Low-down, dirty paparazza
Thursday I needed to take Peewee down to L.A. to meet up with the man we got him from, Marcel. Peewee's right ear was starting to flop over in a way that Marcel believed was going to set him up for a lifetime of ear infections unless something was done about it. He debated the merits of a few different procedures varying in invasiveness, and came down in favor of a couple of sterile staples to hold the ear back for a bit and help it open up.
We decided to meet at our usual location for dog business, the Getty Museum exit off the 405. There's a nice patch of dirt on the shoulder where you can pull off and dump a body, wait for your drug dealer, or take a nice whizz in the bushes.
I took Jackson down with me as he is my CONSTANT COMPANION AT THE MOMENT, an arrangement that precludes alone time and puts me in a mental state that can only be conveyed by using ALL CAPS.
It being the rainy season in Southern California, I knew that the second the first drop hit the first driver's windshield that driver would panic, hit the breaks, and paranormalically cause all traffic into and out of Los Angeles to slow to -35 m.p.h. Yes, we'd all be going backwards and if you wanted make it through the Hollywood Freeway interchange you'd need to do it in a flying Delorean.
So we left early, dodged the rain, and arrived a full thirty minutes before Marcel.
There's not much to do with a six-year-old and two bulldogs at the Getty Museum exit after you've let everyone stretch their legs and pee. Except to start taking pictures!
You might have to click on this to see it larger and really make sense of it. I read something recently about a traffic experiment a European city did where they took all the warning signs away from a dangerous intersection and found that accidents there decreased by a startling percentage. It turns out that the less drivers have to read, the more they pay attention to what's actually on the road in front of them, and the less they assume that all those signs will magically protect them from running down a less-than-nimble pedestrian. I mean, look at that! Two "right lane must turn right" signs and four signs pointing out the freeway entrance. I would like to believe there's some science behind all that clutter, but I suspect that there was extra in the road sign budget a few years back and the Department of Traffic Sign Overkill was told if they didn't spend their allotment their staff would be cut in half next year. If I were in charge I would have just given everyone a paid day off, but I'm not in charge of shit and I guess there's a reason for that.
Then I snuck a picture of Jackson.
I was quickly called out as a low-down, dirty paparazza who would have to pay for her betrayal by stopping at Burger King on the way home.
After an agreement was made, permission for a portrait in the manner of the subject's choosing was granted. Here we see Jackson re-enacting his favorite scene from Raising Arizona.
Then the camera was seized and the photographer was suddenly the subject of gross ocular examination.
But I'm only interesting for just so long, and Cookie looked like she really needed to finish that nap.
Here Peewee enjoys blissful unconsciousness with the knowledge that he will always be loved and cared for. I suppose he continued to believe that even when Marcel shot two little staples into his ear and gave me an ingenious little tool to take them out with on Christmas Eve, ensuring that a lifetime of ear health will be ours to enjoy, huzzah.