A case of animal hoarding came to light here last week. Someone saw a loose kitten, which led to a conversation with T. Creepy Neighbor, which led to the animal-control people showing up, which is evidently the only agency that knows what the telltale smell indicates. Long story short: The kittens were forgotten in the David Lynchian scene of– are you ready? One hundred twelve live chihuahuas and 150 dead ones.
The dead ones were in freezers. Relax.
We’ve all seen these cases before. I certainly understand the attention paid to them — bizarre is newsworthy, after all — but they always make me uncomfortable. It starts with the unbearable TV coverage, where anchors who are paid half a million dollars a year to look good and act stupid furrow their brows over the teasers: “You’re not going to believe what they found in a Dearborn man’s home!” (Try me. I’ve seen it all, lady.) Then the piece itself, in which neighbors — are they all idiots? Everywhere? — tell the world what they “seen.” Also, what they told the police: “I seen it was looking bad over there, so I told them cops…”
This is followed by the newspapers, stories pitched only slightly more upmarket, filled with helpful, “reader service” details. Click here to download an application to adopt one of the rescued dogs. My personal favorite was “Chihuahua facts,” a sidebar of general information on the breed — size, description, history. Also, this line, which made me laugh out loud: “The live Chihuahuas, many of them shaking and traumatized…” Which would make them different from other chihuahuas how?
Through all of this is the guy’s lawyer, returning all his phone calls, trying to be heard, beating one drum: Hello? MENTAL ILLNESS! We’ll see how it works; most people don’t want to hear stuff like that. The neighbors will be dragged out before the TV cameras to opine he weren’t crazy, while the papers file more helpful sidebars:
Kenneth Lang Jr. simply couldn’t throw anything away – not trash, not feces, not dogs.
I like how she slips the feces in the middle of that series. And then, the Edna Buchanan jujitsu:
Not even the dead ones.
Enough. This poor man. I suggest the Witness Protection Program, perhaps to a place with a big yard, three chihuahuas and a vet who sees to it that everyone is spayed and neutered. Besides, all this talk of nervous little dogs distracts us from the real news of the day, yet another chapter in the long dick of Kwame Kilpatrick. Turns out the former mayor was personal-relationshipping with the federally appointed monitor overseeing the consent decree to clean up the police department. She’s been billing the city $287.50 an hour for years, to the tune of $10 million. Well, that’ll buy a lot of romantic weekend getaways — smart money says she was the woman who enjoyed a $500 “couples massage” with KK in Asheville, N.C., where he was keynoting a MLK Day thing.
Sadly, that also distracts the public from Martha Reeves’ latest antics:
Although Martha Reeves is internationally famous for being the lead singer of the group Martha and the Vandellas she has now decided to use her middle name on the ballot.
The flier reads Martha Rose-Reeves on one side of the flier and Martha-Rose Reeves, with the hyphen in a different spot on the back.
The flier also states, “Elect Martha-Rose Reeves and the Vandellas.”
When asked if the Vandellas were also running for council, she said, “Yes. They are running and dancing in the streets.”
Let me just say it again: I love this town.
So, a bit of bloggage?
Hank Stuever has some big shoes to fill. Congratulations. Also, scroll down to his Madonna entry. Stew bird!
It’s like Peggy Noonan, Jack London, and William Faulkner wandered into the woods with three buttons of peyote and one typewriter, and only this speech emerged.
Meanwhile, Michele Bachmann replaces Sarah Palin as the national sweetheart of crazy.
Breakfast time, then gym time. Then Russian time, then Hammer time!