My new obsession

Hey everybody! Take a look at my new boyfriend! Isn’t he pretty!? He’s my latest obsession, and his name is Satan. He’s a bronze statue at LACMA.

It all started a few weeks ago when I thought I was a loser and I had run out of things to write about. I seemed to be stuck in an endless cycle of rewriting already existing projects, and it’s been this way for almost six months now. Rewriting is all well and good, and in the case of the supernatural college thriller, is a page one rewrite anyway, so it’s pretty much new material, but I was missing the rush that a writer gets when they stumble upon a BRAND NEW IDEA.

I decided I needed inspiration, blue chip grade A inspiration, and so I headed to LACMA, as Roomie Jekyll has a membership there and she hardly uses it. Dear God, I know it’s vaguely wrong to use Roomie Jekyll’s LACMA’s membership, since I’m not Roomie Jekyll, but I seriously need some inspiration here, and it seems silly that membership doesn’t get used more often. I will put Roomie Jekyll’s dishes in the dishwasher for her as a thank you. Is that okay? Well, I’m doing it anyway, so I pray it’s okay. Oh brother, that’s probably still wrong, isn’t it? To say, “I’m going this way, so please bless me.” I’m supposed to say, “What way would you have me go?” Sigh. I’m sorry that I’m doing this, and that I’m doing it anyway. Please forgive me, but I completely understand if you don’t. Love, Amy The Writer.

Yes, I’m off to the art museum for inspiration, my mom would be overjoyed. I really am a cultural idiot because I went to film school, so I can’t talk about paintings, or works of great literature. If I ever do sell a script, I wanna go back to school and get a Humanities degree or something. I figure it can only help me think of great stories in the future, great stories I can’t think of now.

You always feel smarter for going to an art museum anyway. Walking up the LACMA steps into the courtyard, seeing all the names of fat cat donors etched into the granite wall of the fountain, seeing all the little grade school groups monkeychattering as they create thumbprint paintings, or cutting out colorful construction paper flowers. Those docents who you know are smarter than you but they don’t lord it over you, they actually WANT to share their knowledge with you. Yes, I am a good person! I’m searching for inspiration among great works of art!

The permanent collection at LACMA is massive and overwhelming if you try to do it all in a day, so I decided to tackle it in sections, and just to let my feet take me where they went. Where ever I end up must be where God wants me to be. Way to rationalize, Amy. God most likely wanted you to pay for your own ticket.

And I find myself in the European Painting, Sculpture & Decorative Art section. Which is a pretty standard section to be in, if you’re looking for inspiration. And I’m walking among the paintings, the sculptures, the exhibit where they show you step by step how they make a bronze statue. I confirm that I’m not a big fan of still life paintings. And I’m also not that taken with Rembrandt’s portraits, and when I look at The Raising of Lazarus, I feel like I’m forcing the inspiration, like I’m gonna get inspiration from this whether I like it or not, because not only is it done by a Dutch master, it’s depicting a scene from the Bible, so bam bam boom, get inspired on ALL counts!

So I keep going, looking at various landscapes, seasides, marble angels, hoping the proverbial inspiration thunderbolt will come out of nowhere, frying my brain into creating a MASTERPIECE like all this stuff hanging on the wall, but so far, all I’m getting is the fact that my shoes squeak like a mewling kitten on the museum floors, and there’s a Potential Hottie that I keep seeing every so often, and how odd would it be if I tried to strike up a conversation with him, because you’d think that meeting a guy in a museum would carry a better chance for success than meeting a guy in a bar, but he’s not looking at me, and he’s not slowing down…

And then I see it. My new boyfriend. He’s not encased in glass, like some of the other statues are. He’s on a pedestal about five feet tall. He really is Satan, that’s what the name of the piece is called. Satan, by Jean-Jacques Feuchère. It was made in 1836, and that’s all the card says. No info, bio, background, nothing.

Let’s look at him again, shall we? The picture doesn’t do him justice. He’s sitting on a stump, legs crossed at the ankle, with some WICKED talons for toenails, his right arm is folded in front of him, holding his left arm at the elbow. His chin is resting on his left hand, his head titled to the side, and he’s got the most brilliant expression of peevishness. Halfway annoyed, halfway think, think, think, what to do NEXT kind of thing. You can just imagine him drumming his fingers against his cheekbone.

