October 17, 2019

I went to see about a dog. His name is Mr. Marbles and he’s missing an eye. Two months ago, I was going to adopt a dog named Yaya. She was missing both eyes. I was going to rename her Keller, like Helen Keller, but I got a really bad feeling about it all and didn’t adopt her. When I found out last week that she was still available, I reached out at exactly the same time someone else showed interest in her and started the adoption process. The adoption agency I’m working with recommended other dogs to me. One of them was Rocky and she was beautiful. She lost her entire human family in a fire in another state. I figured this meant she’d be on high alert in case anything caught on fire in my apartment so that might be good. When I said yes, I was interested, the lady then told me that actually, she comes as a set with another dog. The other dog looked boring and anyway, I can’t have three dogs.

Later, the adoption lady told me that she had Mr. Marbles that needs a home. So I met with the foster mom tonight. Coppola is definitely the better looking one but he seemed to like Mr. Marbles OK. Mr. Marbles seemed pretty disinterested which was fine with me because that means he’s probably pretty mellow. Or bored with meeting people don’t adopt him. Poor little fella. What will I rename him to? I pick him up on Saturday to start the two-week fostering period. I think it’ll be good for Coppola to have a friend during the day when I’m at work. Although I can probably predict, they will just spend most of the day napping.

On the way to meet the foster mom and Mr. Marbles, it was starting to get dark and I really hated wherever I was. This ugly feeling of discomfort just kind of surrounded me. I had taken the back road to where I thought was going to be…. I don’t know? My GPS led the way. It ended up being Santee. It was only when I saw the sign for “Las Colinas Women’s Detention & Re-entry Facility” that it made sense. Yuck. I hate Santee.

When I was putting Coppola and myself in my car to meet Mr. Marbles, a little blonde-haired blue-eyed boy about five years old came running after me.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, Mrs. Manager!”

I looked at him. He had a very frantic pitch in his voice and his face was molded by fear. He began explaining in a very disjointed way about how he didn’t do it, but he knows who did.

“Did what?” I asked.

“The doorbell ringing. The lady in #20 said it was me but it wasn’t me, I know who did it and it wasn’t me. She said if it happens again, she’s calling the cops on me but I know who actually did it.”

Ah, yes. That tenant had already emailed me to complain about the kids doing it and I let her know I’d address it.

“So, who is doing it?” I asked.

The little boy blurted out the name and unit number of the boy. A boy whose name has come up before, actually. I’m not even sure which kid he is but I know his name.

“Ah, OK. Well, thank you for telling me. I appreciate you saying something. I’ll talk to the lady in #20 and tell her it wasn’t you, ok?” I said. Then I felt awful for encouraging a rat but also proud of his bravery. Then also cynical that maybe he was the guilty one after all and why is he throwing this other kid under the bus? Nah, he’s going to grow up to be a cop.

The little boy’s face warmed up and he smiled and genuinely looked relieved.

“Thank you, OK, thank you…” and he ran away.

I thought about emailing the lady in #20 and telling her she shouldn’t be threatening little kids with calling the cops, what the hell. That’s awful. He was genuinely scared! But instead, I just told her I found out the kid responsible and would be speaking to his parents. I’ll also just send everyone a letter to make everyone think their kid is guilty. I feel like good parents will assume some responsibility. The bad ones will declare their angelic saint of a child would never do such a thing.

The other day was my 2 years sober anniversary birthday thing. I got to celebrate with some friends and it was an amazingly good time. We all took photos and when I went to look back at them later, I was sincerely shocked at how short I am! One of my friends I had always considered kinda short and in the photo of us together, I was way shorter. What the heck!

Then I remembered how I always tell people that Coppola isn’t afraid of big dogs because I don’t think he knows how small he is.

but I guess all along, neither did I.

Someday I’ll fly/Someday I’ll soar/Someday I’ll be/So damn much more/Because I’m bigger than my body gives me credit for…

The jail is around the corner, Santee.