A Rosie Vagina, a Corpsey Cat and a Grateful Puppy.

Well we saved another puppy.  

This time we saved a puppy from the dead cat that was holding it hostage. Well, I guess technically that’s not an accurate statement since to hold something hostage you need to want something in return. And the dead cat didn’t really seem to want anything. Hostage holding also seems like it is a kind of assertive position while being dead implicitly implies passivity. I guess it would be more accurate to say that the dead cat was playing more of a victim role and was being passive aggressive with the puppy, effectively trapping it in an unhealthy relationship.  

A passive aggressive dead cat.

Anyway…  

I had just come back down the mountain from my morning jog when I saw the town stoner Tom standing at the big water fountain by the soccer field. Tom is a Welsh guy somewhere between 45 and 120 years old. He is around 6’2 when fully erect which is never. His ‘walking around posture’ sets him at around 4’8. Although I don’t have anything in common with him, he is great for a laugh and I love him like a Yoda.  

Immediately upon seeing me he stopped what he was doing (I’m not sure what that was but it did involve him staring intently at his feet) and tried to get my attention by waving his right arm in what looked to me to be a Hokey Pokey flashbacky gesture. As I sidled next to him to get a gulp of water I could tell that he was either excited or agitated by the way his pupils kept trying to focus.  

An aggressive dead cat.

“Hear that did you?” he asked.  

“No” I replied.  

“Keening, worling, yealking nippler night last I heard!” He went on, “Spooky it was.” As I was considering how I was going to ‘talk him down’ I heard it too, and god damn if it didn’t sound like a fucking worling, yealking nippler. We walked over to a long abandoned Peugeot with 4 flat tires and I could already smell what I assumed to be Rosie O’Donnell’s vagina.   

You can imagine my relief to find that it was only a very dead cat.  

I love cats but I’ll take a dead cat over an irritated and hungry vagina any day. In my exuberance over finding the source of the odor I almost forgot to consider what had made the worling, yealking nippler. As I realized that the dead cat couldn’t talk I begun to fear the angry Irishwoman’s anatomy once again. So I carefully got down on my hands and knees to better look under the car, and I saw a beautiful, healthy (physically anyway, emotionally.. not so much) puppy.  

I tried to coax her out, but she just wanted to lie and cuddle with her friend, Corpsey Cat. As I tried to reach under the car to grab her she climbed up into the engine compartment. Then I knew I needed help.  

I shouldn’t really have written that. I’m sure that her vagina smells like rainbows and pixie dust.

I left Tom who was once again staring contentedly at his feet and ran home to get my wife who I calmly asked, “Oh my God you have to help me there is a cute little puppy and a dead fucking cat under a broken car and Tom heard it worling, yealking and nipplering all night last night and nobody did anything so we have to get it out of there or it’s going to fucking die because now it’s in the hood and it’s probably really hot and oily and it may be drinking antifreeze or something right now so oh my God you have to help me right now, OK?!” 

We spent the next day and a half trying to bribe, threaten, scare, beg and plead to get that puppy away from the dead cat and out from under the Peugeot to no avail. Every time we neared she just climbed back up into the empty hood. (We found out that the engine was long missing.) We knew that we needed more help.  

Finally we called a mechanic who lives in our village to see if he would come and do some mechanic-y stuff to open the hood so we could extract the puppy. He did meet us at the scene but since it was someone else’s vehicle, abandoned or not, he was unwilling to break into it. But he did agree to help.  

He did what I believe mechanics do the world over once they are alone in their garages of greasy iniquity and he banged on the hood with his fists, while my wife laid on the ground (right next to Feline MacRotten) and snatched the scurrying, frightened puppy when she jumped down.  

We bundled the puppy up and brought her home and I scrubbed her with a vigilance that would make an OCD sufferer proud. And would probably make them want to wash their hands and flip a lightswitch 17 times as well. The first few hours Puppy seemed to miss Corpsey Cat but after she began to play with our dog and cat she seemed to adjust just fine. Now we simply have to find her a good home before we become too attached. Ahem.  

  

I do have to learn that mechanic-y bangy trick though. It would be a lucrative source for extra income supplementing my nothing else.  

Just to keep you informed; the cat is still dead. I think he’s waiting for Rosie’s vagina to come hang out.

Super Important Update; I’m going to switch this blog over into the evil dot.com world (of which I know nothing) very shortly, and I need a name. As you can see by the name of this blog, I suck ass at making the big decisions. So if you guys can give me any suggestions at all, preferably based on my writing or style, I’d make it up to you in way that you couldn’t even fantasize (mostly because I haven’t thought of it yet) about. But I’ll make it up to you in a fantasy worthy kind of way. Probably.