Putitas

I was out performing my locksmith duties yesterday which, thankfully, consisted mostly of changing the locks on foreclosed homes, barring their families from ever reentering the premises. What can I say; my ass moved back home as of last week, so I’m in full-bore hater mode. Right now, in terms of pleasure, knowing that I was instrumental in making sure someone ELSE was forced to move back into cramped quarters outranks tooting a line running from nip to navel off of Angie Harmon in her prime. And, when it comes to lockouts, the bigger the game, the bigger my boner: if I’m changing the locks on a shitty townhouse that some working class family did their best to pay the bills on, eh, one nipple might get a little stiff. But as I pulled into the driveway of the sprawling mansion that was my target this rainy day, brother, let me just say I became so aroused that I could have used a windshield wiper on the INSIDE of the car, too.

Upon exiting the vehicle to face my quarry, I was greeted by a little wisp of a white dog that frantically jumped against me, practically doing backflips of joy at the site of a person. I do love me an animal (well, furry ones; if you own a snake and your first name isn’t Slash, blow me), so having a canine sidekick for my duration at the job site seemed fun. In the span of five seconds I popped the palace’s door (yes, I can pick locks, as those who have wronged me and come home to a man-sized dump in the middle of their floor can bitterly attest to), and made my way inside. To my surprise, the dog immediately followed suit.

Since I’m the poster child for ADD, rather than do any sort of locksmith work, I watched the dog run around the house for a good 20 minutes like I had never seen an animal before in my life. He seemed to know his way around, and my massive IQ (the same one that got me a gig that pays $13 an hour with no benefits at age 28) puzzled out that, hey, the li’l bastard might have actually lived here and been abandoned by his owners. I know times are tough, but man…abandoning your dog is some low-down business, Jack. Then again, unless you’re Korean, what benefit is he going to provide in a pinch? Thankful that his previous owners’ last name wasn’t Cho, I finished the job and opened the door of my car, and Pooch jumped right in. I figured I’d ask a neighbor and, if they said it wasn’t their dog, I was on my way.

I pulled up to the nearest neighboring mansion and imagine my surprise when I was greeted by someone that resembled the crackhead Ezal from Friday a whole bunch more than he did Dick Jones from Robocop. I repeatedly asked him when the owner of the house would be back so I could ask my question, but he stubbornly insisted that he, in fact, was the owner. Deciding to go along with his charade for the sake of expediating my return home, I had him come out to my car to take a look at the dog riding shotgun. He said he was about 75% sure that the dog did in fact belong to the folks in the house I just dropped the pwnhammer on. Enthusiastically shaking the hand of my dusky friend and kindly chiding him to stop playing master of the house before the real owner got home and lashed him, that was all the confirmation I needed; this dog was mine. Only the day before I had found a heavily-scratched copy of Final Fantasy X in the trash of a house I had changed the locks on and now this? What awaited me tomorrow, a minivan full of high school girls blacked out in a carbon monoxide-filled garage? Stay tuned for my next blog entry and find out!

…or don’t. In the end, I was able to contact animal control and learn the owner’s name as well as that of the dog (Lobo Garcia, which sounds more like the name of the guy who blew away Tony at the end of Scarface than that of a dog, but hey, what do I know). The owners came by my place the next day and picked him up, not even giving me a thank you much less an Andrew Jackson for my time and effort. Wah wah, we lost our home because we couldn’t pay the bills, wah wah. Cheap bastards. I spat a Santeria curse upon them and slammed the door, my only solace that the next time they got to the Goya aisle at Food Lion, they would only be able to afford single-digit amounts of those obnoxious Virgin Mary candles.