I’m not sure if any of you read the article printed in the Huffington Post and then picked up by Firstline. I myself was unable to get past the first sentence because it angered me so. But from what I heard, I guess there’s this store in the West Village, NYC (figures) that’s selling drunk puppies!
Drunk puppies! What’s next? Crystal Meth for kitties?! I tell you, it’s up to us animal lovers to stop drunk puppy sales today!
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying dogs shouldn’t drink…or people for that matter. This isn’t about whether or not you, me and Fido can’t take a belt now and again. This is about the age we’re allowed to do it. I was 14 before I was allowed any liquor and even then my mother dolled it out with a thimble. I mean it was NOTHING. I was lucky to get a buzz.
I’m sitting with my dog, Rye, now. She’s five …so in human years that’s definitely over the legal limit…and she likes to have a Pimm’s Cup with me every day when cocktail hour starts…normally around 2 or 3 in the afternoon. She also likes an umbrella in the glass. It’s not my style, but hey, she’s a rescue, and sometimes you can’t train that trashy side out of your rescue pets. What she is NOT is irresponsible with her drinking and the idea that this store in the West Village would be purposely tanking up these young dogs…why its just enough to …I get so darn mad!
And while we’re on the topic, I’ll tell you another thing I don’t think should be allowed. Smoking pets. As I said, Rye is a rescue, so it’s not entirely surprising that she came with a cigarette smoking habit. Oh, sure, she says she quit…right. Like I can’t smell the Marlboro all over her long brown snout. Every morning when I let her out, she makes a b-line for the barn. Chasing barn cats? Un huh. Does she think I was born yesterday? She keeps a carton of cigarettes in the corn crib. Damn dog’s practically got emphysema. Can’t climb the stairs to our rooftop bar without breaking out in a pant. Quit, my foot. Took her to one of the vets I work for…talk about drunks…anyway…took her to one of the vets I work for who told me she needed a dental. Pulled Rye’s lip up and slurred, “See this here brown shi..stuff. That’s plaque.” I said, “Carol, that’s not plaque, that’s nicotine.” She looked up at me with her red veined eyes and said, “I don’t care if bloopers from Cher’s last movie, it shouldn’t be there and it’s gotta come off. Brenda,” she hollered, screaming down the hall for her assistant, “Brenda, get in here and get this fairy an estimate for a dental.”
Now she’s an example of a mean drunk which is my book is the worst thing you can be. Plus her practice is going down the toilet and she thinks you-know-who is to blame. I told her it wasn’t my fault that it was probably her other practice consultant…Johnny Walker. Ooooh boy. Talk about mean reactions! You shoulda seen her reaction to that!
Anyway, that’s all for now. I’m sorry, I get off on these tangents. I gotta get back to the bar, THE PRACTICE. I gotta get back to the practice. In the meantime, please take a look at that article and tell me what you think. I know you’re just going to be mortified. I’m also including a video of my dog, Rye, after cocktail hour at the farm. In this clip she insists on helping me with some work in the milk house by trying to bring in lumber for me to use. You can see she is too looped to know what she’s doing. It’s embarrassing, but I’m hoping the web notoriety will shock her into some kind of temperance. See Rye Looped