Any Given Wednesday, Part II
Recovered: 03.13.2006
Part II
...I asked them what had happened to their dog, and they said it had been hurt jumping from a moving vehicle. I asked them where they were going, and they said (naturally) they were heading to the Walgreen’s. I inquired if this was for first aid for the dog, and they said no, but they were going to the veterinarian tomorrow. They had already called him, and the Vet said the dog was ‘perfectly fine, and in no pain’. I looked on blankly, and finally formed a reply as the broken parts of my brain started to mend. (I hadn’t forgotten about the Nursing Student’s exam yet.)
“I have no prior experience in Veterinary Medicine, but I am fairly convinced that walking on its bone with a bent-back paw is pretty far from ‘perfectly all right’. In fact, it’s freaking me out. The only think keeping me from hurting you right now is that it may delay me from putting this dog out of its misery with my pistol right here in the middle of this neighborhood, and goddammit, that hasn't struck me as a bad idea just yet. What in the HELL are you doing walking this dog, you sick freaks?”
The girls looked at one another, genuinely puzzled, and I keyed up to call for an Animal Services unit. Now.
“Because it followed us.”
Now it was my turn to look puzzled. I replied, “It’s on a leash.” They paused. “Well, yes, but that was to keep it from following us outside the fence”, they said with a look of certain fact.
I was starting to shake. “It’s a LEASH. It’s not walking; You’re DRAGGING it. Instead of dragging it, you could have tied the dog to something. ANYTHING heavier than the dog would have done, actually; large rocks, a tree,” I said with a quickening speech and rising volume, “because if that dog is walking voluntarily, it’s ONLY because it thinks that maybe, just MAYBE, you’re taking it to the goddamn DOCTOR. How long has it been LIKE this? That blood is still fresh.”
“July”, the girl said.
“July? As in, SEVEN MONTHS AGO ‘July’?!?” (They nodded.) “And ‘tomorrow’ it’s going to the vet? You sick FREAKS! People like you are beaten and KILLED for less than this! A person? SURE, I get that…but a DOG? A DOG CAN’T HELP IT. IT HAS AN EXCUSE, BUT YOU HAVE NONE!” My supervisor began approaching on foot at this from the original ‘rape’ scene, as did the relatively close Animal Services truck. The Sergeant was about to intervene, when he too saw the dog and began to have the same reaction as myself as he drank this in, and became upset even more quickly than I.
The girls were now inflamed that I would accuse them of being anything other than Upright Citizens since they had obtained what they felt certain was nothing short of Definitive Medical Advice regarding their dogs bloody stump, when the Animal Services tech exited the vehicle and began to speak and, likely, save both the girls lives and my career. “Hey, what’s the problem, I don’t—Oh MAN, AW, that…Oh, that’s gotta GO.” And at this, the girls righteous indignation turned to tears.
“This? THIS makes you cry?” I said. “Not the seven months of bloody-folded-back-paw or hopping-on-a-splintered-bone, but THIS?!” By now, the ‘victims’ had started to take notice and the children in an adjacent yard had lost interest in pelting one another with a mossy wet tennis ball, and began to line the fence to observe. And with that, I finally had something to latch on to and I regained my composure, as many victims do after recovering from a near-drowning. I lowered my arms, slowly leaned in, and quietly told the lead girl “You are a bad person. And you have an empty soul.” The girls were now holding one another, their bodies wracked by sobs and their faces were illuminated by a coincidental reflection off of my large polished-brass nameplate. “You are a bad person and you have an ugly soul, and you are going to lead a sad lonely life.” I backed away and went back to the original ‘rape’ scene where the Supervisor had long-since returned, with the two girls beginning their plodding, sobbing return to the direction from whence they came. It was best that I did not learn their names.
The two year old in question was squeaking gleefully as she played with a stuffed animal in the back of her Daddy’s GMC Jimmy, and Child Protective Services was taking over the scene. 4 o’clock on the dot.
Time to go home.
(‘*Black Bottom’ is the area in which other residents of East Lake consider these people as being ‘Pretty Fucked Up’. As best I can determine, the last time new genes had been introduced to this area President Chester Alan Arthur was serving a rather unmemorable term in the White House and the birth of ‘thick prescription glasses’ transpired on this very spot.)
