where does the good go?

i'm going to paint a picture right now. not with paintburshes and oils, but with words. let's journey. i've got santogold sarenading me via eye-pod and the sun making me sweat through a double am. app. layer. toby is stopping at every bush to leave a lil note and it's probably 500 degrees. we're trotting along at a fairly reasonable speed (i mean, beagles aren't exactly weimaraner's cousins) when tobs brings us to a halt to do what i assume is some confidential detective work, i.e. sniffing already-marked territory. i hear a flap of wings (wings flapping, if you will) and i look down. two tiny frantic bird legs are kicking at a pathetic speed while gray poof wiggles all around toby's death-locked jaw. my voice is hoarse screaming "leave it," the command my father supposedly taught him to drop shoes, socks, and bras. guess he could have used a few extra lessions. i call my dad, at work, in tears, yelling what was probably a completely incomprehensible sentence in half english/half russian, and slamming the phone shut. taking the problem into my own hands, literally, i try to pry his slobbering vault to no avail. i hear him chew. crunch. VOMZ. he spits out a wad of feathers and claws, catches his breath, and is just about to retake polly the pigeon back into his desolate trap when i yank at his leash with all my defeated will and somehow pull him away from the dead. its was heartbreaking. really, a lot.

and he got the silent treatment for the rest of the night.

listening to: the ting tings-that's not my name