I begin to suspect that it may be illegal to ride a gigantic stuffed animal in public.

I crossed the path of a police officer today. I was headed North; he south. About a block after he passed me, he made a rather abrupt u turn. I thought about it for a moment and decided that it was a possibility that he was coming to investigate my unusual ride.

I was less than thoroughly comfortable with being inspected more closely; and the giant stuffed horse I was riding seemed to be of the same opinion.

So we made the next right. This put us on the road to the library. Fine. I like the library. Perhaps the horse will, too.

I know what you're thinking. "How can you be so sure that the officer was looking for you?"

I'll tell ya:

1) He was headed South.
2) Shortly after seeing my trusty steed and me, he was no longer headed South. He was, however, still headed in a direction parallel to mine.
3) At the same road where I began to head West, so did he.
4) As he drove by Tonto, he was moving so slowly that had he lost any speed at all he'd have been going East.

What? Where was I when he drove by? In the library, of course. Abandon Tonto? No, he didn't want to go in... something about libraries having strict "no animal" rules. I tried to tell him that he's not a real horse and I know for a fact that this library (at least) does not have a rule against gigantic stuffed horses. In fact, they have one that resides there. Then he began ranting about how I was going to trade him in a new horse because I didn't "love" him. And how if I did "love" him, he'd be a real horse by now and this whole illegal riding thing would be a moot point.

Oh. You weren't thinking, "How can you be so sure that the officer was looking for you?" You were thinking, "Where the hell did you get a gigantic stuffed horse?"

Well, that is because I know this girl who will do anything for a gigantic stuffed animal.

I was at a yard sale today run by a morbidly obese lady with gaps in her teeth, food on her (navel rubbing) fun bags, gas leaking from one part of her or another, and two beautiful daughters who apparently have never met a stranger before. I'll give $5 to the first person who can explain truly hideous people having darling children without resorting to any discussion of recessive genetics or adoption. As I attempted to extricate myself from their yard (the blender was "in the house" and I was welcome to come inside) before I lived my own way through Dylan's "Motorpsycho Nitemare" when I fairly stumbled over Tonto the wonder steed.

Laying there like a fuzzy rug to be, he promised visions of much, much depravity for me. I had to have him.

I said, "How much?" Jabba the mom said, "I'll throw it in with the blender, if you come on in and get it." So I pulled out the $20 bill I'd been keeping in my pocket for the last week without quite knowing why I'd gone to the trouble of folding it into the form of a paper airplane, tossed it at her, lept astride the horse (who I immediately wanted to name Silver, so I could say... well, you know..., but I decided he was far too kemosabe for all of that) and away we went.

Two blocks later, we passed a policeman driving in the other direction.

I think you know the rest.

I think my iPod needs to see the geek squad

I think it's broken. I haven't heard a sad song in over a week. OK, I heard "This Love" by Pantera yesterday, but that was on the radio so is not really germane.

The pod has 15k songs on it, 4k+ of which are country. My pod specializes in sad songs - ask anyone who knows me.

This week, though, not a one. It's starting to get on my nerves.

The Dr. says I'm not cooperating when I'm rocking the table while she's operating

Forgot to do something (anything, really) with the roast left out to thaw. Now there is no dinner plan for the night. After prepping the roast (slits for garlic; seared roast; a bed of onions, carrots, and sweet potatoes; hard cider for wetness), it was decided that a picnic is in order.

Ordered sandwiches at the deli; one no onions, one no mustard; received both.

on both. Discovered this in the park.

Back to the store.

Lady says, "Oh. (checks the order slip to see if we're lying {we're not}) I'll refund that for you."

!?

I don't understand. How will that kill them? Oh... starvation, I see.

No, please make them again. Right. Puzzled look. Pause. "Oh. OK?"

Back to the park. Did I mention it takes 10 minutes to make a sandwich? Each time, apparently. For the math challenged, that's 40 minutes of standing around. Daylight's a wasting.

Cell phone rings. It's an emergency (of course it is, it's an emergency phone). Somebody's goose needs cooked.

Uh, I guess it has a broken leg. Sounds synonymous to me, though.

Discussed the exorbitant (really, fair and competitive, but come on... it's dinner. If you're going to spend hundreds of dollars on a bird, shouldn't you get to fly someplace fancy and eat foie gras? It's a GOOSE!) costs (and ridiculous after care) of fixing a broken leg on a goose. The lady seems to think it's some sort of pet (it doesn't even have a name).

Picnic moves to the animal hostel to warm up the x-ray machine.

Half done and someone calls to say their llama is preggers and needs a c-section. Right. OK. When can you be here? Oh, that's perfect... should be almost done with the goose by then.


In comes the llama. 20 minutes later than expected. OK, maybe she was right on time - she was later than I expected. Somehow. It's my story, and I'll tell it how I want.

The llama has already birthed one of the brood. Owner says, "Can you check if that one's alive?" Sure. The head is shaped like it belongs on a primate of some sort (unusual on a llama, I'm told), but we can check. It's dead. Hydrocephalus. Brain too big for head that's too soft to control it. Kinda.

Did you know llamas can carry multiple feti (fetuses, foetuses. What? Like you know the right way to do it)? They can. Most on record is 8. It's true. Saw it on the TeeVee.

So here I am, one lama baby (cria, duh) under each arm (both are dead) while the doctor is pulling the last out. This one is alive. Luckily an actual trained professional is along for the adventure and the doctor hands the live one to her.

I don't know if it's my lack of matching chromosomes or my lack of training, but somehow, I'm not allowed to handle live things unless no one else thinks they're alive (or likely to live long) or they're really, really alive. Crias are not either of those when they first come out.

Crias, by the way, get heavy if you hold them under your arms long enough; I wish someone would tell me where to put them.

Quit giggling, you.

The people came, collected their llamas (yeah, one baby lived), paid their bill (surprisingly enough), had dinner (and dessert), some cognac, cigars, a bit of chit chat, and drove home.

Somebody please tell where where to put these damn llama babies! They're getting heavy.

And stinky.

If someone doesn't help me figure this out soon, I think I know what kind of roast I'll be having tomorrow night - goose stuffed llama. Yumm?