I so much prefer posting these things through Google Docs. For whatever reason, I have always felt that I left the blog when I went to the "Create Post" area. It's like being in grade school, having a teacher hand you a pencil and pad and then taking you to a desk to sit all alone while you work. I want to be able to see the words change on the blog in real time, I guess. So by using Google Docs, I still get the impression that I'm actually live on the Internet, for some reason. People can talk themselves into anything, huh.

If you go to Logblog, you'll see some photos of my dog, Mabel. I love that dog like she was my child. People get stupid like that when they get older. Some of you reading this will say "Yech," and roll your eyes. And later on in life, you'll be just as stupid over some dog. Just like you're going to need glasses, or lasic. Anyway, my dog was attacked by a pit bull. I don't know how long the pit bull had her. I keep thinking that I want to know, and that I don't. I was cruising around in the neighborhood, looking for her. I was on a parallel street, a couple hundred yards away, at least. I heard dogs barking and yelping, and I thought I heard Mabel's highpitched yaps, so I turned around and headed for where I thought the noise was. I was right. Just when I pulled up, the owner of pit was standing over the commotion, and Mabel came running out from the side, straight towards the car. I had stopped, and was calling her. She was panicked to the point of shock. Her eyes were glued wide-open, and her panting was almost uncontrollable. I didn't really say anything to anybody. I took her to the house, carried her in and placed her on the kitchen counter. I kept that shirt on most of the day after that, with big bloody spots on it. I called Linda, and took off towards the vet.

My eternal thanks to Cherokee Emergency Veterinary Hospital. They were very kind and professional, and they showed genuine concern for Mabel. They took great care of her.

A couple of days later, I was tearing into work, running late, and hungry. I swung into a McDonald's on the way. Just as I sat down, I heard a little kid crying from inside the playground. It was one of those I'm-hurt-wails, not just fussy crying. The first thing through my mind was, "Great." And then, I thought about Mabel's ordeal, and I realized that what I had heard from the car, so far away, was Mabel's panicked cry for help, over and over. She was being killed, literally. She was wailing for help, and I wasn't there. No one was there that she knew. She was alone, and in pain, and there was no one there to help her. So she cried. So I cried in the middle of McDonald's.

I've told her that I'm sorry I couldn't protect her that day, and I know she's just a dog, and won't really understand what I say. Well, not past "ball" and "bologna" and "squirrel," anyway. But she still plays with me, and barks like a maniac and jumps on me when I come home, and that means everything in this world to me.