Keeping Yacha in my lap in the dog run to protect her from this, which was rampant:
Bonus shot: The post-dog run fist bump…
(photos courtesy of Merna)
During our search for a rescue-able, grey, scraggly, 10-pound dog in January, S. Jam Fitzgerald and I stopped by the BARC Shelter in Williamsburg one evening. We visited a dog named Velvet, who was awesome but ultimately five pounds too big (she found a home, don’t worry, we checked on that). When I described exactly what we were looking for to the guy running the show at BARC, he said, “Lena Dunham just went home with your dog yesterday.” Then he told us she might be bringing it back because of an allergy situation. She didn’t.
This morning we picked all seven pounds of our Yacha up from the animal hospital, minus her lady parts. She was terrified and groggy and her face was oily and she wore a lampshade around her neck. It was the saddest sight I’ve ever seen, aside from that sight yesterday when I dropped her off and the surgical assistant carried her off to the back rooms of the animal hospital, Yacha wearing a look on her face that said, I am brave but also scared, and me, who would have been far less sad about it if she had only been scared.
Yacha sees the horizon and thinks of a high rise in a crowded city she once knew well.The wind is whipping so that it stings. Her third paw burns from the salt on the road they left behind just moments ago. To the whole of humanity, she casts a wayward thought, and contemplates a lamppost.