I like it because it’s got personality. Satan’s thinking about SOMETHING. And how fascinating that it’s just Satan by himself. Most of the time, art that depicts the devil does so by showing Satan inflicting unspeakable pain on an innocent soul, or he's in the throes of battle with an angel who's casting him out of heaven. This is unique to me because it’s just Satan by himself. Not in the throes of anything, except what could be a very irritated frame of mind. He’s POUTING. It’s funny!

Considering the day and age that Jean-Jacques Feuchère grew up in, what could have possibly motivated him to create something like this? Wouldn’t it have been controversial? How much time did it take him? What kind of relationship did he develop with the piece as he was creating it? Did it start to haunt his dreams? Did it start to talk to him? What did Jean-Jacques Feuchère think the devil was thinking about when he was making him? You could even get really meta, and say Jean-Jacques Feuchère is God insomuch that he’s creating this representation of the devil, and imbuing him with personality, and isn’t THAT wacky?

When I go home and do some looking up online, I can find very little about Jean-Jacques Feuchère or his version of Satan. One site says that Satan is "brooding after his expulsion from paradise." Which, to me, is a little limiting, a little easy. What if he was thinking about something ELSE? There’s another version of the same statue sitting in the Louvre. Did he mass produce the stuff? OHMIGOD! How weird/cool would it be if he did, and these are the only two surviving pieces left? Who is the clientele in 1836 for such a piece?

But other than that, very little info on Jean-Jacques Feuchère himself. Sigh. I always go for the harder ones, don’t I? Can’t be a Rembrandt fan, no no. No Van Gogh, Degas, Andy Warhol or Roy Lichtenstein for me. Nope, nope, I gotta go for the obscure ones. I don’t do it intentionally. Life would be so much easier if I was a Gustav Klimt fan, I promise you.

But the wheels are spinning, people. I’ve got an idea, oh yes, I do, oh yes I do. It’s a little cracked to be inspired by a bronze of Satan, especially if you’re working under the assumption that where ever you are and whatever you were inspired by was all part of God’s plan for you in the first place. But then again, it’s kinda fun to imagine God has having a cracked sense of humor, the type that you have. The type that He probably gave you, come to think of it. Yeah, probably.

Ginger Puppy Strikes Again

I’m back housesitting, which means adventure time with the Westies Basil and Ginger Puppy. Basil is recovering from a slipped disc in his neck, and his official instructions are “restricted movement.’ which means I carry him everywhere. I may not have to be that extreme about it, but better safe than sorry, and His Highness certainly enjoys the royal treatment. He thinks he should be carried all the time.

I don’t blame him, if I had my druthers, I’d wanna be carried too. For the longest time, my playwright bio in programs of any plays I did would say “Amy enjoys the color black, Cinnamon Sugar cookies from Mrs. Fields, and big strong men who can pick her up and carry her around.” ‘Cause when it’s 99 Seat Theater in Los Angeles and the majority of the people coming to see your show aren’t the I Care About Credits Type, you might as well give them something interesting to read while they’re waiting for the lights to go down. There’s something very primal to a straight chick about a Big Strong Guy Who Can Pick You Up And Carry You Around. The few times I’ve managed to shanghai a dude into doing it, I make him do laps around the living room and kitchen. They think I’m nuts, but it’s quite a turn on.

I have no idea what it does for a dog, though.

Anyways, so His Highness Basil is cooped up inside his crate all day, and Ginger Puppy stays outside. If you remember from previous entries , Ginger Puppy is actually Jesus in dog form, so I thought I’d attempt to transcribe her stream of consciousness the first time she sees me the first day of any housesitting gig.

It’s dark outside. Where’s dinner? Did they forget about me? I bet Basil convinced them I never existed and that’s why I’m stuck out here. This is me. This is my life. Stuck in a fenced in part of the backyard while they put in a pool…

Hey, wait a second. Whazza…whazzit…whozzit…it’s, it’s, it’s, HER! HER! HOT DAMN, I’M SAVED! COME GET ME!

Me, me, me! Come get ME! ME ME ME ME! Oh, it’s her, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy WE’RE GONNA PARTY!

We’re gonna jump and dance and laugh and sing and play. Jump jump JUMPITY JUMP! Wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy COME GET ME!

(Amy undoes the latch to let Ginger Puppy out of the gate.)

HI! Hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi jumpity jumpity jump wag wag wag wag wag wag wag hi hi hi hi jumpity jumpity jump jump.

