How could you?

I was driving to my parents house today to drop off some homemade Valentine's Day cookies when I saw some sort of commotion going on in the road. Some people were driving by something in the road, slowly. And since nothing draws a crowd more than a crowd, I stopped to see what was going on. 

I was horrified to see that people had been slowing down -but not stopping- to help a dying dog in the middle of the street. I stopped my truck on the side of the road and with it still running, jumped out and ran to see if the small dog was still alive. I bent down to it, and in its most desperate attempts to gasp for air, it was shaking and choking. Another dog, which I later found out to be of the same residence, was near the dog in its time of need. Within a minute, it lay silent in the street, with the only movement being the wind blowing her fur back from her eyes. Now that I had stopped, some other people were stopping to see what was going on. One woman drove by me and gave me a judgemental, "How could you?!" look and I screamed back at her, "I didn't do it!!!"

I shook my head angrily at Chris, standing by. "How could you see a dying dog and just drive by?! How could you just leave her here?"

A teenaged kid slowly walks up to us from a parked car, and judging by his appearance, all questions regarding who hit the dog vanished from mind. He, much like the dog in her last minutes, was shaking and crying. He walked up to us and put his head in his hands and cried out, "I did it," followed by more sobbing, "I'm the one that hit her."

I tried to console this guy, because I remember how upset my mom was when she hit a dog last month - even though the dog was 17 years old, deaf, blind, black, and out in the rain and the owners expected it. I called the number on the dog tag, and waited for an answer. It didn't really occur to me what I would say, or how I could soften the fact that his or her dog was laying dead in the road. No answer, but somehow I knew the last name on the message and knew where the family lived. With the help of someone who had stopped, and put a lifeless Maggie May in the bed of my truck, coaxed the family's other dog into the cab of the truck, and drove over to this family's house to break the bad news. Better me than the kid, trust me.

I drove up and carried the live dog to the door and knocked. The man came to the door, jovial and shirtless, to see his dog.

"Oh, I see you found someone!" he said, which made my next sentence even harder. 
"Well, I have some good news and bad news. Your other dog, Maggie, well someone hit her," I said gingerly.
He looked confused, so I broke it down for him as well as I could.
"Maggie is dead."
The smile erased from his face and he repeated what I just said, almost questioning me. "Maggie is dead?"
"Yes. I didn't see what happened. Someone just left her in the street. The kid that hit her was very upset." My sentences sounded just as choppy as I was saying them.

I showed him over to the truck where he sadly scooped his Maggie up like a newborn child, ignoring the fact that she was bloody and that urine was seeping from her... well... the place from which urine seeps. He carried her and walked slowly, still in shock, over to his front porch and with his other dog kneeling by his side just stared up at the sky.

I figured this was my time to leave. And, when I left, he was still staring at the sky.

Katie's Logic

Anyone that knows my sister and I is nearly shocked to believe that we came from the same place. I tend to hold onto logic that works, ya know, like in the real world and she tends to just make stuff up and goes with it.
Since I'd been feeling sick, she drove over to my house to bring me some Metamucil fiber cookies (after reminding me that when we were kids those fiber cookies and a swig of Dimetapp was all we used to eat...sigh). I knew it was her becuase I could hear her muffler down the block.

She pulled up in her neon yellow Mitsubishi Eclipse, completely tricked out, blaring Taking Back Sunday and complete with the 7-digit equivelant of "Yellow Lightning" on the license plates. I jumped in the passenger's side seat, reminding her that I had never driven with her before, as I slowly buckled her NASCAR-esque padded seatbelts. 

"That's because it's always in the shop." I thought about it, and yeah, that's why.

We hadn't gone but a couple miles when it became apparent to me that my sister had a whole different persona while driving "Yellow Lightning". The usually shy around strangers, calm, compassionate person I once knew had the "bird" on standby and wasn't afraid to use it. 

"Merge, goddammit! Everyone else is, you dumb piece of shit!" 

Without missing a beat she explains, "You see, I can be an asshole in my car. This is because I drive an asshole car," she said matter-of-factly. "They just see this car and assume I'm a bitch."

I nod, just as an elderly woman starts to pass her. Katie looks over at the driver and revvs her engine. 

"Wanna dance?" she screams.

The woman looks offended.

Farther down the road, we make a right-turn where another Mitsubishi Eclipse is waiting to turn left. She gasps and slows down and gives the car a once-over that would make a man blush. The guy in the car gives Yellow Lightning some attention as well. A block down the road, she begins to have regrets.

"Damn, I should have revved my engine," she said.
"Why? I didn't see any old people around," I said.
"Well, that's our speak for how you show someone that you like their car."

Right.

About V.!C.0.d!.N and Extreme Appreciation

First, let me say that Aaron R. who works at the Outback Steakhouse in South Tampa is the most selfless person I know.

Second, let me say that I am blogging under the direct influence of Vicodin (which, I do not know how to truly spell thanks to clever spammers) and I feel weird.

