Life. Serious stuff.

This is so it.
I love my apartment but I'm so DAMNED tired of not being able to have a dog if I want one.

Last year at around this time, I found Frankie. I was working, but of course that didn't stop me from grabbing this little puppy, who was chasing trucks on a busy road in front of a food bank. I know the people at the food bank, and they told me he had been there a few days, probably dumped over there. Bad neighborhoods seem to be dumping grounds for unwanted pets.

Well, I put little Frankie in the passenger seat, where he sat politely smiling, as if to say, "I can't wait to see what you have in store for me!" I didn't have a plan. I was moving. My husband and I were splitting up. I had no place to take the dog. So we got to the office, I gave him a bath, nagged everyone I knew to give him a chance (failed), and ended up taking him to my house. Officially I had three days to get out. Most of my stuff was already moved to my current place. It was a tough time for everyone, especially me. I took Frankie to work with me a couple days later. A colleague offered to "foster" him until I could find a proper home. He looked SO cute! I had bought him a matching red leash and collar set.

All of a sudden, a guy I hardly knew walked past me in the hallway. "Wow, that is the perfect dog. That's the exact dog I always wanted as a kid." I told him that Frankie was an orphan and currently interviewing parents. He took Frankie home that day. Changed his name too. WTF is wrong with the name Frankie??? It's ok, they are happy with the new name so I won't complain.

A few months later, I found another dog. This was the perfect dog for ME. I had seen him lounging and constantly scratching his dusty hide on a barren, dirt-filled corner yard for a couple of weeks. He barked at me at first. After awhile, I threw treats across the street to him.

One day, I tried to talk to one of the occupants of the house on Frankie's property. She didn't speak any English. I called my brother, who probably explained to her in Spanish that his sister is a nut case, and wants the mutt that won't leave their front yard. She picked Frankie up, threw him in my car, and calmly strode into the house.

I only have pictures on my cell phone, but he looked like this dog, except he was all white and weighed about 30 lbs. He was medium-sized. I named him Frankie. He chased Kitty whenever he had a chance. He had such a great personality! He loved to run and play. He liked to just sit near me while I was playing Scrabble or drinking my coffee. He was soft, too. I bought him a matching red leash and collar set. I took him for a run twice a day, and a walk once a day. He made friends with the other dogs at the park. We existed in this blissful state for close to a week before my landlord told me I had until Tuesday to get rid of him. It didn't help that Frankie barked at him. My landlord is a REAL nut case.

I found a lady who ran a small rescue. She inspected him, got him groomed, and adopted him to a guy who'd had a dog just like Frankie for 18 years. The dog had died six months before, and the guy was looking for a rescue dog of that same breed. He thought it was fate. Sigh.

Now this little girl. Francis. She's gone! I didn't get a chance to find her a home. I would have kept her if I could have.

I want my own house. It's going to take me FOREVER to save up money for a down payment, but I just have to find a way! I'll start selling everything. I don't have much that's really worth anything, but I bet if I sold everything and saved up, I'd have enough within a year or so. I wonder if it's alright to take money out of your retirement account to put it down on a house.


Today I spent a grand total of three hours away from my apartment. I was late when I left, and I'm always late when I meet this particular friend for some reason.
I was in such a hurry that I made the mistake of leaving the door to my closet open. When I got home, Kitty was asleep on my NEWLY washed, ANTIQUE embroidered sheets that I had JUST folded and stacked! I screamed, "Kitty! What are you doing?" She lifted up her head, blinking. She shook her head, yawned, meowed in that menacing way only she can, and made a beeline for the bathroom sink.

I turned the faucet to drip, griping at her the whole time. She meowed back, probably saying something like, "Shut up and turn the faucet on more, bitch."

Just now, I looked around to see what Kitty is up to. She has managed to find the ONE spot in the house that I would prefer she didn't lounge: my black and brown tennis dress that I JUST pulled out of the dryer and spread flat to finish drying. Sigh... Nothing like white cat hair all over your black tennis dress. That's hot.

She's nothing like my other cat, who Kitty has outlived by a long shot. Cleo came into the picture when Kitty was about 3, and died 8 years later. She had a kidney problem, which was misdiagnosed by the vet, who gave her some stuff that aggravated that condition and killed her.

She always chose the most unique places to snooze. She was like a statue, always so still and quiet. She never meowed like SOMEBODY I know. Of course I miss her. She was a dainty, tiny little cat with golden eyes and pink skin under her short white coat. I miss her. Kitty does not.