I'M GOING TO 328 MICKLE STREET, CAMDEN, NJ...

...who's with me?

FLIRTOLOGY

So, the other day, I'm on the phone with an audio publisher and somehow we start talking about alcohol and I mention that I'm a teetotaler. He says, "You don't need alcohol, Sabila; you're flirtatious enough without it."

My response: "Oh."

Well. I guess I'm a bit of a flirt then. Ahem.

UNLESS WE TAKE A CHANCE, WE DIE IN ART

I took an elective music class in college, which intorduced me to John Cage, the avant-garde composer of the last era. I’m sure many people have been as blown away as I was by, among his many strange works, the provocative and legendary silent piece, 4’33”, which pushes the envelope, forcing the audience to reexamine the very definition of music. Check it out here: http://interglacial.com/~sburke/stuff/cage_433.

In this week’s issue of The New Yorker, Alex Ross writes brilliantly about Morton Feldman, who was, not only a fast friend of John Cage but, was also one of the major 20th century composers (Ross describes him as“…a hard-core avant-gardist to the end”).You can read the article here: http://www.newyorker.com/critics/atlarge/?060619crat_atlarge.

Ross writes of Feldman:

The often noted paradox is that this immense, verbose man wrote music that seldom rose above a whisper. In the noisiest century in history, Feldman chose to be glacially slow and snowily soft. Chords arrive one after another, in seemingly haphazard sequence, interspersed with silences. Harmonies hover in a no man’s land between consonance and dissonance, paradise and oblivion. Rhythms are irregular and overlapping, so that the music floats above the beat. Simple figures repeat for a long time, then disappear…Certain later works unfold over extraordinarily lengthy spans of time, straining the capabilities of performers to play them and the audiences to hear them…

Naturally, I downloaded some of Feldman’s compositions—“Three Clarinets, Cello, and Piano,” “Madame Press Died Last Week at Ninety,” and “The King of Denmark”—and they are uncanny and bizarre, vast yet spare and hauntingly beautiful. Like Ross says, for Feldman “The sounds animate the surrounding silence” and that with the composer’s works “we are in the region of Wallace Stevens’s ‘American Sublime,’ of the ‘empty spirit/In vacant space.'

If you are at all interested, click here for a few samplings of Feldman’s works: http://www.ubu.com/sound/feldman.html

I’VE BEEN ARCTIC-MONKEY’D…AND THINGS WILL NEVER BE THE SAME

My friend surprised me with tickets to an Arctic Monkeys show at Roseland Ballroom last night and it was spectacular. And I’m not saying that just because it was my first time.

Shock! Gasp! Horror!

Yes, dear reader, I speak the truth. It’s a lame truth, but I speak it anyway and fully expect you to do one of two things once you’ve fully comprehended this truth: laugh or shake your head in disappointment. What can I say? I was sheltered in my youth and didn’t necessarily dabble in all of the “football-and-apple-pie”-ness of Americana.

So, last night, standing amidst a sea of teenagers—preppy, punk, geeky, they were all represented—a few soccer moms and small clusters of grups, I took in the thick smell of sweat commingled with smoke and smiled as I was pleasantly jostled. A band called We Are Scientists opened for the Monkeys and while I had no idea who they were before last night, they were a fun band.

As for the Monkeys, I was quickly able to get over the fact that they look like fourteen-year-olds because they put on a most excellent show, starting off with “Riot Van” and finishing with “A Certain Romance.” They were up there for about an hour and had the swagger of seasoned professionals. I had such a good time that, in spite of the fact that, by the end of the night, I’d been on my not-the-most-comfortable-shoed feet for over two hours, dancing to the music, I felt amazing. I was positively bouncing on my way home.

Special shout out to my friend M for the show! You rock! I can only hope that some of your coolness will eventually rub off on me.

AN OBSERVATION

Clearly, you guys aren't so into Sophie/Sebastian.

SOPHIE/SEBASTIAN

So, I was summoned to my brother's place at 5:30 this morning (yes, you read that correctly...5:30AM) because Sophie/Sebastian had cried all night, keeping S, my brother, up. S tried to calm the kitten down for hours and hours: he fed it more food, reasoned with it, even turned on the radio for it, but nothing worked. S finally decided to let the kitten loose in the bathroom, but it just ran around, crying and distressed. When I got to his place, Sophie/Sebastian was still meowing heartbreakingly. Sitting down on the bathroom floor, I picked up the kitten, wrapped it up in my sweater and held it in my arms. Sure enough, it stopped crying and started kneading my sweater. Kittens knead upon receiving a signal from their mother that she is ready to suckle. When kneading, a kitten is using its paws to draw out milk.

