Based on the overwhelming response to yesterday’s post, I have decided to open a gift shop in Ronald Reagan airport selling books of mad libs with nothing but camp letters in them. Please visit soon.

I mentioned that while Carrie and I spent most of our week lying in the gutter and urinating on each other ourselves, we did find time to rescue a doggie. (I decided that “urinating on each other” sounded more intentional than what I was going for, so I took it out.) We saw the doggie, I call him Champ, running the sidewalks without the aid of a human, which in itself might have been OK because he wasn’t in the street and seemed to know to use the crosswalk, but he was a small dog and we felt his caution might not be sufficient to save his tail should a teenager come speeding down the road in a supped up older American car, so we opened our car door, Southie hopped in, and we took the little guy home. I was calling him Champ, but then I started calling him Southie, or sometimes Frenchie. I thought he might have been a Boxer (Champ) because I don’t know what Boxers look like. Using the Internet, we discovered that he was a Boston Terrier, so Southie seemed to fit better. Also he sort of looked like a French Bulldog.

He didn’t have a collar – he probably took it off before his evening shower and forgot to put it back on before his run (honestly, who showers before a run?)– Which made finding his owners extremely difficult because he was the kind of dog (Boxer or Boston Terrier or French Bulldog) that did not speak English. When we found him, he was travelling east, so we drove him around the neighborhood to the west, thinking he was running away from home instead of returning home from a softball game. But, we did not find anyone out looking for a dog. This left us only one alternative – we had to take him to the lost and found.

This is where the story gets mildly amusing, so you’ll want to keep going.

When we arrived at the animal shelter, there was another couple there with a dog that they had found running the streets. (Full moon, maybe.) I went inside to check out the lost and found and saw four spots for found animals. (Or lost animals – they don’t specify if two are for lost and two are for found, so we assumed you could put either type of animal in any of the spots.) Two of the spots were already occupied, which meant that we’d have room for the other dog, and for Frenchie, but it also meant that I had a new blog post.

You see, the bottom left spot was occupied by a large cat named Frederico (I’m guessing about the name) and that was extremely uninteresting, but the top left spot was occupied by a real live actual chicken.

When we were in St John, there were chickens everywhere – and lizards too, but mostly I am mentioning the chickens to show the dichotomy. Back on the mainland, when I see chickens, they are usually already priced at $4.99/lb. This guy, who I called Cockie, was very much alive and well. But, if you are like me, you have to wonder, who finds a chicken? Who finds a chicken and says, “Dude, this chicken does not have a collar, so I can not contact the owner. Maybe I should take him to the animal shelter.”??? Who finds a chicken and doesn’t think “hey, free lunch.” (Most folks, probably – I wouldn’t know how to make “chicken” out of a chicken. Plus, I’m not even sure if you can eat male chickens.

We checked the shelter page the next day and Champ was on for a while, but they took down his picture about 2:00, which hopefully means his owners found him and he’s now safe at home taking a milk bath and relating his adventures to his long-time companion Ruthie, the German Sheppard.

But, the chicken never showed up on the Lost and Found page. Maybe there is a separate page for lost cows and donkeys and stuff that you can only find if you live in a small town.

That’s all I had. We got another letter from the kiddo, but I won’t bore you with that. Back to work.

Have a fantastic day.