The surfers
Well, I was on vacation until yesterday, when I woke up feeling like I had swollowed a grapefruit containing a whole box of razor blades. I drove out to the beach, thinking perhaps if I was going to go back to sleep anyway, then why not on the beach? I built myself a little sand-pillow and put on my Johnny Knoxville aviators and conducted my presence a la dirty, post-marriage Britney. It's funny how loud the ocean is, rolling up the beach, and yet you can still catch most everyone's conversation within a 20-foot radius. I heard two male voices talking and looked up for a second when I heard someone say, "Hey buddy" just a little too close to my face. I woke up and I was staring back at a bloodshot-eyed surfer who asked if he and his friend could lay down with me. They were chit-chatting (read: still awake and drunk from the night before) when the surfer said to his friend, "What's the best pick up line you've ever heard?" Without missing a beat, the friend drunkenly turned to the nearest 12-year-old girl and said:

"Can I makeout with your asshole?" He comforted her violated, horrific look by saying, "No, seriously, I'll do it for free".

Then they left.

The ER

I went home after the beach and tried to rest up after having gotten very little sleep over the weekend, due to a lot of hanging out with Aaron (amidst other Outback staff), who was my waiter at the Outback Steakhouse I went to in South Tampa with my grandma. Plus, my throat was still pretty swollen. I woke up at 6, with enough time to go down and catch the first part of the game. Then, he called. I was ready 30 minutes later when he got here to pick me up to go to a bar in St. Pete so that we could meet his friend from Dayton, OH (now a Floridian) and watch the rest of the game. Throat getting worse. I opt not to drink, but apparently all the people we met out that night were bartenders. Let's just say, I did not get my first choice of, "Iced Tea".
We went to meet up with his brother at Friday's. Throat starting to swell to the point where I can not speak or swallow. I write on a napkin, "I think I have to go to the ER". The worry in his face starts to show. I told him that he could just drop me off, but he wouldn't. I walked into the hospital and immediately started to feel worse. My throat was throbbing, swollen almost shut and raw. This is when the fever kicks in. 30 minutes and I was called to the first part of registration. Another 30 minutes go by and I completed Part 2 of the registration process. 1 hour 30 minutes go by and I am finally called to see a nurse practitoner. Aaron (who I have known for three days) is still there, not having anything but positive things to say, trying to lighten the mood to make me feel better (bless his heart). I get all the tests done, and she takes a throat swab. I look at Aaron, and I'm starting to freak out. 

"God, I hope they are not thinking mono," I squeaked, "anything but fucking mono. Those were the worst times of my life".

Another dude comes in about 20 minutes later with all kinds of needles and the works. He is also from Dayton. After what I thought to be a routine blood test turned into a long, painful 2-hour IV, I started my first bout of chills. Aaron pleaded with the RN to get me a blanket, all the while holding my arm and rubbing it in an attempt to warm me up. I was shaking so violently that it brought tears. I still couldn't swallow or speak. Dayton boy walks back in and nonchalantly sighs:

"Yep, your strep culture is testing positive". Because they do this all the time.

I get my first shot of steroids directly into my IV. I haven't stopped shaking in 30 minutes. Aaron is still holding my arm. I get a shot of some pain killer. My throat feels like someone is spraying air on it (like at the dentist) to dry it out or has rubbed some kind of fucking paste all over it. Another hour goes by. Now, I'm being told I have to take a penicillin shot and they will return in a couple minutes to administer it. Aaron looks over to me and stares at me for a minute, gaging my reaction. Seeing that I had none he said:

"You know that shot is in your ass, right?"
"Get the fuck out."
"No, for real. It's in your ass".
"I am NOT taking a shot in the ass!" I whined, better than a 5 year-old.

Dayton boy comes back in, and I can just tell by the look on his face that this shot is going in my ass. He began talking about what he was going to do, but I frantically skimmed everything he was saying just waiting for him to say something about my butt. Then there is was.

"I'm goin' to need to see your bottom."
"How much of it do you want to see?"
He snickered, "Just the top is fine. Just pull down your little hip huggers."

I rolled over toward Aaron and unbuttoned my "little hip huggers" and thrusted my ass in Dayton boy's face. He said I was about to feel a little prick (heh). It was the most painful shot I've ever taken. Dayton boy said that was because penicillin has the consistency of Elmer's Glue. So here I am, unpantsed in front of two people I don't really know, with one of them trying not to laugh and still remain supportive, and the other one sticking a needle in my ass. I felt like two cents waiting for change. 

Then two things happened. They left the door open to my exam room, and I got the Vicodin. The fact that it was 4:30am did not make the slap-happiness any better. Plus, I was in the children's ward, and outside the door was an array of Goodwill-quality stuffed animals to make the kids feel better at the hospital. One of them was a giant racoon.

"That racoon is freakin' me out," I told Aaron. "Is that racoon not freaking you out?"
"Uh, dude what's he got in his hands, like, a cookie?"

Five minutes pass while clearly Aaron has been thinking about the racoon. Out of nowhere:

"I'm pretty sure it's a biscuit," he said, which sent me in to a fit of narcotic-induced laughter that sounded like Butthead.
"What's so funny about a biscuit?" he asked. More laughter.
"That word is just soooo funny," I said, "I just die when anyone says the word 'biscuit'".

Then for some reason I thought I was Chris Rock. I will spare you those details, but it included my loud-ass rendition of "Nigga, you didn't hearshit, because you was doin' shit" in an otherwise quiet hospital at 4:45am.
I got released soon after that.

I guess the whole point is that, you never know when your waiter is going to take you to the ER, sing you songs to calm you down while you're getting an IV, and take care of you like your mother would. I just think it's pretty awesome.