Clearly, Sophie/Sebastian had been crying for its mother the entire time.

Anyway, we let the kitten run around my brother's bedroom and, eventually, relinquished it to Dorothy, the cat rescuer who lives in the building next door to us. According to S, Dorothy runs a no-kill cat shelter by the Liberty Science Center and was thrilled to have this new kitten to foster. Plus, she's agreed to call it Sophie/Sebastian (depending on the gender, of course).

I'm still awaiting pics of the kitten from S and will post them up as soon as I have them. Anyone interested in adopting the little girl/guy?

BREAKING NEWS, BREAKING NEWS! SUCCESS!

I received a frantic phone call from my brother at circa 8:30, telling me to come downstairs to the parking lot asap, that the kitten had returned. I ran downstairs. The kitten (photo TK) was adorable, approximately 4-5 weeks old and meowing to the high heavens, demanding food. We tiptoed and whispered around it in the darkness. I placed a canful of catfood in the kitty carrier that K had left with us and placed the carrier by the blue Toyota of which the kitten seemed so fond.

Drawn to the oceanfish variety of canned cat food, the kitten approached the carrier slowly, crouched low to the ground. It eyed us for a moment before proceeding to examine the carrier, trying to figure out how to get inside. Then it gingerly stepped inside the carrier. Holding my breath, I waited until I saw the last bit of its tail float into the carrier and, slowly, I approached it. Swooping down, I threw the door closed and almost had it but the kitten managed to push past the door and, before I knew it, it was on the other side of the fence, meowing vexedly.

My heart was ready to explode and, honestly, I was on the verge of an anxiety attack at this point. I hadn't realized just how young this kitten was and now that it was outside the lot, I felt afraid for its safety. My brother asked me to pull myself back from the anxiety attack that I was on the verge of and I had to double over for a little while and take in some deep breaths.

"Okay, now, when the kitten goes inside the cage, throw the blanket in"--the carrier came with a little blue blanket--"pick up the cage at an angle and shut the door," my brother instructed.

I nodded and, after repositioning the carrier and waiting for several anxious minutes, we heard the kitten's meows again and, soon, it was peeking out from behind the blue Toyota's tire. This time, it made its way swiftly to the carrier and I tiptoed over even though her tail was still poking out of the door. Following my brother's instructions, I managed to trap the kitten! Success!

So, now the kitten, whom I will recommend be called Sophie if it's a girl and Sebastian if it's a boy is in the kitty carrier at my brother's place. At first the poor thing was shaking in its boots, it was so scared but pretty soon, I was feeding it cat food with a plastic fork through the carrier door and it ate enthusiastically. If either my brother or I stepped out of the living room, Sophie/Sebastian would cry out for us!

Anyway, as much as I'd love to keep the little gal/guy, my Zanadune would not be happy at the arrangement and will surely eat her new friend. Plus, throwing a new cat into my household would probably kill me (remember, I'm allergic). My oldest brother can't keep the kitty because he, too, is allergic and my other brother (the one who helped me rescue the cat) might also be allergic and doesn't think he can take on the responsibility of adopting a cat.

Sophie/Sebastian is spending the night at my brother's place and tomorrow will be delivered to Dorothy, a cat rescuer who lives in the building next door to ours. I will help Dorothy find a home for the kitten, so if anyone's interested, contact me. I'll post up pics I've taken of the kitty soon. The kitten's precious.

BREAKING NEWS, BREAKING NEWS! THE NERD FINALLY RESCUES AN ANIMAL...er, I mean an insect.....

So, I had no luck finding the (phantom) kitten on my third trip to the parking lot. I hope it's all right, wherever it is. I often wish I had the ability to communicate with animals like St. Francis of Assisi or Dr. Doolittle so that I could reassure them that I always come in peace. Wasn't there a superhero that could communicate with animals, as well, or am I making that up??? Anyone? Anyone?

