EcoHearth Environmental Website - Best ecology websites, environmental blogs, news, activism, green jobs, green products

So everyone cares about the whosis and whatsis of Tiger Woods’ sexual whahoos and bought-gals. My only off-topic comment: If you are black or brown—forget it! (Just like rescue dogs—the whites and blondes get all the guys.) So, Blacks, Browns and Dark Tans: Tiger is happy to have you clean his home! Even with all the requisite balloon shiz attached to your chest and the shiz injected into your face! You’re just too… umm… ’dusky.’ Just too, too used mop-water! So what does this have to do with dog rescue? Well, everything.

A shallow person wants an image, see? Then they want another. And another. They want no warmth or quality—just ‘today’s image,’ that projects ‘superiority and fame.’

“Paper or plastic?” one imagines asking Tiger. “I’ll take diposable, white plastic,” he might say.
Or, “Both—in white-or very light tan,’ he might say. Or, “ Blondie! Let’s have a baby or let’s buy a new beach house.” Or, “Let’s get a young pale woman with huge plastic boobs and lips! And hair extensions the color of honey!”

Here’s where the dog-stuff figures in: “And if she wants a pure-bred Pomeranian, or Chihuahua, or Poodle for a photo op—let’s give it to her. That dog’ll make her look very sexy. As long as that dog is white or light tan.”

Later, after the photo op, re: prop (dog): “This thing is shitting and crying. And it leaves hair on my sparkling image. I am, after all, a Girl Who Slept With Tiger.”

Dog goes into chattering turmoil and angst with “behavioral issues.” Meaning: Dog 1) Defecates! Ugh! 2) Urinates! Ugh! 3) Makes noises. Ugh! 4) Needs food and petting when camera isn’t on! Ugh!

Dog comes into pound, after being discreetly ‘given’ to #1 celeb assistant, who discreetly ‘gives’ dog to #2 celeb assistant, who orders any hanger-on to ‘get rid of this piece of shiz. Who takes it to a pound. Which calls rescue, i.e., someone like me who is called 50 times a day, if not more.

I get blamed and cussed at by Tiger’s #5 assistant for saying “no.”

I can’t take Tiger’s Gal #1008’s dog in—cuz we’ve been full for months with no funding. With 10,000 like and different than Tiger’s stories. I explain that currently there are two dogs living in my closet. Every penny I make from my day job goes to supporting other throwaway photo ops. I’m just maxed-out.

Long story short, the cute photo-op dog dies. An actual, very agonizing and painful death—pentobarbitol needle, no sedative beforehand, ‘too expensive, any sedative,’ after watching many other shelter dogs die that day. The watching is the worst: The cute almost-Tiger-loved dog, 1008 times removed, has to watch 367 other dogs die before it’s her turn. Die and get thrown into a wheelbarrow. She sees the wheelbarrow full of dead dog carcasses. She shakes and screams for an hour watching. Then she is killed, still watching.

Tiger’s gals don’t notice or care, and neither does Tiger.

But the corpse was almost famous. And she cared about being famous, yup, right, umm, zero percent. Unlike Tiger, or his gals-in-waiting, who are alive and going to the gym and getting book deals, etc. And getting famous.

Wasn’t our little corpse lucky? She knew someone who slept with Tiger! She had her face in a tabloid! Now she’s all hot and burning, bright, yes. In a pyre. Dead. Unheard. Just burning. For nothing. Nothing.

Just really, nothing. Amen.

Comments (2)

Show/Hide comments

Write comment