Gone to the Dogs

Last week I dropped off my car at the garage because of a muffler problem. When the mechanic called later in the day, I was bracing to bend over and take it like a man. I was not prepared for him to say, "Yeah, this car ain't worth fixin'. Come get this hunk a junk away from the other cars here, just in case it's contagious."

Ulp. After all the miles that car and I had covered together, with nothing worse than a few flat tires and a faulty alternator, how could it have come to such an untimely end with absolutely no warning, while making nothing but easy local hops? And of course Murphy's visit had to coincide with the end of free-flowing money season, in which I had not been able to fully participate anyway, thanks to walking difficulties caused by that damn lyme tick. (Which reminds me to mention that when I do get my butt kicking ability back, I'm going to get even with each and every person who had the temerity to call me 'granny' as I toddled by.)

It turned out that because it was late afternoon on a Friday, blazingly hot, and the mechanic was overloaded with work, the report of the untimely death of my ride was not quite accurate. One tow truck and a second opinion later, I learned that a butt load of fixits would still be necessary for optimum health, but the patient could be saved.

Oh that I could so easily obtain new parts and be back on the road in a matter of days.

As I contemplated the mess I'm in, my dog strolled up, dripping black mud, having gone for a paddle in her own personal swimming pool. The 'pond' behind the house, which had remained fairly fresh throughout summer's frequent deluges, had recently been drying into a lovely aromatic muck puddle. I couldn't help but think of that Jimmy Buffett song, "my head hurts, my feet stink and I don't love Jesus."

'My car's broke, my dog reeks, and I can't go walkin.'