Dead dog on the highway. Median cats are growling at me. I turn my lights on brighter, counting through the night ride. And it’s one more life for the taker. Chickenman. One more song for the maker. Chickenman. On the road to Athens, I saw a dead deer on the highway. I slipped into a desert, five prairie dogs and a rabbit… (Chickenman by Indigo Girls)
(Or, on a slightly different note…)
My sister wrote about a dead moose, so I’ve decided to write about a dead dog. (Of course, she claimed I never read her blogs, so I think I’ve disproved that one…)
Now, I have two completely different things I want to talk about at once, which explains the completely different lyrics.
First off – dead dogs. I really, really hate when people let their dogs run wild. In particular, I really really hate that my neighbors allow their dog to squeeze under the fence and get out. And it’s not that they don’t know that the dog gets out; their daughter (who has to be all of five or six) calls the dog while she’s waiting for the school bus and has it come and hang out with her until the bus shows up. It’s a big dog, and it probably scares some of the other kids, but she doesn’t care, and her parents apparently don’t either. Now, that’s bad enough. Keep your dogs locked up, right? But what’s worse is that two days ago, a dead dog appeared on the feeder road, and it looks an awful lot like my neighbor’s dog. It has a collar and tag, but I’m personally not stopping in traffic to check and see if it’s theirs. Especially because, after seeing the dead dog, we all realized that the neighbor’s dog had stopped barking when we walked past. So is it theirs? Do they know? And what can we do about it? Don’t know. Don’t know. And, apparently, nothing. So now we just have to wait and see if they get a new dog and let it out to die in the street, too. [Heaving a heavy sigh.]
Next up – I really, really hate being misquoted. So on my sister’s Facebook page, she claimed that I had accused her of torturing fish for catching them to eat. I said nothing of the kind. I accused her of torturing fish because she does not eat meat; she engages in catch and release. For the uninitiated, that means that she throws out a hook which catches the fish in the mouth, drags the fish out of the water so it can’t breathe, removes the hook (which sounds like it feels about as good as getting the hook caught to start with!), and then tosses the fish back into the water. Sounds like a step above waterboarding terrorists to me. If she was doing it because they were going to eat it, if she was doing it because they were hungry…if she was even doing it to share with someone who was hungry, I’d be all for it. I don’t care that her husband hunts because he is killing his food; he gets a deer, he eats deer. He gets a duck…well, we’re all surprised.
But to get back to the point – so my sister posted that, and I corrected her, and then one of her friends is all, “wow, didn’t mean to start a family argument.” What? No, I simply corrected her. And the problem is…I hate being misquoted. Or not quoted at all.
Years and years and years ago (god, I’m so old!), there was a strike at my high school. My sister and I (see, I give credit where credit is due) called a bunch of friends and asked them to call friends and made up poster boards with writing and showed up at the high school the next morning with signs and had our own little strike against being forced to go to school when there was no school – all we had was substitutes who made us do stupid worksheets, and if we dared to miss school, we would be “in trouble.” Anyway, long story short – idiot reporter showed up and interviewed two guys who were also idiots, and then a story came out in the newspaper about these two guys who started a strike. What?!
But that was years ago, and I have to give up my whining and complaining about that. However, I can still complain about current misquotes. Or should I just give that up, too?
Probably I should.
So maybe it’s more of beating a dead horse, but hey, it’s all deceased mammals with four legs.