July 26, 2018

where in this infernal garage did the dog crate end up?

It's not shopping, it's a pilgrimage.
A friend and I met at Ikea this morning and spent a few hours walking through the store together and enjoying the hell out of catching up.

I managed to escape for under a hundred dollars.  Frugality Achievement unlocked.  Well, if you don't count the bag of meatballs and the cheddar leek tarts and the three packs of cream sauce mix, but you don't count those because obviously all of that is groceries, so it comes out of some completely different allocation of funds.

My friend unlocked the Minimalist Achievement for buying two tea mugs and a bath towel.  This is an alternative philosophy regarding Ikea, one that is foreign to me.  She was very helpful throughout my journey, continuously pointing out that wanting/liking something is not the same as needing it.  Even if you fall in love with how cute or tiny or perfectly shaped or colored it is, you don't need it and you probably shouldn't buy it.  And I was all, "But what if there are sunflowers?  I need this vase because there might be sunflowers."

We ate lunch in the cafeteria upstairs, and I am very proud of my pouch because I assaulted it with a plate of meatballs and a few bites of mashed potato and it took it like a champ.

While we were eating and talking, my phone dinged, and at this point I've caved in to the social conditioning that makes one think it's okay to reach for a phone and check a text message while sitting with an actual, live human who was just in the middle of saying something.  But she hangs around teenagers.  She understands.

I read my text.  It was from P.J.  I texted her back.  I waited a second.  I read her response.  I politely put my phone away and turned to my friend.

"It would appear that P.J. has found a dog she wants to adopt."

"Ah, yes, I'd forgotten.  Are you ready for another dog yet?"

"I think so.  Last weekend we visited her brother and family, and their three dogs, who have been afraid of us or growled at us every time we've visited for the last nine years, were suddenly affectionate and all over us, wanting belly rubs and sleeping in our bed.  It's like we're a giant receptor site right now and they sensed it.  Lots of dog time, good stuff.  So maybe, yeah."

"Well, it sounds like P.J. has a lead."

"Yeah.  She does.  She's fallen in love with it, or at least the picture of it.  She wants to apply to adopt it.  A Westie.  In fucking Fort Collins, Colorado."

Scotties and Westies for rescue are hard to come by, so I understand why the net was cast so wide.

Ohhh, P.J. had it bad, too.  Smitten.  Gone.  I called on the way home from Ikea and heard it in her voice.  And when I heard that in her voice, I was prepared to board a plane and go out West and rent a car and buy a crate and drive this dog all the way back across the country to North Carolina.

I totally would have done that.  I called them before applying, though, to make sure they would be okay with the whole way-the-fuck-far-away thing, and they informed me that dog has already been adopted.

I had to climb the staircase and go into P.J.'s office and convey this news.  I would have preferred bamboo sticks under my fingernails.

I whipped up some passable manicotti for dinner and we ate together while each perusing online listings by animal rescue groups in our area, all of which are what one might describe as being "closer than Colorado".  Among other things, we learned that there's going to be an adoption fair at a pet store not too far from the Lodge this weekend.  Those fairs are bad news.  They install tractor beams beforehand.

We looked through the list of dogs that will be there Saturday.

I'll just cut to the chase.  Her name is going to be Molly even though she doesn't have a name yet and we've never spent time with her and we don't even know if the listing is current and she isn't ours and it's only Thursday night.  She's a German shepherd/terrier-of-some-sort mix, six months old and so likely to get along well with Rose in spite of being female.  (Rose gets along with all dogs.  When we found her and fostered her, she was the dog they could put into a kennel with any of the "difficult" dogs at the adoption fair.  She's too dumb to be Alpha.)

I'm going to call them when they open tomorrow morning and what the person who answers the phone is going to hear is, "OMG PLEASE TELL ME SHE'S STILL THERE, THAT SHEPHERD MIX ONE YOU SAY IS IN PEN SEVEN, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME NOBODY HAS GOTTEN HER YET AND IS SHE GOING TO BE THERE TOMORROW AND CAN YOU SWEAR TO ME BY THE BLOOD OF TENS OF THOUSANDS THAT YOU WON'T LET SOMEBODY ADOPT HER TODAY BECAUSE YOU CAN'T DO THAT BECAUSE HER NAME IS MOLLY AND WE STILL HAVEN'T EVEN MET HER AND WHEN WE DO THERE WILL BE TCHAIKOVSKY MUSIC, OKAY?"

This person will almost certainly hang up on me.  But if I can tone it down, maybe ....

Maybe.  May be.

*Note to self:  Go pick up crystal ball damaged by wooden baseball bat from repair shop.

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