(Amy says “Ginger Puppy, Down. Off.”)

Okay. I’m sitting. I know that command I’m sitting, I’m…YOU’RE HERE! WE’RE GONNA PARTY! We’re gonna jump and dance and laugh and sing and play. Jump jump JUMPITY JUMP!

Didja see the backyard!? It’s all torn up! Look at all this dirt! Look look look LOOK AT IT! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!? ISN’T IT THE MOST EXCITING THING YOU’VE EVER SEEN!? I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE HERE!

Let’s go inside and get me dinner! I can’t believe you’re here! Wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag wag oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy. hi hi hi hi hi hi hi

This is the reason that people get a dog instead of a cat. The sheer naked joy at EVERYTHING. There’s no pretense with her. Everybody is wonderful, everything is a reason to party. And I am her best friend, at least, until her daddies Albert and Abbot get back.

Even now as I write this, she’s curled up at the bottom of the office chair, which has wheels, so I have to careful I’m not gonna roll on her fur. And all she wants is to be nearby. Here. Present with me. As opposed to His Highness Basil, who’s curled up in his crate, ‘cause he knows if he has to go anywhere, I’ll carry him. Funny.

Prayer and Fortune Cookies

You sit in any church, you’re invariably gonna hear them tell you to take your concerns, cares, questions about the future to God in prayer. So when do you get an answer? I was concerned, because 99% of the time, I couldn’t tell if the answer I was getting was actually postmarked from God, or my frantic subconscious piecing something together that it thought I wanted to hear. How Do You Know What’s An Answer From God? And one of my favorite nonanswerable questions of all time: How Do You Know When God’s Answer Is No, Or Not Yet. Ha ha ha.

Ever since I started 2006, I’ve discovered the best time to pray to God is when I’m on the ellipticals at my gym. I am the world’s most unfortunate early morning person. I’d really rather not be, but it’s a straight DNA line right down the middle of my family, and sister Agatha got Mom’s side, and I got Dad’s side. It’s disgustingly textbook. Dad has brown hair, blue eyes, so do I. Dad has bowed legs, so do I. Dad gets up at 5:30 without an alarm clock, and so unfortunately, do I.

But that’s where my gym comes in, since they open at 5am. And it’s me jamming away on the ellipticals in front of the windows, looking something like this, except it’s an elliptical, not a treadmill (trying to save my knees), and it’s not Hong Kong.

But I discovered that the ellipticals are a great place to pray. I can either pray to God, or I can stare at the display that tells me I’ve got twenty-eight more minutes to go. So I shut my eyes and pray.

Following a recipe/sermon I once heard at church a long time ago, I thank God for a bunch of stuff first (my job, my ability to write and not suck at it, my opposable thumbs), I pray for other people second (big long list), and talk about myself third.

The weird thing about praying is that God already knows what you’re gonna ask, but He wants you to ask it anyway. Why? I dunno. Probably something having to do with the fact that He wants you to get into the habit of talking to Him on a regular basis. I always wanna pull a Ren & Stimpy, slap a gigantic suction cup on my brain and think my “Captain’s Log” directly up to the sky.

So basically, God knows what you’re gonna say, but He wants you to say it anyway, because there’s something powerful in the act of articulating what you want. I used to journal all the time about how if you name your fear, it becomes real. But it’s supposed to work the other way too. If you name your dream, wants, desires, they become real…as long as they’re in God’s will for you. ARGH! I KNEW THERE WAS A CATCH!

So basically, God knows what you’re gonna say, but He wants you to say it anyway, and if it just happens to be in His will, He’ll grant it to you. Ah, there’s the rub. In His will. This one devotional book I read talks about says you shouldn’t even have to question whether what you want is in God’s will for you or not, because you’re supposed to be so closely aligned with God, that His will is your will, His wants should be your wants as well. Yeah? I want world hunger to end. Where’s the big POOF, your prayer is granted, huh?

When it comes to articulating my personal wants apart from world peace, I like to use the rationalization of Ask for it anyway, because you never know. Maybe God’s gonna grant your request regarding your secular No Trace Of God Anywhere screenplay because He’s got an ulterior motive for it. It can happen. God uses the strangest things to reach people in the strangest ways. I wanna be a strange thing for God! I wanna be a freaky strange way! Me! Me! Sign me up for the Strangeness please!

