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You Might Be A Redneck - By guest blogger Rebecca in Atlanta

Our dog, LuLu, is a Bichoodle.  It’s one of those breeds that come with a bumper sticker that says “If You Can’t Pronounce It You Can’t Afford It”.  Fortunately for us, she was not a purchase but rather a “hand-me-down” gift from family friends.  We were bequeathed LuLu at age three, along with her prescription medications, leash, engraved dog bowls, cheetah print canopy bed and monthly grooming appointments.  Now, at first this was a jagged little pill to swallow.  Even I, with my not so natural golden mane, do not require a monthly visit to the hairdresser but so be it, she is a great dog. 

This past Thanksgiving my sister-in-law, Elaine, took one look at LuLu and exclaimed:

“My God, what happened to your dog?  HAAAAAAA!  Let me guess, she’s a high end residential real estate agent’s dog!?  HEEE HEEEE HONK HAAAAAAA!  She’s been hit by the recession!  ROOOOOOAAAAAAR.  You should write a book!”

So, here is LuLu giving a shout out to Scamper because they are all in this together. 

LuLu, during better times:

LuLu, on a day when the front page of the Atlanta Journal and Constitution read “Unemployment Rates Hit Highest in 25 Years” Yes, this is the same dog.

So, this brings me to the redneck part.  Yep, we haven’t even come close.  About a year ago I caved on agreeing to a family kitten.  We drove to the Atlanta Humane Society on a Saturday and I was fully prepared to bring home a kitten, except they didn’t have any kittens.  “Out of Stock”.  Seriously?  All they had were full grown, bad habits intact cats that were missing eyes and limbs….no kittens.  “It’s been a dry spring, can’t explain it but check back with us next week” That wouldn’t work.  Today was the day for a kitten.  Neal didn’t have a client (not your fault honey), Georgia didn’t have drama rehearsal, Emma Neal didn’t have a soccer game, no birthday parties, grocery shopping, lawn mowing, spring cleaning, play dates, nothing.  It was one of those rare, wake up with a clean slate sort of day – the kind that comes once every 18 months so this was THE day for adopting a kitten.  Next week was out of the question, I would be a pumpkin again by then with cold feet.

So, we got one on Craig’s List.  This seemed like a good idea until my fourth trip to the vet because she turned out to really only be three weeks of age, not the advertised seven, was infested with every type of worm one may find in Georgia or perhaps Uganda and needed to be bottle fed every three hours.  Fun times.  But the kids loved her and as long as I kept her in the guinea pig cage, the mess was contained. 

Now fast forward a few months, eight maybe.  I am at the vet with a beautiful long-haired, sleek, apple of my eye Sarathena.  It has been a long, expensive road but we love our addition and are blessed to have her as part of our family.  The vet informs me that it is time to have her spayed.  Of course.  I always spay and neuter my pets.  Duh.  No question.  But, usually the Humane Society gives us a “gift certificate” to have it done.  The nail technician in Norcross who “gave” us the seven three week old feral cat, promising that she had been void of parasites, did not supply us with a voucher for the procedure.  Dang.  I go to the front desk and ask how much.  Really.  Tax, tag and title.  How much …….$261.  Really?  For a spay?  Well, that’s so lovely because guess what?  I don’t have $261 to spay my cat.  Get the hell in line behind a loooooooong list of people who need my money.  I just don’t have the money for this little Buckhead operation so she will have to wait until Neal either closes a fictitious deal or Obama hands over my stimulus package.  End of story.

I come home and forget about the whole episode.  I do not heed my vet’s warning.  I am stupid. I am about to feel like a teenager turning one’s back on safe sex……………………….

Me (at my computer): “Look!  There is a kitty mobile who will spay your cat for $65!! What a deal!  That’s the answer to our problem.  HA! $261 my foot!  I can drive to Vinings next week and get it done in a Toys R Us parking lot.”

Georgia (my nine year old): “Mommy, Sarathena is acting very weird.  She keeps rolling around the yard mewing and whenever I pet her she puts her butt in my face.  It’s really gross”

Me:  “Really?  Well, that is strange.  Maybe she is………………oh holy hormones.  Neaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal, I think Sarathena is in heat!!”

Neal (staring out the window, shaking his head):  “Boy, watch her.  She looks desperate.  You think she will be able to find a Tom to take care of her needs?”

Me:  “Uh, no.  We live in Buckhead, where everyone is a responsible pet owner.  No one within 25 miles of us is as irresponsible or broke.  My god, we are truly rednecks.  Are you happy?  You have always wanted to be one.  Now, instead of that 2009 Camaro SS you keep drooling over in Car and Driver you can just stare at the cat.  Same damn difference.  We are as red as Georgia clay. As red as David Allan Coe.  As red as that hickey you…….…..nevermind.”

This went on for almost two weeks.  Sarathena would howl day and night, roll around the yard, driveway, hood of our cars.  You could hear her purr from a block away but yet she was miserable and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.  Damn I hate being broke.  See, the catch is that you cannot spay a cat in heat.  Once they hit that “come hither” stage, all bets are off.  Actually, you can spay a cat in heat but it is deemed irresponsible and risky.  Sure.  Never heard that one before.  I was now playing Russian roulette and my only hope was that everyone else was more…..responsible…..than…..me. 

No

Such

Luck

We are now the proud grandparents of four precious kittens.  They need a good home and will be available for adoption towards the end of June.  Spay and neuter certificates not included.  I might advertise them on Craig’s List too.