Well-behaved doggos rarely make history.

This was Slinky, 1995-2010. She was the worst-behaved dog I ever had the pleasure to know.

In this photo, she’d been outside and had gotten her dog bed all wet from the rain. So, ever the problem solver, she stuffed herself into the cat bed to get that one soggy instead. She was sneaky, but not especially clever. One time somebody put a Milk Bone on her head. She just sat there, looking increasingly confused, until it fell off.

Slinky’s eyes looked like she was wearing smeared makeup reminiscent of Alice Cooper. Her ears were so long she used to trip over them as a puppy. Her first owner used to put them up on her head in a scrunchie.

My dad had explained our pets by saying, “Freckles is a good dog, but Slinky is a funny dog.” This was accurate. She must have been the inspiration behind the phrase, “And on that day, not a solitary fuck was given.”

This dog wouldn’t beg for treats or attention. She would demand it. Whenever somebody new came to visit, she’d “bork” at them incessantly, roll over, and frantically move her tiny legs in a “pet me” motion. Her immediate assumption was, “Well, you’re here for ME.”

Slinky didn't fear other animals, but was afraid of balloons because of the popping sound. She was even wary of bubblegum because of the balloon resemblance. She used to knock over the trash can and spread it all over the floor in a greasy, reeking treasure trail that looked like her art project. My brother once filled the garbage can with balloons to discourage this (and it worked).

Slinky was never picky about food. If somebody made chicken and then dumped the grease outside, she’d run out and start licking the grease off the leaves.

She devoured bags of chocolate and candy, but somehow never got sick. Our other dog, Freckles, was the tattletale. Freckles woke me up one morning because she urgently wanted to show me something. She led me up the stairs, stopping to check if I was following. She brought me to an ajar door and started scratching. Inside, Slinky was consuming Halloween candy with the fervor of someone binge-watching a Netflix show.

There are plenty of other “bad Slinky” stories, but these are the ones that immediately come to mind. Slinky, you were completely comfortable in the wrinkly Basset Hound skin that made you look like a melted candle. And whenever I hear PTAF’s song “Boss Ass Bitch,” I think of you.

Reaching new Hawthorne Heights

I went to Emo Night at Orange Ale House yesterday and fucking loved it.

I didn't consider myself an "emo kid" in the genre's heyday. I used to make fun of it, and pop punk, while rationalizing that the music I liked wasn't actually in that category. It was part of the whole "I'm into metal and emo is just flimsy tin foil" mentality. In hindsight, it was so silly to be elitist about. I love a variety of music, but there are three appeals of emo and pop punk (for me): the nostalgia, the surrounding community that bonds over it, and the fact that the lyrics are melodramatically angsty but the songs are upbeat and energetic.

I was happy to see the variety of ages. There were people in their thirties who remembered Good Charlotte and Death Cab for Cutie. There were the 22-year-olds screaming along to Paramore. There was music I remember from eighth grade. It spanned from the early to late 2000s. Some people dressed up. Others were people who used to wear fishnet shirts and Chuck Taylors, but still love the scene even if they don't sport the style anymore. It's more about the music and social bonds than the clothes. We came of age in the time when scene first reared its shaggy bleached head, and you had to drape your hair over one eye because the world was too sad to look at with both.

I saw so many people I knew. We were all bouncing in a continuous wave while skeletons and mummies danced over the projection screen. People wore glow necklaces as halos. We passed around a microphone and yelled into it together. Those unfamiliar with this subculture might think it's confusing how the lyrics "I can fall asleep tonight or die, because you kill me" could be sung with such joy.

Experiences like that are unique because you're in a crowded space with everyone talking, but you know what they're all saying. You're speaking the same words, but the lyrics mean something different to everyone. "There's a story at the bottom of this bottle" could remind someone of booze-fueled open mic nights, while reminding somebody else of soda bottles they stored money in as a child. Everyone has their own story at the bottom of a different bottle, and all of these bottles are floating in one wave, mixing their contents.

At some point during the night, a guy tried to pick me up by saying, "You look sad. What's the matter?" I bet that's his designated line to use at emo night. My sister told me, "That's not negging; it's therapisting."

One time the music stopped and a host yelled, "Here's something to dry these emo tears!" and then showered us with streamers and Silly String.

When I went into the room with all the music, Mike worried I'd been swallowed by the crowd. Then he saw that I loved it. Any night that ends with me jumping up and down and covered in Silly String is a good one.