And there have been two times in my elliptical travels where I think I got something. Something that seemed…otherworldly? Yeah, alien, sheesh, try again. I think I got something that seemed…outside of myself and my interior monologue.

The first time was me fretting and dratting away because I couldn’t seem to get around a particular plot hole in a script I was working on. And it seems retarded to ask for God’s help. Dear God, please help me figure out how I’m supposed to kill Bad Guys 1 and 2 in the graveyard. Please? I’m out of ideas, there’s only so many ways you can clock someone with a shovel, and I’m trying to be creative here. They’re Bad Guys, so they should die anyway. The internal monologue, which sounds like a sixty piece orchestra conducted by hamsters. struck up about how I’m so stupid to ask for God’s help, this is a supernatural horror script, why would God deign to extend a supernatural assist to something like that, when He could be out solving world hunger, or helping some other Godly screenwriter who’s trying to write a summer tentpole movie about David and Goliath. All those people deserve help. Not me. Not me, silly silly me, and what’s wrong with me anyway, why am I trying to write this kind of script. What am I doing here, why aren’t I applying for a staff job in a church. Why aren’t I trying to get a job writing for Veggietales. Why don’t I…

And then, suddenly, a thought floated from in somewhere outside myself. And all it said was…

The answers will come.

Oh. Oh are you FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME!? THAT’S MY ANSWER!? That’s so vague, so random, so fortune cookie oblique. That’s something that you’d see in a really bad beer commercial, the hikers are climbing to the top of Mt. Incredibly Tall, seeking wisdom, truth and enlightenment, and the bearded cross legged man sitting at the very top says “The answers will come.” And then hands them a Budweiser or something. I can’t believe it, don’tcha wanna make it more personal, or something? The answers will come, Amy. Amy, the answers will come.

So I railed to God about how dumb that answer was, went home and promptly fixed the hole in my script. Sigh. Okay, I get it, I get it.

The second time, was a few months later, still on the ellipticals (yes, this is an elliptical, just the scientific kind) where after I thanked God for a bunch of stuff first (my incredibly cool bosses, the fact that my car still runs, Amazing Race went back to the two person team format.) I pray for other people second (still a big long list, basically, anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life), and talk about myself third. Today, I’m talking to God about this particular project of mine that’s been in limbo for years and years. Literally, years and years, and can we just reach some sort of conclusion with the financiers? Let the financing come through or let it go, but can we please get an answer one way or another? ‘Cause I’m tired of being in this state of suspended hope. Can you, dear Lord, please let me know? I totally understand if the answer is “let it go” ‘cause that’s the answer I’ve been prepping myself for, but just any answer would be cool. Is it gonna happen this year, Lord? Are we gonna make this movie this year Lord?

The internal monologue run by hamsters struck up again. How dare you ask God to send a financier to give you money to make this non-God orientated film. Well, I was gonna tithe ten percent of what I’d make. God doesn’t want your Non-God orientated film money! You shut up right now and find out where the Veggietale people have their production office and go apply for a job! Sit on their doorstep until they see…

And then, suddenly, a thought floated in from somewhere outside myself. And all it said was…

In my time. Not yours.

Oh not again. Why don’t I go down to Panda Express and see what THEIR fortune cookies have to say…hey, wait a second, IT WASN’T NO! The thought wasn’t “No way, go home and write about Daniel in the lions’ den.” The thought was “In my time, not yours.” Which is ALMOST a yes. Almost. It’s quite possible that “In my time” could mean fifteen years from now. But it’s not a no.

Maybe I’m taking it completely the wrong way, and maybe I’m jinxing myself by writing about it here. But the point is, I know where God is, and I’ve actually HEARD Him, on two occasions. Is hearing the same as feeling? Am I demanding too much? I know where you are, and I know you’ve talked to me, but scratch all that, I want MORE. I want to FEEL you. Little brat. Little ungrateful brat.

How Do You Know When It’s God, Or You Really Really Wanting To Believe It Was God? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

Happy Birthday to ME!

It's my birthday! My berfday, as we used to call it in college. I am....well...um...SIX! That's right, I'm SIX years old today. Dear God, I know we're not supposed to lie about anything, but, well, this is Los Angeles, here, and women are judged by a double standard when it comes to age. If I tell everyone I'm really seven, I'll never sell a script, as that's considered ancient by Hollywood standards. Please let me get away with this one. Thank you. Love, Amy The Writer

My parents have started this great tradition where instead of anniversary or any kind of holiday card, they both go to the Hallmark store, browse around the cards, find the one they want to give to the other person and say "I would have gotten you this." "Aw, thanks! I would've gotten you this one!" Then they read it smile, hug, and leave the store. Which I think is awesome.

