Meth Unicorns, Molting Birds, and One Bossy Dog.

Someone finally turned off the oven. Overnight, the temperature dropped twenty degrees and it feels magnificent. The weather is perfect—for now. Give it a minute and we’ll be back to sweltering swamp humidity, so I’m soaking it up while I can.

The Sevier County Humane Society took the puppies on Monday. A part of me hated to see them go. (Not the part that was constantly mopping puddles and scraping smeary poop from every surface.) Those little guys hated being confined, and if I tried to pen them up, they’d scream like their tails were caught in a door. So I gave up and let them rule the house, pads scattered everywhere. They hit the mark most of the time. Cute but crazy, as puppies are.

I know they’re in good hands, but I can’t help being disappointed—once again—at Cocke County’s complete lack of involvement. I’ve been fighting this battle for over a decade, and nothing has changed. If anything, it’s worse. City officials don’t care. I’ve asked myself a hundred times: do I keep banging my head against the wall at meetings where no one listens, or do I keep my head low and just help where I can? I’ve been in the trenches—it’s ugly, full of egos the size of Texas, and more corruption than you’d believe. I was even threatened once with having my house burned down. I’ve saved a lot of animals, but I can’t fight small-town politics. They’re all the same—good ol’ boys, and now a few good ol’ girls, clawing their way to power just because they can. Anyway. End rant. For now.

Speaking of animals, I mentioned Popinno in my last post and a few people asked who she was. Meet Popinno: seven pounds of bark and spitfire, ten feet tall and bulletproof.

She came to the shelter six years old, surrendered by a breeder because her litter numbers were dropping. Not all breeders are monsters, but this one gets the title. When she arrived, her name was Buffy (apologies to vampire slayers everywhere). She wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t even move to pee—just lay there, letting everything out underneath her. Completely broken.

I took her home that night. She puked all the way there—an impressive display of motion sickness, even for my driving skills. Once home, she hid under the bathroom shelves, stiff as a board if I touched her. The other dogs and cats came in to say hello. She responded with… nothing.

She continued this behavior for two weeks until the day I offered her chicken. Golden ticket. That was it—she’s been glued to me ever since. Her name became Poppy, then “Poppy No!” (because she barks constantly), and eventually Popinno. Better than Buffy, anyway.

I tried to adopt her out—carefully, to women only, no kids, no men. But every time, she’d shut down, refuse to eat or move, and boomerang right back to me. Eventually she got wise and wouldn’t even go near the car when I left for work. Message received. We’ve had her two years now. Regrets? A few. But mostly, I’m glad she’s ours.

Popinno is a mess. She gets violently car sick. She’s some kind of floofy breed that needs regular grooming but hates everyone but me, so she usually looks feral before I give in and shave her down. She lives on our bed (now her bed). She adores Dennis if he’s holding cheese, but otherwise he’s a creeper in her eyes. When I do the bedtime happy dance with her, it’s cute. If Dennis tries? Creeper. Morning wiggle dance? Cute. Dennis joins? Creeper. He’s basically her emergency backup plan in case I get assassinated by a meth-addicted unicorn.

For all her quirks, she’s loyal. She meditates on my lap, barks at things the other dogs miss (like baby possums), and follows me everywhere. She’s come a long way from the shut-down, broken dog she once was. If I ever meet that breeder again, I might punch her right in the ballsack. Popinno would approve.

Meanwhile, the three latest chicks from the last hatch are thriving—little black puffballs, one with the naked neck of their ugly daddy. Nine more are incubating. I’m trying a “dry hatch” this time: low humidity until day 18, then cranking it up. Fingers crossed, because my usual method seems to drown them. We’ll see. If it works, science wins. If not, back to square one.

And because I’m apparently turning into a homestead overachiever, I’m considering raising quail. Their eggs are nutrient-dense, gorgeous, and they don’t need much space. I don’t think I could eat the birds themselves, but Dennis has no qualms. At the very least, the eggs will keep me entertained.

In my non-animal life, I’ve actually been reading more.

• Reckless Girls by Rachel Hawkins sucked me in. I’m now officially a Hawkins fangirl.

• All The Broken Places by John Boyne (a companion to The Boy in the Striped Pajamas)—beautiful ending, easy read.

• The 7 ½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart Turton—total mind-bender. The short chapters were perfect for my “I’m-falling-asleep-but-one-more-page” reading style.

On audio, I’ve been trudging happily through Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series. Each book is like 20+ hours long, which is great for cleaning marathons. I finished the sixth book, A Breath of Snow and Ashes. Before you ask, no, I haven’t watched the show. I got burned with Game of Thrones—loved the books, hated the series (don’t even get me started on that ending). Books > shows, every time.

I also found out Dexter (yes, the TV show) is based on books. Debating whether to switch to those or keep binge-watching. Decisions, decisions.

Outside, feathers are everywhere—it’s molting season. Mostly turkeys, a couple from a horned owl. I collect them, like I always have, for reasons I can’t explain. If dying with the most feathers and rocks is winning, I’m already the champion. Sometimes I wish I could molt, too—shed my old skin and step into a fresh, upgraded version every season.

So, that’s me. What the hell have you been up to? Read anything epic? What are your pets doing that makes you laugh or swear? Drop me a line—I’d love to hear about it.