Our Stray Ran Away, And I Can Cry If I Want To

I'm gonna shoot a short film starring my current housemates and call it The Lovey Bunch. Last time I was in town, Heidi rescued a ratty Yorky-like dog that was tied to a fence on her period. She cleaned Emma up (below), got her fixed, helped find her a home. I swear, I understand now why Bob Barker always said, "Help control the pet population, have your pet spayed or neutered." The stray population (not to mention the homeless human population) is bursting the City of Angels at the seams. I don't know if that sentence makes a ton of sense, but you get what I mean.



This time around, Amber lured a chihuahua she'd seen roaming the neighborhood after she'd almost hit him driving. Lured him in with a piece of rotisserie chicken. He was scared but then he warmed up, cuddled. Crawled into my lap and leaked something on me. Which after he started humping the female dog in the house, I realized was semen. Oh these poor horny animal scamps! I didn't care what he leaked on me, he was such a lover and had a goofy happiness about him as he shivered and shook as chihuahuas tend to do. And he was very clean and very soft.



So anyways, Amber was posting about him on Craigslist, and looking for lost dog posts thinking she could maybe find his owner — and even looked up stores that might carry the brand of his cool skull-and-bones collar so we could go hang posters there. But when Dim let the dogs out into the yard the next day, "Cheech" (as I started to call him) snuck out through a crack and never came back. Amber saw him again on the street but couldn't get him to come to her. I seriously teared up last night, which I haven't done because of an animal in about five years — when I walked in on a friend suffocating his coma-like cat so he wouldn't have to pay to put to her down.

From this day forward I am going to walk around with a rotisserie chicken in my pocket just in case I see Cheech.