Once upon a time I bought a car. It was a magnificent and decrepit hunk of metal on it's way to car heaven with a brief stop with us, like many of our vehicles, but it was a steal of a deal and Sam can fix anything pre-2000, and he has a soft spot for Volvos. So I found this particular model in Vernon, a grey hatchback with burgundy interior. Apparently the previous owner was a metalsmith and used the car to transport metal. The end result being that the inside of my new car looked like it had been used to host a very long and painful badger fight. Maybe it had been a portable badger fighting arena.
So I picked some wicked zebra print fabric and we went to town on this car, transforming it instantly from a piece of shit with torn fabric everywhere, to a piece of shit that looked like a pimp owned it in any eighties movie. From then on it was called Ron Burgundy.
Our family is one of those stupid ones that owns not one or two but three dogs. They range from small to medium to large, and they wreak havoc on any furniture we own. Not this time I swore! This time I was going to keep the dogs in the hatchback. So I got one of those dog-jail devices and it worked for all of 12 minutes before our Jack Russell figured out he could dislocate all his bones and Houdini his ass out of there every time I went into a store. This would inspire the Swissy to use his massive girth to collapse the dog jail, leaving only one very pathetic Pitbull crying alone in the back of a hatchback with disabled dog jail parts at his feet.
I gave this a real go for about 3 weeks before just giving up. Molly was clearly unaware of my decision to allow the dogs to begin re-wrecking my newly zebrafied car because as we were driving around one day I heard in a very loud and clear voice "Oliver! Mom says you are not allowed to sit here! Get back in the trunk!!" followed by, in a voice clearly only intended for her four legged audience; "And besides, you are a stinky bastard..."
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