THE LOST DOGS OF LANGSTON.

Entry 19.

So let's do a sunny sunny summary of what's happened so far and maybe posit a few theories on this sunny sunny day.

I come out here with three animals and wind up with thirteen. I suddenly get homes for three of them and then Roscoe emerges with three MORE.

Well my psychics said it would happen and they were RIGHT.

So now Roscoe has pretty much the spit and image of Cinderella (and here let me say that weeks ago when Cinderella was still at the vet I promised, PROMISED Roscoe I'd bring her back to him...I fed him all sorts of amazing leftovers plus his dog food to keep his interest in hanging around...especially since the fences were being built and I knew I was changing our landscape, or that it was changing due to factors I couldn't do much about...especially since Pretty Boy/Angelo/Johnny Jump-Up...due to his new habit of jumping up on the couch...which he does very quickly...

...but I never did bring Cinderella back, I just took her to a friend...who has a good home for her...and more attention for her than Roscoe can provide...

...so I guess it was like a con job, I took Cinderella away, I promised and promised but I never could deliver. And now Roscoe is saying I don't NEED your promises, bitch, I have my own shape-shifting supernatural ways of creating AN ENTIRE NEW PACK and I can do it whenever I want and here they are. In your face, bitch!

He must KNOW the struggles I have HAD to find HOMES for these DOGS.

And now to try and decide who will stay and who will go. Especially if my hand doesn't get better.

And now to bring extra dogs for me to have to feed!!! (Attention: Virtue Signaling just ahead.) And to wring my hands over, and try to call on previously unknown experts to get help with/from/whatever!!!!

Well it's like Roscoe is some sort of evil magician. Oh he'll eat up the food, all right, but is he secretly resentful at me for coming in here and changing up his system and infiltrating his territory with my fences and my dog inoculations and my non-profit spay-neuter organizations and my foofaraws and whatall? Have I truly done messed up his good thang?

Actually I don't know that he thinks about it that much. But I find it very interesting that in the past two days he has brought physical evidence of having almost the same "furmutation" entourage that he had before. Only there's a sort of smaller dog now to add to the group of three; before, there was Little Dog with Cinderella and Roscoe. Now there's Roscoe, and New Cinderella, and Smaller Chocolate Roscoe, and Still Smaller But Very Furry Light Brown Dog.

So now I am down to three indoor dogs, two porch cats, two garage cats, one indoor cat, and four random stray dogs who want food or just to hang out here and not get spayed or neutered.

That makes twelve again. I was down to nine if you count Roscoe, and now it's back to twelve.

Ya just can't win fer losin'. Or some such nonsense.

The thing is though, these are full-grown dogs. Where have they been hanging out before they showed up here? With the goats? At somebody's house? In the forest? If they've been in the forest, living as wild animals, what have they been eating?

Well something, obviously...they're not starving to death. They may be hungry but they're not starving. They look pretty good for feral-ish dogs.

If that gun guy doesn't call me back I'll go knock on his door. I'll put on my masks, I swear I will. Trouble is, I don't know where he lives. I guess I could find out. Surely someone knows.

It's a very small town. And my pandemic mind has a very narrow, very intense focus. That's why these dogs are so huge. Against the backdrop of this tiny rural hamlet, these huge wandering dogs are giants, monsters, dinosaurs, leviathans. Planning their takeover of the entire planet when we all drop from Covid-19 variants. As we might, if we're not careful.

Because to tell you the truth, these blogs are really feeling a little dinosaurish to me. Maybe it's just because I'm a little teensy bit constipated today, but everything feels kind of blah right now. I wonder if that means it's almost time to quit blogging? And besides, I don't see teams of Hollywood directors and stars and their supporting tech crews and financial managers pulling up in my driveway to film this epic dog saga of national importance. I don't see paparazzi anywhere about, nor do I have interviewers calling or texting me from radio and TV stations to talk about it and I don't hear messages from Oprah's personal assistant who is trying desperately to reach me on the phone and not having much luck because A T & T don't do so good out here in the cawn-treh.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe it's not just Roscoe. Maybe these dogs are ALL evil magicians. They sure have put a spell on me. Especially Angelo. Who got here the day before the rains came that flooded the root cellar and caused an awful lot of sump pumps and visitors from other realms and bother. I barely let Angelo out of my sight. I have to spend as many waking AND sleeping moments with him as I can. I love him just about more than any dog I have ever known, I think lately.

I wonder how long it will last.

It feels funny to write about how you love a dog so much. But you do, so you write. You want him to stay with you for the rest of your life and get in the pyramid with you with the china and the linens and the outfits and the dog toys and the chew bones and all the stuff y'all will need for the afterlife, because you want him to be on the same track with you forever and ever more, eternally supernally parenthetically peripatetically hallelujah amen, and you really don't care about much else right now.

Maybe Angelo is the most evil magician of them all.