Naturally, I was feeling very sad and dejected as I stepped into the elevator to return home. I went to hit my floor, when lo and behold, what do I see next to the button for floor 19 but a tiny black ladybug, looking grossly out of place. The ladybug was lovely with one red dot on either side of it but it looked distressed as it attempted to navigate the rough terrain of floor buttons 1-22. Being empty handed, I had nothing to pick the ladybug up with until, scanning the floor, my eyes fell on the corner of a candybar wrapper that some inconsiderate litterbug had dropped carelessly. I'd never been happier to find litter in my life. Picking up the little piece of wrapper (it was no more than a couple of inches), I put it in the ladybug's path and she stepped onto it without a hitch. Holding the wrapper in my right hand, I cupped my left hand under it and watched as the bug sped back and forth, from edge to edge, wondering what it'd gotten itself into.

I rode the elevator back downstairs and released the ladybug onto the leaf of a tree in the parking lot.

Finally, sweet success!

BREAKING NEWS, BREAKING NEWS! THE NERD UNDERTAKES YET ANOTHER (POTENTIALLY FAILED?) ANIMAL RESCUE ATTEMPT! LIVE COVERAGE! Part II

Concluding that the kitten was likely napping somewhere, we decided to reconvene in an hour. I couldn't help but feel annoyed with my brother. Not only had he been willing to leave the kitten alone last night but his decision to feed it before K's arrival was a bad one as well; the kitten had no reason to show itself until it was hungry now. Of course, I should've been available for my expertise in the field last night, but I'm not available 24/7. What do they think I am? PETA?

My brother, K, her kids and I did, in fact, reconvene at 4:00. The security chief met me at the entrance as I was heading out, shaking his head and appearing downhearted. "I checked for the kitten three times. No sign of him, sweetheart." The five of us walked around the perimeter of the lot for another 45 minutes, following sounds that we swore were the cries of a kitten. The little guy, however, didn't materialize.

"You should've tried grabbing it while it was eating earlier," I told my brother, sighing as we, once again, sat on the curb, our eyes peeled for the furball.

"Sabila, you're the cat lady of the family. You know I'm not so skilled in this whole rescue thing," he said, sadly.

"I'm the animal lady, S," I told him. "I'm an equal opportunity rescuer...and, you know what, with the amount of animals in distress that cross our path, we should keep a giant net handy."

He thought about this for a while and then nodded. "Hmm. That would be a wise investment."

Getting up from the curb, I decided to crawl around the parking lot for a little while longer while my brother exited the lot and walked across the street to check for the kitten there. K and her kids continued calling out for it. But no luck. K had to eventually get back home but she left us with the kitty carrier, just in case the kitten returned later on during the day.

I'll keep you guys posted.

BREAKING NEWS, BREAKING NEWS! THE NERD UNDERTAKES YET ANOTHER (POTENTIALLY FAILED?) ANIMAL RESCUE ATTEMPT! LIVE COVERAGE!

Yes, readers, this animal rescue attempt is currently underway.
Allow me to give you the details.
Earlier this afternoon, circa 1:45, I was returning home from having spent the night in NYC. Walking towards the entrance of my apartment building, I noticed that my mother and brother were standing towards the back of the parking lot; they motioned for me to join them when they saw me.

"Hey guys, what's going on?" I asked, concerned.

My brother brought a finger to his lips, asking me to keep it down. "Look over my shoulder," he instructed.

A few yards away, sitting next to the tall fence by where the lot abutted the sidewalk, was the tiniest greaseball of a kitten. It was busily eating cat food that my mother had brought downstairs.

I barely had a chance to say "Ohhh," when both my mother and brother launched into the story. My brother was heading out to dinner the previous night with his friend K, when they heard the cries of the kitten. Upon further investigation, they located the kitten but, in spite of their best efforts, couldn't grab it. K wanted to take the kitten home. My brother was apparently trying to get in touch with me all the while but, alas, my phone had been switched to silent mode. Now, K wished to continue her pursuit of the kitten but my brother insisted that they go to the restaurant (I'm still upset about this). They did, however, leave food for the kitten before heading out.

Anyway, by the time I came upon the kitten, my brother had already called K who was heading over with her kids and a kitty carrier to sweep it away to a happier life with two feline siblings. The three of us watched as the kitten devoured the cat food and scurried under a blue Toyota.

"Wait, where's it going?" I asked, alarmed.

