I haven’t walked to my local liquor store in some time, but I encountered the Three Amigos as I passed THE CITY BUILDING. Like, let that sink in. They were sitting outside the city building panning for change.

I had the dog; she LOVES liquor store runs, as THEY GIVE OUT DOG TREATS. So. I’m fairly certain if I don’t walk her there for the next three years, she’ll still know. Dogs, amirite? *eyeroll*

These gentlemen commented on my dog, just to comment on my dog. I brought her over to meet them, as they seemed nice and they were really interested in her. One of them even knew her breed. Now, I know 90% of the population would have just moved on, and in a bigger city I might have, but here we literally have like 15 homeless people you ever see on a daily basis if you walk around downtown, so you get to know the characters. Luckily so far all the ones down here are completely harmless and, contrary to popular belief, really fucking smart. Like scary smart. And, contrary to popular belief, super nice. Like, nice nice. I can’t even make this up.

So, they meet the dog, and of course the worst one off in the group (I’ve encountered him before; he’s really into his alcoholism; I feel sorry for him but, you know, it is what it is) asks for money. The other two, to my surprise, shame him.

I only have my cc and my ID, but, since they’re nice and hey, the two “better off” ones are looking out for “worse off dude” I’m all, “Hey, I have to come back this way, I’ll hook you up”.

Please, feel free to flame me for giving alcoholics alcohol. I grew up with a high-functioning alcoholic as a father, please tell me what part of this I don’t get. Don’t cry when I hand your ass to you.

They drink. They live on the streets. Can I give them food? Oh, I could IF I had a restaurant nearby I didn’t have to drive to. I was on foot, with the dog. Do they drink? OF COURSE THEY DO. And really, they are begging money for booze. Now I feel like since they have the booze I gave them they might actually go eat. So.

I’m not sure it’s actually charity, but come on. They’re happy, I’m happy, it’s not like one of them is going to clean up and run for congress (although I’d probably vote for him). It’s fucking human decency. I spent $9 and they’ll be happy for 3-4 hours. I’m okay with that.

Thanks, you ungrateful, horrible person. Because you are a jerk, and a rescue got my dog out of your clutches, I got the best fluffy fuzzbutt pet EVER.

Fuck you for using her as a breeder. Fuck you all the way to Hell and back. She is a LOVELY dog; she’s sweet and amazing, in SPITE of you and your bullshit. You suck, and if I could name and shame you I totally would.

I’m always amazed that dogs that get treated like shit like this still have love for humans. Mine is a total sweetheart. How she doesn’t hate our race is beyond me. But, she loves me; she  also lets random humans scratch her chin, and she’s a total treat whore when we go to the office to get a package (SPOILED).

Dogs > humans.

I love her. She’s totally amazeballs.

In light of a friend’s tragic loss of a beloved pet, and the close proximity to the 18th anniversary of my husband’s death, I feel the need to tell this story.

I dated Carl for about a year and a half before I married him. In that time, I had often expressed my desire to own a bird that talked. I thought they were fascinating, funny, and would be a great pet to have, but I never got around to having one.

Right before we got married, Carl brought home this little cardboard box. Inside was the cutest little piece of yellow fluff the world has ever known. My wedding present, Meep.

She came with her name (she was a year old), and we soon figured out why. She didn’t chirp; her sound of choice was “meep, meep, meep!” It fit her, so we kept it.

She was *supposed* to be my bird, but she was daddy’s girl all the way. He had a mustache; she would scream happily when she heard him come up the steps, fly over to him, settle herself on his chest, and groom his mustache. She was totally his baby. She loved me too, but he was #1 in her book. It was incredibly cute.

She also never learned to talk (so much for a talking bird; I still loved the hell out of her). She could whistle; we tried desperately to teach her to do the theme from “The Addams Family” but she never quite got there. We loved her anyway.

When Carl died, poor Meep was hit the hardest. We shared a staircase with the next door neighbors, and while they didn’t share Carl’s enthusiasm of bounding up at top speed, she still thought that sounds on the stairs meant it was him.

After the funeral, and after everyone had gone home, and things returned to “normal”, I watched her dance around on top of her cage one night as the neighbor came up the stairs. She thought Carl had come home.

The hardest thing I have ever done in my life was to look at her and say, “That’s not daddy”. I kid you not, that bird looked at me, looked at the door, and turned her face to the corner. For a couple hours. It literally broke my heart.

So the next time someone tells you, “It’s just a cat/dog/bird” cut those people out of your life. They truly don’t get it. Not at all.