Monday 7:09 AM

I scour the web for a cheap pup

I discover that a shelter is displaying all their large breed puppies at a PETsMART in Poway at 11:00 -5:00 this Sunday. Sunday. Sunday.

Sunday 10:54am

I spurt out of the house. Water taps my shoulders. I open the door to my 1997 saturn and with both hands, grab the sliver of window that peeks out of the door. I jerk upward and a dirty window appears. I hop in the low rider, flick on the wipers, and book ass. The parking lot was packed and the spaces were tiny. The absent side-view mirror prevents an insurance claim once again. I squeeze my fingers between the window and the door frame and jerk downward. I stick my hand out and pull the wet door handle to open the door. Water taps my shoulders. With both hands, I grab the sliver of window that peeks out of the door. I jerk upward and a dirty window appears.

I spy a whirlwind of uncoordinated creatures enclosed within three foot high circular fence enclosed by fourteen energetic soccer moms accompanied by thirty-nine bouncy small uncoordinated humans. I panic. While grappling with my fears, a cheery woman in a short-sleeved navy polo shirt with a bleeding heart sidles next to me. She cradles twenty-five pounds of fur with paws of a grizzly in her bosom. The furball is immune to the canine fueled excitement. She interviews me cloaking the encounter as a flirtatious dog enthusiast chat. During the interview, she passes me the furball, who promptly falls asleep in my arms. After I spew some liberal propaganda, I walk out with furball, but the wise interviewer halts my exit.

“Legally, I need to follow you to your car to make sure the dog is safe”

This sounds like bullsh@t. Either she is suspicious I am grinding furball into hot dogs or she wants some candy.

Walking briskly, “Are you going to keep her name Melody? " she giggles as she touches my shoulder

"No!" I cringed.

"I shall name her Twenty", I declared

"Why?" rubbing my back.

"It just seems right" as my hand slides down her back and rests on her well-defined hip.

The chatting and overly friendly touches confuse my hippocampus, and I forget the coordinates of my car.

Two bitches.....What a day....I chuckle to myself.

Finally, we arrive at the 1997 Saturn.

"Why don’t you have a bumper?", as she recoils her hands.

"I have a bumper, but the Saturn advertising plastic cover fell off. It’s all legal. The jagged plastic grid just makes it look like something out of MadMax. That’s all." I stumble out of my mouth.

Gleefully, I drive home with the bitch I came for.

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