Part II
...I asked them what had happened to their dog, and they said it had been hurt jumping from a moving vehicle. I asked them where they were going, and they said (naturally) they were heading to the Walgreen’s. I inquired if this was for first aid for the dog, and they said no, but they were going to the veterinarian tomorrow. They had already called him, and the Vet said the dog was ‘perfectly fine, and in no pain’. I looked on blankly, and finally formed a reply as the broken parts of my brain started to mend. (I hadn’t forgotten about the Nursing Student’s exam yet.)
“I have no prior experience in Veterinary Medicine, but I am fairly convinced that walking on its bone with a bent-back paw is pretty far from ‘perfectly all right’. In fact, it’s freaking me out. The only think keeping me from hurting you right now is that it may delay me from putting this dog out of its misery with my pistol right here in the middle of this neighborhood, and goddammit, that hasn't struck me as a bad idea just yet. What in the HELL are you doing walking this dog, you sick freaks?”
The girls looked at one another, genuinely puzzled, and I keyed up to call for an Animal Services unit. Now.
“Because it followed us.”
Now it was my turn to look puzzled. I replied, “It’s on a leash.” They paused. “Well, yes, but that was to keep it from following us outside the fence”, they said with a look of certain fact.
I was starting to shake. “It’s a LEASH. It’s not walking; You’re DRAGGING it. Instead of dragging it, you could have tied the dog to something. ANYTHING heavier than the dog would have done, actually; large rocks, a tree,” I said with a quickening speech and rising volume, “because if that dog is walking voluntarily, it’s ONLY because it thinks that maybe, just MAYBE, you’re taking it to the goddamn DOCTOR. How long has it been LIKE this? That blood is still fresh.”
“July”, the girl said.
“July? As in, SEVEN MONTHS AGO ‘July’?!?” (They nodded.) “And ‘tomorrow’ it’s going to the vet? You sick FREAKS! People like you are beaten and KILLED for less than this! A person? SURE, I get that…but a DOG? A DOG CAN’T HELP IT. IT HAS AN EXCUSE, BUT YOU HAVE NONE!” My supervisor began approaching on foot at this from the original ‘rape’ scene, as did the relatively close Animal Services truck. The Sergeant was about to intervene, when he too saw the dog and began to have the same reaction as myself as he drank this in, and became upset even more quickly than I.
The girls were now inflamed that I would accuse them of being anything other than Upright Citizens since they had obtained what they felt certain was nothing short of Definitive Medical Advice regarding their dogs bloody stump, when the Animal Services tech exited the vehicle and began to speak and, likely, save both the girls lives and my career. “Hey, what’s the problem, I don’t—Oh MAN, AW, that…Oh, that’s gotta GO.” And at this, the girls righteous indignation turned to tears.
“This? THIS makes you cry?” I said. “Not the seven months of bloody-folded-back-paw or hopping-on-a-splintered-bone, but THIS?!” By now, the ‘victims’ had started to take notice and the children in an adjacent yard had lost interest in pelting one another with a mossy wet tennis ball, and began to line the fence to observe. And with that, I finally had something to latch on to and I regained my composure, as many victims do after recovering from a near-drowning. I lowered my arms, slowly leaned in, and quietly told the lead girl “You are a bad person. And you have an empty soul.” The girls were now holding one another, their bodies wracked by sobs and their faces were illuminated by a coincidental reflection off of my large polished-brass nameplate. “You are a bad person and you have an ugly soul, and you are going to lead a sad lonely life.” I backed away and went back to the original ‘rape’ scene where the Supervisor had long-since returned, with the two girls beginning their plodding, sobbing return to the direction from whence they came. It was best that I did not learn their names.
The two year old in question was squeaking gleefully as she played with a stuffed animal in the back of her Daddy’s GMC Jimmy, and Child Protective Services was taking over the scene. 4 o’clock on the dot.
Time to go home.
(‘*Black Bottom’ is the area in which other residents of East Lake consider these people as being ‘Pretty Fucked Up’. As best I can determine, the last time new genes had been introduced to this area President Chester Alan Arthur was serving a rather unmemorable term in the White House and the birth of ‘thick prescription glasses’ transpired on this very spot.)
posted by Longshot! [Sane] at 7:02 AM
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