I’ll start with the ones I’ve lived with.
I have an orange cat. He was a baby when I found him — walked right through our driveway like he owned the place. I took him in, planning to drop him off at a foster home. But then I heard they put down a lot of cats because they get too many. So I said, fuck it, I’m keeping this motherfucker.
His name is Simba because he’s orange and, yeah… the Lion King. Simple math.
Then there was Goldie.
She passed away a year ago.
A beautiful Tibetan Cocker Spaniel — my G-money.
She was blonde, smart, and everyone thought she was a Golden Retriever puppy, but nah… just a small, powerful version of one. We’d howl together in the car, play ball, go on long hikes at Griffith Park. She was my little warrior.
Now my sister has a dog named Scooby.
A brown pit bull, about a year old. Big and mean-looking, but he’s a softie. Right now he’s wearing a little dog boot because he cut his paw. He lets you treat him like a champ. He sleeps in his “cage,” but it isn’t a cage — it’s a six-by-six room with a giant pallet bed like some damn luxury pit bull suite.
He gets scared of fireworks and thunder, and if you walk up on him quietly, he’ll run away because he didn’t see you. Big dog, soft heart.
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