So if I WAS going to have a cake, it would be this one, from Coldstone Creamery. I believe it's called Cookie Dough Overload, yum yum. Actually, I would have gotten a slice of Sweet Lady Jane's White Chocolate Mousse Cake, but they didn't have a good picture on their website.

Anyhow, please wish me a very happy birthday. I'm on my way to Disneyland! Literally! I shall be scouting for the presence of God while standing in monster line infested by Spring Breakers. I'm sure if God is around, he'd be in the Happiest Place On Earth, right? Ha ha ha.

Painting for Jesus

I’m feeling more and more of a need to do service and outreach in the community and in the church, but it’s always the connection part that gives me hives. I’m very big on doing things that don’t involve connection.

For example, greeting at 11:00 church, which I did today (I usually do it once a month.) It’s awesome, all I have to do is stand at the door, pass out programs and say “Welcome!” Except I usually say “Howdy” “Hiya” “Push and shove your way inside, it’s cool!” Because I have to put my own unique spin on everything. I like greeting because even though you’re “greeting,” there’s very little chatting involved, since most people are on their way inside. I hate small talk. I hate chat. I’m not even big on people, for the most part (you, gentle reader, are okay.)

But I can definitely pass out programs. I can absolutely pass the offering bucket, because there’s always the possibility that someone’s gonna drop it, which happened today, and though I didn’t see it, I suspect Bernice, the pastor’s wife, had something to do with it. Which is awesome.

So yesterday I went with my 11:00am church down to Skid Row to help out with Central City Community Outreach This is the start of a partnership between 11:00am church and them, and we all went down to see what kind of help they needed. They had told us ahead of time to wear painting clothes. Painting! Yes! I can paint for Jesus! I like painting. It’s very visceral, you can see the results in front of you. Painting makes you feel like you’re making a difference, in a superficial textile kind of way.

They start off the morning by telling us what CCCO is all about, which is forging a personal connection with the people they serve, the homeless population of downtown Los Angeles. No, no, don’t make me. I came here to paint. And the CCCO Head Dude is talking about how the people we’re serving aren’t blessed because we’re serving THEM, WE’RE the ones being blessed by the act of serving, or something like that. I’m here to paint. Didn’t someone say they needed to paint?

So they talk about how there’s different things to do today, and who’s a good handyman? Not me. Who wants to make sack lunches and take them out to people and sit down and listen to them as you eat together? NOT me. Who’s really excited about painting? ME! I raise my hand, along with two other guys.

But then they pull a bait and switch and say the ones who raised their hands are actually gonna be the group leaders, so the ones who wanna paint should congregate around one of them. Wha-huh? No fair! I don’t wanna lead! I wanna paint! I suck as a leader! I just wanna paint! Painting for Jesus!

I don’t wanna be the leader, I hate being the leader, nobody ever listens to me, I’m sure it has something to do with my lack of constant eye contact, or quite possibly the fact that I’m not a big fan of people in general, but okay, fine, I have my group, and I think the number one rule of being a leader is “Fake it ‘til you make it.” So I’m gonna attempt to rise to the occasion and lead my team to painting victory! Because the alternative is forging connections with homeless people, and I’m just not ready for that yet.

So I have a little group. There’s Betsy, who’s early twenties and very tiny. You wanna pick her up and stuff her in your pocket, she’s so cute and small. There’s Clyde and Walter, twentysomething scruffies. Technically, Walter should be leading the group, because he spent a summer working as a painter (though he later tells us he got fired from the gig.) And finally Abigal, who I know from the last Outreach that 11:00am church did, which was sorting Katrina donations at a rescue center (a whole story unto itself.)

We’re given the location of the women’s bathroom, which looks a little small for five people to be in there, but we give it a go, spreading the tarp down on the floor, taping the baseboards, figuring we can put Betsy and someone else in the actual stall, since Betsy’s so short, and the rest of us will tackle the walls.