"Oh, don't worry, that car is the kitten's hiding place. It was running under it all night."

Not convinced, I handed my bag to my mother, dropped to the ground and peered under the car. The kitten wasn't there.

"It's not there," I called out.

"What do you mean it's not there? We just saw it go under!" my mom exclaimed.

"It's not under this car," I repeated.

"How about under the next car over?" my brother asked.

I spent a good five minutes flat on my belly, peering under the rows of cars on either side of the blue car. The kitten was nowhere to be found.

K drove in with kids in tow as soon as I got up off the ground. The three of them were crestfallen when we broke the news to them but recovered quickly, as they were determined to help us find the stray. The six of us swarmed the east side of the parking lot, the side that according to my brother and K, the kitten was partial to. The bright, beating sun and the whipping wind both alternated the roles of friend and foe as we walked stealthily, squatting down to look under cars. As street lights and flags on poles danced and squeaked in the wind, every sound we heard seemed to mimic a kitten's cry. We ran from one end of the lot to the other in pursuit of phantom cats. When K started to meow like a kitten, trying to draw our little stray from its hiding place, I pushed her aside, lay on the ground by the blue Toyota and started to meow like a mother cat. Wouldn't a kitten be more drawn to the cries of its mother? We called the head of security in our building so that he could locate the owners of the two cars we suspected the kitten could be hiding in--the blue Toyota and a brown van. The owner of the van was kind enough to come downstairs, pop the hood and honk the horn a couple of times. There didn't seem to be a kitten hiding in the car to scare out in the first place. Because the owner of the Toyota wasn't home, we decided to shake the car a little, causing the alarm to go off. Again, the kitten didn't seem to be in that car.

So, the seven of us (head of security included) sat on a curb, trying to come up with our next move. It was 3:00, well over an hour since I'd returned from the city and my stomach had long been protesting its emptiness (I, SabilaK, breakfast's #1 fan, hadn't eaten that most scrumptious first meal of the day). Keeping my eyes at ground level, I willed the cat to materialize so that I could finally go home and eat. But, still, it remained hidden.

To be continued...

AN OPEN LETTER TO PEOPLE AT THE SCENE OF AN ACCIDENT: GET IT TOGETHER

Dear People at the Scene of an Accident:

Get it together. You’re an embarrassment to humanity and you often make me sick to my stomach.

While no one particularly wants to see the crumpled body of an elderly woman who’s just been hit by a truck, you have two choices: either be hysterical at a good distance from the victim or take a deep breath, calm yourself down and then help us tend to the victim. Don’t cry out to no one in particular to call 9-1-1 while standing over the victim. You’ve joined us at the scene approximately 5 minutes after the accident. It’s safe to assume that a few of the dozens of people lingering on the sidelines have called for help. Also, try not to call out “She’s not dead! She’s breathing!” Chances are that the poor woman is already freaking out, seeing that she’s had a truck knock the teeth out of her mouth and leave her unconscious and all. I suspect that your utterance of the d-word as you hover over her is not appreciated.

Now, I’d like to talk to nannies at accident scenes: you are NOT getting paid to show your wards bloody people, so please move right along before I slap you. Such scenes are often too awful for an adult to stomach and yet you, in your infinite wisdom, are exposing a child to it? You better believe that ES and I blocked your view earlier today. You are an ignorant git and shouldn’t be allowed around children or accident scenes. It would probably be in the best interest of the greater population to lock you in a closet and throw away the key.

Finally, it’s just you and me, camera-phone-photographer-of-other-people’s-pain, otherwise known as you-no-good-bastard. How dare you pull out your cell phone and snap photos of a woman who has just been mowed down by a TRUCK and is lying motionless in her own blood? Have you no shame? The next time I see you pulling such a cold-hearted, insensitive and stupid act, I swear I will grab that phone from your hands, probably smack you upside the head with it before running to the west side and chucking it into the Hudson River. You make me sick. Really you do.

Get it together, you jerks.

Sincerely,

SabilaK
Revengeofthenerddd.blogspot.com

DEAR READERS: this isn't a haiku

Alternating between knitting five rows and reading ten pages is consuming my life.
Please note, neither the woman nor the child in the above photo is your nerd. Just FYI.

DEAR READERS: A (pretty lame) haiku

I've neglected you
by not posting yesterday.
My apologies.

