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So Mr. Bill next door calls and says he’s been up in Amish country at the flea market. He wants to know where “his tiger” is because he’s brought him something special. 

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

Exhibit C

And the cashier at the Kmart says I spoil ChiCha. Mr. Bill, you have taken the hip bone from a cow and somehow reshaped it into a menace, my basement Cerberus.

Not to prolong a vegetarian’s tale of woe, in which human predilections are pitted against conscience in nonhuman animal sanctuary, but here’s the thing. There was a lost dog in my yard the other Sunday, but I could see he had a collar with a tag, so I tried to move in to ascertain the pup’s proper habitation. He was having none of that and scooted across the street. Henceforth, I followed, placing me in eyeshot of the crackhead next door (not Mr. Bill but the other side - yes, imagine yourself positioned in the Universe squarely between a crackhead and a doting old feller with a van stocked with dog treats, even though he himself has no dog. Ken & Barbie are across the street, and Vigilante Man and his consort “I’m Not a Gold Digger” are in the back, but those are subjects for another day).

So Crackhead bullets out of his hovel and hollers, “No, no, you got to turn on the charm.” Crackhead evaporates just as quickly as he materialized, and I again attempt to find the pup’s way home, but whaddya know, Crackhead reenters the orbit, this time producing a steak - yes, a steak. “This is what I mean by charm,” says he. His eyes are gleefully maniacal, and I think he may be wearing eyeliner. 

And he throws the pup the steak, which the pup proceeds to devour faster than you can say “hookup” before he sprints away, deep into the urban wilderness.

Godspeed.