Small Ante

Joe from "Klonopin" took this photo of me in my alley.

Now he won't talk to me because he's psychotic or something, as if I didn't know.

Makes me sad anyway.

Living for Them Hoons

Every time my boyfriend sends me pix of our dogs, I tend to delete them. I think, "Well, they are there, accessible, etc..." If I'm wrong, and I probably am, here they are. Hubbly Bubbly (how faggot can I get) is the Rhodesian Ridgeback; Arbutus is the Shepherd-Husky mix; the adorable Mr. Percifal Aloyisius Beauregard Clicky is the Dalmation / Greyhound mix. I'm wearing Hanes' undies, if that counts. I love love love these dogs. I have two cats; the dogs ended up with the boyfriend. We're all rejoining in short order, if things go right. Anyway, Hub is 18 years old, Arbutus is about 15, and Mr. Clicks is around 12. They are all rescued HOONS. They might be the best part of my life (and I'm not subtracting the cats, but they're another post). Three dogs of breeds that don't usually live past eight years, and we've still got them going ten years past that dumb number. Same with the cats, but, yeah, another time.