I was watching the ad for dog food--the one where the dogs wear protest signs around their necks. I clearly don't watch enough television because I paid close attention. There's that sign around some dog's neck that says "Ban by-products" oh, whoa, no, no, no
WTF? Huh? Dogs freaking love by-products. Hey, no, I'm serious here. Give them a choice between a steaming pile of guts and a pile of the green veggies they're showing in that ad and . . . well, damn. Why the hell don't dog owners notice that their dogs are essentially disgusting creatures and perfectly fine that way? How come those people got to force the dogs to abandon by-products when their happiest dreams consist of rolling in partially rotted animal bits?
I was ranting out loud, for God's sake. Complaining to the snoozing dog about an ad for dog food.
That's when I understood I needed to get out of the house, and maybe fetch a life from somewhere.
So now I'm at La Paloma, loading books onto review sites, sighing about my lack of sales, listening into conversations. BUT I AM NOT TALKING TO MYSELF or the dog.
It was a close call.
Some day I'll go too far. A couple of cats, maybe a few packages of cheetos -- either way I would have tipped over some serious edge. I can't count on you online people to fetch me back anymore--you're like the kids. You never write, you never call. It's just me, the dog, and a mute button that doesn't work on the TV remote.