truman: tales of a wondering gigolo
after finally passing out around 6am yesterday morning, I was looking forward to a long peaceful slumber. funny, everyone else had different plans. someone calling on a wireless phone from area code 304 woke me up at 7:45...wrong number. the next barrage of calls, in typical fashion, went unanswered. around 9:45am the phone was ringing at an interval of 6 or 9 seconds. everyone knows not to leave a message for it will go unchecked for days, weeks, months even. I figured it was someone desperately trying to get a hold of me, so I relented and reached for the batphone. it was my friend inviting me to attend the afternoon's ballgame. he swore some of his hottest female friends would eventually meet up with us at the juicebox. kinda like being promised to hang with the brightest 'tards, tallest pygmies, fastests gimps, etc. just an idea of the level of 'hotness' I was dealing with.
afraid that I might over sleep, I turned to tnn outdoors and went about making preparations to face the day. started my maladroit sunday ritual of unwrinkling my clothes, I soon gave up on looking for my astros polo. since we were going to face the reds of cincinnatti, I decided to don the burnt orange in homage to the greatness of new caney's own adam dunn. assured that I was going to look money, it was time to secure breakfast. packed up le hound and went donut shopping. truman was on my last nerve by the time I got back because I knew he hadn't gone potty, so I let him outside as soon as got to the drive way. I had told my dad earlier about the ducats, and I demanded he be ready by the time I pulled up. he and I shared the krispy cremes while truman went on about this biznahs in the backyard. we started thumbing through the sunday paper when he got a call from one of my mom's friends who is familiar with truman. he said he had seen my dog running around his house, two blocks away. and that the head of the neighborhood association apparently had called the police. I'm sure this guy's call to houston's finest was ladden with hyperboles about a rabbid canine on the loose. knowing that truman had no form of visual id on him; he's got a pet id chip implanted on his shoulder blades, and a tattoo on his groin, I quickly sprung into action before he was snatched by the man. as my dad went scrambling for his sneakers, I went outside to see how that little focker had gotten out, and I noticed that this metal gate was wide open. truman is no spring chicken, he seized the opportunity to check out the sites, smells, and poon tang that the neighborhood had to offer.
my dad and I met up again inside and I mentioned that I suspected that last night's storm had blown his metal gate open, and he told me he had been refinishing that gate for about two weeks, but his work had been stalled by the frequent showers, so the still unpainted locking mechanism was still on his work bench. this information would have been useful to me before I had let the dog out. so this baja man and his father embarked on our rescue mission. we opened the front door and we were met by truman in all his majestic glory. he was just chilling waiting for us to let him in. I was happy to see him, but he was wet from either rolling in the wet grass or from swimming in the nearby creek. I couldn't leave him inside the house and risk him brushing up against my mom's furniture, so I cracked the garage door and left him there.
as we were about to march out of the house, the phone rang. it was the lady that had alerted the law. she found out through her inquires that the dog was staying there. she proceeded to tell my dad about the laws against stray dogs, of how they bring property values down ([sarcasm] I wasn't aware that was an epidemic problem in that part of town [/sarcasm]), and the city's protocol for dealing with nomadic dogs; a procedure I'm unfortunately all too familiar with. that's why truman's nubian visage is sullied by every tag possible: pet chip id, city of houston, city of austin, rabbies vaccination, owner info, and his playaz's club badge. needless to say, you can imagine the decibels generated by such a collection, surely they rival that of a retired floridian's front pocket jingle. I only put it on him when we go outside the city. and since he's mostly an inside dog, I let him style a collar sans tags. fuck, what pisses me off is that I thought I would escape this unjust persecution when I moved back to houston. when I was living in a residential neighborhood in austin, truman always got out because my tightwad landlord wouldn't replace the fence. he would always find a way to get past my best efforts to patch it up, and I always had to make a weekly trip to the town lake pound, or I had to track down the mailman. he and truman became good chums, and he often let him follow him on his route, the dude would leave me a note when he found him walking the streets while I was in class. shit, its not like he's a vicious pit bull or a molosser on the prowl looking to feast on kids. its a harmless black lab, he will most likely lick the shit out of your children. her fears were unfounded, and they insulted my dedication to socialize and train my dog. but I guess she doesn't know that, because she doesn't know me or truman. but anyone with four fingers for a forehead knows that a lab is great with kids. that's why when I was planning on buying a dog, I avoided getting a german shepherd, a fila brasileiro, or any breed that has earned the 'malicious' notoriety. next time I see her fuckin' mutt named simba around my parents' house I'm going to take him to the pound and let her experience first hand what a pain in the ass that ordeal is. in the mean time, I hope her genitals get infested with the fleas of a thousand camels.
fuckin' bitch,
w. axl rose
