Sunday morning, we took Cheyenne up to the 22-acre fenced dog park at the Humane Society. There's a well-worn path around the perimeter, so headed out to do the circuit while trying to eat our breakfast burritos. For the first stretch, she was with us; after the second corner, she spent more time out in the middle, circling the cactus and brush, snurfling for lizards.
By the time we were around the third corner, she was lost to us out there, no interest in walking along. Only returned, all tired and hot from the hunt, to join us in the shade of a bush to lie in the dirt and cool. We snapped the leash on her and went to hang out with the cluster of other dogs in the little bit of shade by the entrance.
Since having her leashed kinda defeats the purpose of being in the dog park, we took her off — and were following her back out into the brush soon enough. Closing in on her, circling a cactus, watched as she lunged headfirst into a cholla … and came up with something in her mouth. Earlier wondering "what do we do if she actually catches one?", our response was confirmed: not much, since she can outrun us. Luckily, she kind of trotted up near me, ex-skink proudly hanging out of her mouth. Then dropped it to run off after more.
Later, extracting quarter-inch-long spines from her paw, noted that this tough girl who didn't even notice them was the dog that let out the Greyhound Scream Of Death when we startled her in the car earlier.
That evening, over to Jon and Suzanne's for a showing of Death Bed, The Bed That Eats. We MST3K-ed our way through it over dinner, all the while marveling at … well, I guess, the Death Bed-ness of it all. I mean, it lives up to the title. To cleanse the palate, rounded out the night with Jesus Christ, Vampire Slayer. IMHO, not enough musical numbers.
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Johnny Vegas as himself
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