THE EXCITING LIFE OF SabilaK

So, I was going to post up the following pic of my nose and write about the history of nose piercings in the Asian Subcontinent and how important my nose pin is to me (I was paying homage to all of my female ancestors and to the rich culture from which I come, on that warm winter day in Miami four years ago, as I sat before a skinny, thoroughly pierced and tattooed young man who held a very long and thin needle between his fingers at an establishment called The Moshpit).
But I'm not going to do it now because I'm already half asleep.
I'll save that for another time.

I spent most of the night sitting up in bed with Zanadune, alternating between knitting and reading George Orwell's "Why I Write" (5 rows of knitting followed by 10 pages of reading); at one point Aimee Mann's cover of "One" started playing on my Mac and it was just perfect. Because I was knitting and reading Orwell with my cat sleeping next to me and it wasn't lonely at all. It was quite wonderful.

Don't listen to the lies: one isn't the loneliest number that you'll ever do.

And now I sleep.
Adios.

EW

I'd like to chuck the following pick-up line right into the "things best expunged from memory" wastebasket:

"I can make you number 96, baby..."

Vomit.
Pardon me.
Your Nerd.

Clearly, more guys need to read the following book:

I HATE...

Just for the record, I HATE flossing.
I do it because it is, after all, the right thing to do.

PHEW

On my way to work last week, I found myself standing next to a former high school classmate on the train. I debated saying hello to her but decided against it because who really wants to be cornered into a conversation during her morning commute? I, personally, don't mind (just for the record) but I didn't want to bother her, so I went back to reading my New Yorker. A little while later, unable to restrain myself--and throwing all morning commuter etiquette to the tracks--I tapped her on the shoulder (you must understand, I hadn't seen this girl in nine years):

Me: Excuse me. Did you go to (insert high school name here)?
Former high school classmate: Yes.
Me: (insert girl's name here)!
Former high school classmate (nonplussed)
Me: It's me...Sabila.
Former high school classmate: Sabila! I didn't recognize you AT ALL!
Me (sighing with relief): Yah, I used to wear glasses...

Thank goodness for small miracles.

I HATE...

...(Yes, I HATE, because I don't like saying "I don't care for..." anymore; because the fact of the matter is that I either hate or I love...not too many things fall in the in between for me; because I don't want to mince my words) living with other people.
I'm a person who appreciates quiet time and I don't get enough of it.

I DON'T CARE FOR...

KNITTING.
It's taking years off of my life.
It bloody sucks.
It sucks ass.

RESCUE ME?: The True Story of Yet Another (Failed) Animal Rescue Attempt

Back in March, I posted a blog entry entitled “Rescue Me?” in which I described my exhaustive, day long efforts to rescue a duck that appeared to be injured as it sat, stone still, in my building’s parking lot. After having called my cat’s veterinarian, a couple of animal shelters, the Office of Fish & Wildlife, the police department and the fire department, I finally paged a PETA volunteer in DC, who encouraged me to trap the duck in a large box and transplant it to the nearest park. Emboldened, I emerged from my building with a giant, empty computer box in hand, determined to take care of the situation once and for all…only to find that the duck had flown away. At the same time, the PETA volunteer was calling a duck expert in South Jersey—who, unlike Fish & Wildlife, didn’t close shop for the weekend (I’m still bitter about that)—to figure out what was wrong with our duck…the short answer to the question: nothing, apparently. Ahem.

Well, dear reader, that wasn’t the only time I went to absurd measures to rescue an animal. I do it all the time. I find it impossible to walk away from an animal that I think is in trouble. What's more, my eyes are always on the ground, peeled for animals in distress. Seeing that these animals are rescued becomes something of an obsession. Whatever I happened to be doing is pushed aside and I, putting on my blinders to everything else, shift into rescue mode. This single-minded approach to animal rescue has been a source of great vexation for my family and friends. They often have to suffer through the hours of rescue with me and usually end up pretending they don't know me.

To illustrate what I mean, I want to share with you the story of the night I spotted a dog that was lost and/or abandoned and distressed, sitting outside the Newport Mall Path Station. My friends—who aren’t very fond of animals—and I had just finished eating dinner and together, we were walking to Starbucks.