And it goes pretty well, even though in the first five minutes I mutter “shit” at the end of one sentence and then say “Shit, I said shit! Fuck!” Everyone laughs, and Clyde starts riffing on how I’m going to hell, and how when the pastor in 11:00am church says the Benediction, he’ll mean everyone but me, “May the Lord bless you and keep you, except Amy. May the Lord make his face to shine upon you, except Amy” Look how well these guys know me! Ha ha ha

I dunno, there’s something hysterically funny to me about accidentally swearing in a church situation, since it’s so wildly inappropriate, and you always get this little five year old jolt, “Uh Ohhhhhhhhhh. You were baaaaaaaaaaad. I’m telling teacher!” I really need to make an effort on stopping it, but I’m telling you, anyone else who had to live with Roomie Heckle and Roomie Jekyll would pick it up too. It’s a constant torrent of Blue from those two.

But my group is cool, and we bond pretty well, and the one moment that summarizes our bond is when I ask them if anyone needs anything, and Walter pipes up, “A gin and tonic?” “Okay, does anyone else need anything besides alcohol?” I think that’s when the CCCO Head Dude walked by. Ah yes, Amy is the leader of THIS group.

At one point, we’re pondering the question about whether we should paint the ceiling or not, and I ask, “What would Jesus do?” We decide that Jesus wouldn’t be bothered with painting a girls bathroom, he’d be out feeding the homeless with the generic brand soda and doughnuts in the kitchen. He’d have the one pack of 24 cans and 12 doughnuts and it would last for DAYS, it would. So I get the bright idea to go see how the guys in the guys bathroom are painting it, so we could match, and Walter calls after me, “Go see what the guys are doing!? What kind of independent woman are you!?” Ha ha ha.

But we paint, and paint, and get high off the paint fumes, since the Hallway Paint Group insists on closing the door on us so they can paint the door, no matter how many times we explain to them that we’re going to DIE if they do that. We paint and paint and paint, we get paint on us, on each other, and the CCCO Head Dude seems ecstatic, though honestly it doesn’t seem like we’ve done anything of note. I mean, it doesn’t look like we’ve made the slightest bit of difference. But they’re happy, so I guess that’s all that matters.

And my group listened to me, but I think they were the type of laid back people that would’ve listened to anyone, so long as they didn’t have to be the ones in charge. And basically, being the leader just meant cracking jokes a plenty, and the occasional inappropriate swear word.

But as we’re packing it in and I’m talking to another gal who asked me how it went, and I explained the bait and switch about the leader thing, she says, “It’s always the people who don’t wanna lead that make the best leaders.” “No, they don’t.” “Yes, they do.” “No they don’t, and don’t you dare use this as an opportunity to shanghai me into something else.” She grins at me in this little I’m Gonna Prove You Wrong Later, Just You Wait And See kind of way. I could’ve always added a “shit” at the end, to prove my point. But that probably wouldn’t work.

Another One

I was walking to my Apologetics class on Saturday, and I noticed these two teenage boys on the sidewalk lingering for what appeared to be no reason but as soon as I came around the car to get on the sidewalk, I figured it out. There was the tiniest tiny tiny teacup Chihuahua puppy running down the street. It obviously belonged to the two guys.

I’ve never seen a tinier puppy in my life. It looked like it weighed about eight ounces, tops. It could almost fit in one hand. And it was a newborn, like maybe three weeks old. If you could imagine brown rabbit ears on top of a brown tennis ball on top of a kidney bean with cocktail weenies for legs, you’d be close to what the puppy looked like.It kinda looks like this dog, but I think it was actually smaller.

And the puppy is running to keep up, as fast as its cocktail weenie legs would carry it, which, is not far at all. I swear, you could accidentally kick the thing, because you’d think it’s a discarded stuffed chew toy for a normal sized dog or something. But then you’d go straight to hell.

So I got on the sidewalk behind the puppy, and within two seconds, I’m next to it. This concerns the puppy, because it doesn’t know who the hell I am. And it starts to make little whimpering noises that only an eight ounce Chihuahua puppy can make, as it’s trying trying trying trying so hard to keep up to its owners, the two Latino teenage boys (who look like the last people in the world you would think would own a dog like this)

And I have to fight an impossible urge to not scoop the dog up with one hand and carry it the rest of the way. So I kinda slow down and walk beside the puppy for a few moments, then look up and tell the guys “You just wanna pick him up, huh.”

And they smile at me, and one of them says, “But he’s gotta learn.”

And thus, another metaphor was born. At this point, you can fill in the blanks yourself.