost the nerve to keep following blood soaked down feathers. This post is in memory of Pippen, Tasha, and Jordi.
Tasha was a ruthless killer but also a big pussy. Before we moved to Berkeley, we had a shed. A family of possums moved in under it, and Tasha didn’t eat, drink or sleep for a week. She camped out by the hole and waited for one to poke its little head out. She’d grab it, break its neck, carry it around for a minute, and then go back to the hole to wait for the recently departed’s little brother to make the same mistake. She was uncontrollably afraid of loud or odd noises. Fourth of July was the worst, she’d shake and freak the fuck out all day–especially when the kid next door got firecracker aged.
Jordi was a walking proof of the rigitity of hybrid genes. He was a little sparkplug up until he was about fourteen years old. He knew the sound of my mom’s car from a few blocks away, and would jump up to the front door window for a few minutes until she came through the door. Miguel called him Breath. He had bad oral hygiene. Here he does a wheelie for the camera.
Tasha used to lurk on the porch all day. It super sucks to come home and not have her sitting there.
BFF motherfucker.
Pippen is more to the foreground. This is a baby picture, as you can tell by his raggedy ass young duck feather steez. We raised him from when he was a little marshmallow peep. When my mom would let him out to go chase flies around the backyard, he’d run behind her until he got to the open faced staircase. He’d run under it and shoot his head out to bite my mom’s toes.
Pour a forty out for your animals.