Cuyahoga and Smoke

“87 freaking Chihuahuas in one trailer home,” I fumed to myself. I could barely imagine 87 little yapping dogs in one place, let alone in the same single-wide trailer.

Except they were not yapping. They had been what those in the puppy mill “industry” refer to as “de-barked.” Some slimeball veterinarian-school dropout gave his services to the puppy mill for the right, cheap price, and the poor little pups had their barks taken away permanently, along with their canine incisors, which Dr. Slimeball removed so the desperate pups would not tear each other apart in fear and anxiety.


“87 freaking Chihuahuas in one trailer home.” Long, long inhalation. Longer exhalation. Looking up into the scary, self-conscious skies. They look that way because they know, you know. Those skies see it all, and they wish they didn't.

We all get up. We all put on our eyeglasses, if we wear eyeglasses. We all eat that damnable salad dressing that has gluten and high-fructose corn syrup in places that no self-respecting salad dressing should have such things. Why on earth do dogs get treated like dogs? Probably because the humans who do it are a little lower than dogs.

Long, long inhalation. Longer exhalation. I crane my neck backward and feel that dull ache somewhere deep in my head, and think about a scared chihuahua.

I think I need a drink.