Oh hey.

Listen, I grabbed a coffee on the way, don’t worry about me.

I need to talk to you about something.

Sigh.

I just never thought it would happen to me. Not ever. I mean, I run a tight ship. Everything in its place, formal schedules, a lot of anal retentiveness…

Naw, I’m just kiddin’.

But maybe that’s what the problem is! I mean, I try to create a loving environment around my house. Lot’s of snuggling and toys.  The occasional new dog bed tossed in.

But I’m also…

oh, Gosh, I hate to admit this to you …

their dealer.

Yep.

You heard me right.

Dealer.

I swear, it just happened!

I can’t imagine what you think of me now. Okay, let me explain.

It started small.

I know, I know, it always starts small.

A couple of free samples slipped to me by a trainer I didn’t know well.

I just tucked them into the back of the cabinet, I swear.

But then one day I reached into the bag of their regular treats and there were only three left, and I had four eager faces looking at me with tongues lolling out the sides of their mouths.

I could see that bit of blue in the back of the cabinet.

C’mon, would you have done anything different?

I reached in slowly and my fingers brushed up against the bag.

I heard the soft crackle of the plastic as my fingers grasped it.

And I pulled it out, and held it in front of me.

The dogs looked dubious.

But by the time I followed the “tear here” direction near the white dotted line at the top of the bag, and that heady scent wafted forth, they were done for.

They’ve been hooked on puppy crack (ne freeze-dried liver bits) ever since.

I import it to the house by the bucket load.

Sometimes I give it to other dog owners. And then their dogs get hooked.

I think that might make me, like, a distributor.

It’s a slippery slope, people.

I mean, I’ve gone from their teacher to their dealer and distributor. I’m moving product in innocent looking plastic buckets. No one would suspect that what’s inside those containers is capable of so powerfully altering a life. They might as well be buckets holding the secret batter for a fast-food chicken joint.

They can’t get enough of it, and I can’t bring it into the house fast enough to keep up with demand.

I think I’ve broken bad.

Our house has turned from idyllic country retreat to a cesspool of urban blight in no time at all.

And the one thing….the ONE thing that I never thought I’d see my babies participating in.

Wait. I need a minute.

Do you have a tissue?

Okay. So that one thing happened the other day (before Blaze left for Europe).

I walked outside with all the dogs. Blaze and Marshal Dillon Dingle ran ahead as usual, Marshal Dillon Dingle barking loudly with the goal of scaring all potentially threatening creatures far into the woods, so he wouldn’t have to deal with them face to face.

Fred was heading to the tall grass to do his business (good boy), and Monty went to his favorite spot to hang out in the crisp fall air.

Suddenly, without warning, the two Shepherds broke for the tall grass, and for Fred.

Fred was kicking his back legs, as he does after a nice morning poo, and was unaware of them bearing down on him.

When they got to Fred, they walked around him in a threatening manner. Marshal Dillon Dingle even bumped into him a few times and I’m pretty sure it was on purpose.

Fred was eyeing them suspiciously, making sure they didn’t get behind him.

And then he barked out loud and they mockingly play bowed at him.  But I’m pretty sure that play bow was all for show so that I, their dealer, wouldn’t think that they were picking on one of my customers. And I need my customers. They are my livelihood – the means to stoking the critical levels that keep the fires of my self-esteem burning bright.  I’m not saying they wouldn’t love me and snuggle me if I wasn’t providing them with their puppy crack. But I’m not gonna risk it.

So now there is a new blight on my streets.

Breedism.

Those German Shepherds banded together and threatened another, based purely on coat color alone.

I’ve sat them all down and explained that whether you are red and black, yellow, or black, white, and brown, it doesn’t matter. The color of your fur does not indicate anything about what kind of dog you are.

It’s what’s on the inside that counts.

I told them that it doesn’t matter if you come from a breeder, or a neighbor, or a Humane Society kennel – each of which is represented in this house – you do not pass judgment on your fellow housemate based on their breed, color, or background.

Also, I mentioned sexual orientation because periodically I wonder about Fred.

And Blaze looked contrite. And a second later, Marshal Dillon Dingle – who always checks with Blaze on what to do or how to react in any given situation – also looked contrite.

Monty looked a little clueless, as he has always been breed and colorblind.

Fred looked happy. I don’t know if he also looked relieved because Fred is a Lab and always looks happy, most likely because he is thinking about his next meal.

Or fix.

So here is what I’ve learned.

Dealing has its merits.

If, for no other reason than the threat that they will be cut off – cold turkey – from puppy crack, the Shepherds will reconsider their breedist behaviors, then peace can be restored to my streets.

Which is always the goal.

It isn’t often that the Mayor is also her city’s drug kingpin. But I’ve got a lot of responsibility and very few people I can trust.

Plus I’ve got re-election coming up.

Oh, geez. I’ve gotta run.

I’ve got a meeting with the City Council. It’s Homecoming tonight at the high school and self-appointed-perfect boy, Gabe, has to bring chips to the soccer team’s tent. We’ve got to coordinate resources and rides to make this happen. It’s pretty important.

Plus I can’t wait to tell my nearly perfect husband that he is now the City Council.

See ya!

Thanks for readin’.

Warning: Graphic content. What follows are more riot photos that the papers didn’t print.

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