Apropos, I am meant to tell you that My Roommate, Dana Gier's, telephone calls to animal control were not "threatening" but merely irate. Apparently there is a big difference when you are splattering someone's name across the internet.
As for the newest addition to my wardrobe, seen to your left in fashionable canary yellow, please don't tell me I am taking things too far and that surely Animal Control will take a break from chasing the wild dogs that accompanied me to work one Sunday morning last summer for a few tense moments to come with their big shovel and remove this poor little feline soul from the parkway in front of my neighbor's house. I will tell you that this is surely not the case. Today is day seven, first of all. I think if Animal Control were coming, they at least would have responded to one of My Roommate, Dana Gier's, "irate" phone messages by, oh, say, yesterday. Also, our neighbor does not seem inclined to hire a private removal surface, nor do we have the cash money for such an endeavor. Wow, right now that hundred bucks that some asshole stole from my wallet at a poetry reading two weeks ago would really come in handy. Thank you, asshole. (I've been wanting to say that for a long time.) So, as it stands, there is a dead decomposing dead cat located very close to my front door, the smell of which makes me want to gag. Also, taking deep gulps of the summer air because I cannot hold my breath long enough to get out of the smell-zone and thereby inhaling rotting particles of the malodorous object is clearly some sort of health hazard or something. I could get sick and die, people. I don't even have life insurance, so there would be no money to bury or cremate me, and my roommates would be forced to put me out by the curb as well, hopefully in a cute outfit. Maybe that crinkly silk skirt and lavender shirred blouse. At any rate, you can bet that some city department would come clean that up in a jiffy. Animals get no respect.
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