Yesterday, my husband and I drove out to the desert to my brother-in-law’s house to visit the dog. I took a bunch of horrible photos on my iPhone and then made them look like slides from 1974.
That’s not a meteor plummeting to Earth up there in the top left of the frame. That’s bird poo. I learned a very important lesson in taking photos from the passenger side of a moving vehicle yesterday: roll down the window.
Again, roll down the window. I stared at this photo for an embarrassingly long time before I realized that misty shadow on the right is MY OWN HAND.
This dog, who I cried over and worried about and felt horrifically guilty about leaving at my brother-in-law’s house, didn’t even remember who I was at first. She’s that happy in her new home. Look at that face!
My brother-in-law is a chef and was shucking oysters when we arrived. I swore off animal products (well, those not safely hidden in sugary treats) when I was eight, so I have never seen an oyster in person, let alone eaten one. Having seen (and smelled) them now, I can happily say I have not been missing out. No. Thanks.
Deserts scare me. There’s a lawlessness about them that puts me on edge. However, there’s no denying they are gorgeous landscapes. And just for the record: this photo was taken on January 3, 2013 – not, as the quality and filter may have you believe, in 1981.
I am a bleeding heart. I freely admit it. Sometimes this means I get emotional and apologize to the universe when I accidentally kill a bug in an attempt to shoo it outside. Sometimes this means I judge people when they tell me they’ve flushed their dead pet fish down the toilet (I’ve been known to give them funerals). And sometimes this means I force my husband to pull over on the side of a desert road to check the tags on the collar of an adorable (albeit obscenely dirty) lost fluffy white dog, as it wanders in the middle of the lanes. This turns into an absurdly long story, the likes of which only happen when I’m around, but suffice to say that after luring the dog over to us, we discovered it had no tags and my heart strings would no allow me to leave it in the street to get hit by a car. We picked it up, attempted to call shelters and 24-hour vets for an hour and got nowhere. Eventually, my husband and his brother took the dog back to where we found it and let it go, at which point it promptly trotted three blocks in the opposite direction and found it’s house.
I could feel like an idiot over this. However, the real dummy is whoever owns a dog so matted and dirty that when it is allowed to wander through the desert, people think it has been lost for two weeks. I almost feel worse for the dog now – if we’d kept it, at least it would have gotten a bath and clean place to sleep.
Yes. I Instagrammed a photo of a lost filthy dog in a crate. In my defense, I only did it after we’d found it’s home and only then in an effort to make this entire post an ode to smartphone applications.