Have You Ever Been Accused of Killing Someone?

I think the way a lot of people start their blog, is by saying how long it's been since they last blogged. I'm not going to do that today. But I will begin by telling you that this is another blog about Brutal, my dog. 

As you, my friends, family, employers, fellow bus riders, the man at my corner store, and everyone I see at the Carroll Park Playground already know, I bring my dog everywhere. He is usually either pulling so hard on his leash that he gives himself "reverse sneezes" or he's screaming at other dogs from his little carrier, which I carry on my shoulder. 

Today, Brutal walked quite a bit because Porter wanted to attach the leash to his pants so he could be walked by Brutal. And just like any other day, Brutal was in his carrier when we went into stores and to get lunch. He was walking/running with me to the bank after work so I could deposit my check. But he happily jumped in his cozy dog bag when we got to the bank. 

This is where the story gets more interesting for you, my loyal reader.

I walked into WaMu on Smith Street around 5:30 this evening. I set Brutal down on the bench so I didn't have to hold him over my shoulder while I waited second in line for 20 minutes. You know, Washington Mutual employees are so slow and no matter which branch I'm at (in N.Y.), they take forever with each customer. You might call that good customer service, but I just think they're fucking retarded. Anyway, as I'm being helped by this sweet Middle Eastern woman, a very elderly couple walk in, right as the bank is getting ready to close. They stop by the entrance to make sure there is time for them to be helped. The kind, but goofy teller with glasses, hides the fact that he is annoyed. 

As the old couple walk by, Brutal goes crazy! He's barking and shrieking so loud and hard that his carrier topples over and rolls off the bench and onto the floor. I'm so pissed and embarrassed that I don't notice the old lady lying on the ground on her back. Her husband was yelling and pointing to her and trying to get someone to help. Everyone rushes over to her and I quickly forget about Brutal. There's quite the scene to be seen. Someone calling 911, all the employees crowded around her, watchers watching from the window, and the best part, her husband yelling at me. I was so in shock at first that I didn't even realize what he was saying.

I was being accused of killing his wife. Well, not me, my dog! He was telling me that Brutal's sudden tantrum scared his wife so badly that she had a heart attack.  He was threatening to sue me and saying that he was going to put me in jail for good. WHAT?! I don't even know what I was thinking at this point, I was just hoping she wasn't dead. I really wanted to run away. Before I could argue with the geezer, he was calling the cops. I was trapped. If I left, it would seem like I knew I was guilty. I never hated anything more than I hated Brutal at that moment.

After sitting in the middle of all the chaos for what seemed like hours, we hear a mass off sirens blaring. I didn't move from my bench and I didn't pick Brutal up off the floor, instead, I quietly cried as the cops, firemen, and paramedics crowded the lobby of the bank. It took only seconds for them to tell us that the woman is dead. The husband is hysterically yelling and crying and I can only make out a few words; "PLEASE!" and "DOG!" 

We took the ordeal outside, where the cold air made me so stiff that my neck felt like it would snap if I moved. I was questioned for a few minutes and forced to give the coppers all my information. The old man disappeared with the ambulance and flashing lights, onlookers stared straight at me, and all the lights in the bank turned off. I was told that the husband would most likely file a lawsuit and that I would have to register Brutal in N.Y. and update all his records. 

I was so upset. I didn't know what to do. I just wanted to kill Brutal for killing that poor old bitch. Was it really his fault? Was I really going to be the one to answer to this lady's untimely death? But it was her time. She was really very very old. 

Actually, none of this happened. Brutal did walk Porter, I really did eat Cheerio's, and I did take Brutal to the bank and leave him on the bench in his carrier. BUT there was no old couple, no one had a heart attack, and I was not told that I was going to be sued. While I was in the bank, I thought to myself as Brutal quietly cozied up in his portable bed, "What if an old lady walked in and Brutal barked so loudly and suddenly that she had a heart attack and died? Would I get in trouble? Would they try to sue me? And if they did, would they win?" A bit silly, I know. But I thought it would make a good story to tell you's. 

Well, I hope you enjoyed this tall tale. I certainly enjoyed writing it, although I struggle so badly with punctuation and past/present tense. As Bryan has admitted to over-using certain punctuation marks, I will also admit to totally over-using the COMMA. I love it. 

Thanks for reading.

bye

My Dog's Name is Brutal.

I know that I just wrote a blog less than 24 hours ago, but here I am again. (wait, why can't you say 'here i'm again'?) In today's bloggy, I would like to talk about my dog, Brutal, and our extreme love for each other. I am fully aware of how fucking crazy I may seem after you read this. I know I know I know!

Brutal is a Miniature Pinscher, who's about a year and a half. Bryan and I got him from a nice couple in September of last year, around my birthday. As we were driving home with him in my lap, I realized I didn't really like him that much. He was so cute and sweet and he played with my hair the entire ride home. But I thought I couldn't love another animal as much as I loved our sweet cat, Mr. Susan. I was very worried that they wouldn't get along or that Mr. Susan would be mad at us for loving another baby animal. But that wasn't what happened, at all!