Me (squinting): Is that a dog?
Friend #1: Yep, that's a dog.
Me (still squinting): What's it doing out here alone? It doesn't look like a stray.
Friend #2: Looks like it's waiting for someone
Me: I think it's lost. Oh no!
#1: I'm thirsty. I want coffee.
Me: I can't just leave the poor dog here. Gosh, look at its doggy-brows. They're knitted together with concern. And those eyes are so heavy with sadness.
#1: ...here we go again...
Me: You guys want to go to Starbucks now? Seriously?
#2: Yah (walking away).
Me (still looking at the dog): Hey doggie, doggie, doggie. Come here boy, come here, come to SabilaK (yes, at this point, I'm naive enough to think that the dog, sensing that I'm a vegetarian animal activist looking out for its best interest, will trot right over to me. This, I quickly learn, is a pipe dream. The dog ends up looking at me suspiciously out of the corner of its eye. I've, very quickly, become the enemy. Crap.)!

I talk to the vendors who've been in the area all day; I ask them questions to help me determine from where the dog came. They can't tell me much beyond the fact that the dog has been in the same spot, its sight frozen in the direction of the PATH station as long as they've been there. Figuring that this is all I'm going to get from these vendors who don't seem to give a rat's ass about the dog, I try approaching the animal slowly and manage to go in close enough to see that its wearing a collar with a tag. However, I'm forced to retreat when it starts to growl at me.

Next, I decide to call my friend, colleague, fellow vegetarian and dog lover, ES. I'm happy to hear someone just as concerned as I am. She suggests that I try to lure the dog with dog food, whild she Googles the numbers of local animal shelters that might be able to assist me. I run to a nearby deli--after first asking the few remaining vendors to keep an eye on the sweet dog--and buy a small bag of Purina Dog Chow as well as a package of styrofoam bowls. Back by the station, pedestrian traffic is heavy on this lovely evening and I wonder about the peculiar picture I must paint for them: all done up in a Friday night getup, I kneel on the sidewalk, filling a bowl with dog food, all the while cooing to a dog that is very clearly frightened of me. Thankfully, ES calls me back right then and I'm relieved to talk on the phone and appear preoccupied, even normal. As we've suspected, all of the animal shelters are closed for the evening so, once again, I am on my own. I make a few desperate phone calls to my family, begging them for advice. Each person I speak to wonders out loud how it is that I ALWAYS find myself in these situations. Each person I speak to recommends that I give up, bloody leave the poor dog alone and join my friends at Starbucks. I hang up on each person.

The stupid dog still isnt' coming anywhere near me. The vendors are laughing at me. The pedestrians are giving me funny looks. Frustrated and near tears, I ask for divine inspiriation. I even channel St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals, for guidance, dog treats, the ability to talk to the dog, ANYTHING!

What do I get? Friends #1 and #2 step out from Starbucks, wearing matching sheepish grins and swearing that they are ready to help me in anyway possible. I'm still a bit pissed at them for abandoning me but I take their help, which doesn't involve much more than #1 shaking the bowl of Dog Chow a bit and #2 stading next to me with her arms crossed and nodding as I tell her what they've missed so far. For what it's worth, I appreciate their show of support. They also genuinely awww over the poor dog, who's still the image of sadness and anxiety. It's also still growling at me as I approach him.

Friend #2: Is it growling at you? Doesn't it know that you want to help it?
Me: No, I'm the enemy apparently.
Friend #1 (as I get closer to the dog, dog food in hand): Be careful. It might be rabid.
Me (pausing): Great, thanks. The thought of this dog going all Cujo on me is...inspiring.

Suddenly, the dog leaps up as if it's decided that it does want to go all Cujo on me. I shriek. However, instead of taking a bite out of my neck, the dog runs past me and down the long stretches of sidewalk in the Newport area of the city.

Friends #1 and #2 (in unison): Oh no! It's getting away!

I don't have time to comment. I've already started running down the sidewalk and into the darkness after the dog. Yes, I'm trying to run in my heels. Yes, my hair at this point is a frizzy mess. Yes, my makeup is melting and streaked. And, yes, the dog is running as if its life depends on it.

I can't catch the dog, especially not in my heels. I walk back to Friends #1 and #2, a little out of breath but not entirely dejected. We run to Friend #2's car in the lot and proceed to crawl through the streets, looking for the sweet dog.

But it's too late. The dog has run off into the darkness and I've failed, yet again, to rescue an animal.

Sigh.