Now that I think about it, I don't know when we started to notice that Mr. S and Bru were becoming BFF's. I don't remember Mr. Susan's reaction to Brutal when we first brought him home. Anyway, they were best friends and brothers. They loved each other very much, which made me very happy. I then started to realize just how much I loved Brutal. By the way, they still love each other, they just don't really remember one another because they have been apart for almost 2 months. :( 

Mr. Susan and Brutal were amazing together. They played A LOT, chased each other, made big messes, and got into trouble together. One time, they were playing with the Christmas tree ornaments, and Brutal pulled down the Christmas tree, breaking my new-favorite ornament. We woke up, in the middle of the night to shattered glass, tree water soaking our carpet, and two super scared animals. They knew they were busted! And Brutal absolutely HATES getting in trouble. His feelings will be hurt all day/night if he gets yelled at. Mr. Susan just runs away... laughing. 

When I lived in Seattle, I brought Brutal everywhere. He came to work with me, if I went to the store, he rode in the car and waited until I came back, I took him to the dog park almost everyday. He went running with me every night, or walked the 3 miles around the lake. We were inseparable. And still are, of course. This is why I have Brutal, and Bryan has Mr. Susan. You can't take a baby away from his mommmmmy!

Now we're here in NY. I bring Brutal with me to work, the corner store, shopping, and stuffs. We hang out all day and all night. When I leave him at home, he cries and howls, and totally annoys my roommates. Then when we see each other after being apart, he gets crazy and jumps and kisses and licks and wiggles. When I'm not with him, I think about him. I think about what he's thinking or what he's doing with his doggyself. I might be crazy, but I think about awful things happening to him, and I get so upset. I just want him to be safe and loved at all times. When we're together, he can never be close enough. Sometimes, it seems like he's trying to climb into my skin. Sometimes, I put my hand underneath his chest while he's sleeping and I'll just feel his little heart beat. It's a nice feeling, but I should never have children. I'm such a crazy dog mom.

Right now, he is laying on my legs, curled up, just as happy as can be. He loves me so much. I have said this before, and it's so true... I'm the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up, and the last thing he thinks of before he goes to sleep. He's totally obsessed with me, as I am him. I have only loved or still love a couple people as much as I love this baby dog. We need each other!

Thanks for not puking all over yourself as you read this silly piece of shit. I truly love you.

bye

First Blog! WOOHOO!

Ok, I decided to blog about stuff. I figured it would be fun to do this when I'm bored at home, instead of doing OTHER dumb shit on the internet. I like to internet it up.

Also, I know you want to read about my life, right?

I will start my blogging adventure by talking about how awful I am at writing. I don't know what it is, but I'm just no good. From a very young age, I wrote little stories, poems, and books. OH, and songs. I wrote songs about boys, being in love, getting my heart broken, and I was just 6. What the fuck? Anyway, I was always writing. It was the one thing that I knew I wanted to do forever. I was pretty stinkin good too (for my age). I remember being pretty exceptional in 7th and 8th grade. I never did my homework and I was always getting in trouble, but as soon as we were assigned an essay, I was the first to pick up my pencil. It was such a great feeling. 

High School was pretty different. I was in the normal/regular English class in 9th grade, and did very well. But Sophomore year, my guidance counsellor suggested I try the Honors English class... So I did. NOT. COOL. I could not keep up with my fellow classmates, at all. It's hard to explain this, but being in that class made me very nervous. The teacher didn't like me because I had such a hard time turning in my assignments on ttiimmee, and I never came to class prepared. AND I felt like the other students were judging me. Ok, I realize this sounds kind of ridiculous, it's just a h.s. English class....

Anyway, I finally got my shit together that year, and I ended up doing alright.

The following year, Junior year, was even worse. I struggled with EVERYTHING; vocabulary quizzes, every test, staying awake during Gulliver's Travels, and even ESSAYS(?!). No matter what I did, I could not please my teacher or get a good grade. I mean, I did not fail, I think I just kept getting C's, which is not acceptable in English. I remember this one essay I wrote about Mark Twain. I worked so hard on it and it took me forever to finish. I was excited to hear what Mrs. Teacher thought about it. And I got it back with a big red "C" on the cover page. Ugh! I started to realize that I had not grown as a writer. My writing skills had not advanced at all. I was still writing like I was in 8th grade, which was great for an 8th Grader, but not a Junior in an Honors class. 

This realization was very depressing to me. It still is. I absolutely love writing, I just wish I was better at it. Maybe this will help a little. Maybe with each inarticulate and boring blog, I'll get a little better. Maybe. 

But I will say this, I am a pretty good speller, I spell well. So if there are any typos or misspellings, it was just an accident. I don't proof-read, which is silly. I should, but I don't.

Alright, I'll let you go. If you read this, thanks for reading it. 

bye