A Rescue Dog Rant

I always get rescue dogs. I've had a Toy Fox / Rat Terrier mix (who was a puppy mill breeder dog), a black tri Aussie (the owner found out he was sick and didn't give him any treatment, and decided to give him away on Craigslist to dump the problem), and I currently have two Aussies, one who is deaf due to irresponsible breeding. I've been considering getting another small dog - either another Terrier or an Italian Greyhound - so I've been cruising the rescue groups' sites. What I see is a ridiculous amount of Chihuahuas or variation thereof.

This always happens when the media uses a dog to either promote something or star in a TV show.

Responsible Collie breeders have been fighting for years to reclaim the health and stability of the breed following "Lassie." The same can be said of German Shepherd breeders following "Rin Tin Tin." Jack Russell Terrier breeders and Chihuahua breeders are battling the same thing now, due to "Frazier" and the Taco Bell dog (which wasn't a standard Chihuahua, anyway!)

I get so annoyed with two different types of people: a) people who decide they have to have a particular breed because they see it on TV and, b) idiots who decide to breed those dogs because they've suddenly become popular and see dollar signs.

Here's what I see happen, and I'd like you to stop and think about whether or not you agree. I'm just voicing my observations in my area.

When "Frazier" was a popular show, there was a cute Jack Russell on the show. People watched the show and decided they wanted that type of dog. I'm guessing they didn't do much research on the breed because, within a couple of years, there was a huge influx of Jack Russells into rescue. I'm assuming people bought these dogs through backyard breeders or a pet store, because a responsible breeder would have made sure the buyer knew what they were in for. After living with the highly-energetic handful of a dog, the less-than-educated owners decided they couldn't handle the dog anymore. The dog went into rescue or shelters because they didn't know what else to do. Some of those people bought JRs and bred them themselves, deciding to make money the same way the others were.

A few years after that, the dogs used for irresponsible breeding began showing up in rescue. When the litter-producers could no longer turn a crazy profit, they dumped their dogs as well. That ended up being the second wave of rescue JRs.

Very few of these rescue dogs were healthy, met the breed standard, were eligible to be registered with the AKC, or maintained the integrity of the breed. That's what happens when people breed dogs for profit, as opposed to breeding for the love of the dog and to preserve the breed's initial purpose.

The exact same thing happened with Chihuahuas. The "Taco Bell Dog" wasn't even a true Chihuahua; it was a mix. But the Chihuahua Craze had already started, and even now, several years after that advertising campaign ended, rescues and shelters are being inundated with these dogs. Most are mixes, and my theory on that is that people bought the dog on a whim, never altered the pet because they were either too ignorant to realize that, unless you're a breeder, you probably shouldn't keep an intact dog as a pet, or they just didn't give a shit about it at all.

The problem with the Chihuahua thing is that there are congenital defects and problems these dogs have that responsible breeders try to eliminate from their litters. They have a tendency to have knee problems (luxating patellas), seizures, heart problems, eye problems, dental issues, and fontanelles that never harden. Poor commitment to responsible breeding most often results in temperament issues, regardless of breed. Backyard breeders aren't concerned with that; they just want the money, and there have been plenty of customers. As a result, all of the rescues and shelters are trying to adopt out or eternally-foster special-needs dogs which, I'm sure you can imagine, is next to impossible.

Don't even get me started on the "pocket dogs" and Peek-a-Poos and Cock-a-Poos netting stupidly high prices, or any ridiculous version of a "designer pet" that us old-schoolers call mutts. Or the fighting dog thing. PLEASE don't get me started on the ghetto trash that want fighting dogs...

Understand my view on this, though: Mutts are perfectly wonderful pets. And many special-needs dogs are very easily manageable, although some require lifetime medication or other financially-draining treatment, although that doesn't keep them from being great pets. And my issue here isn't with the dogs themselves, and I'm not trying to come across as purely pro-breeder, either. Shit happens. People die, people become too old to care for a dog, people get divorced or have to move and can't give the dog appropriate accommodations, dogs get loose and are never reclaimed, or whatever. I get that.

I guess what I'm really mad about are people who see animals as a cash cow when the opportunity comes up. Irresponsible breeders don't worry about spay/neuter contracts, genetics testing, education, consulting with families to ensure proper placement, or anything else. They're in it for the money. As a result, hundreds of thousands of dogs are euthanized in my area every year because, while they may BE adoptable, there are simply too many dogs to place. It breaks my heart.

I think about my girl, Holly. She's a 14-year old rescue Australian Shepherd who I adopted at a year and a half of age. She was put into a shelter in Louisiana because she killed another dog on the dairy farm where she lived. The owner never fed her dog food; she had nothing to eat but milk from the cows. She was abused by use of a cattle prod. When she got pregnant from the "family dog," a black lab, she was given no shelter or whelping box in which to have her puppies. She had to defend her puppies from predators and the other dogs through aggression. She went into rescue because she's a highly sought-after blue merle female with blue eyes. Three of her puppies were euthanized because they "didn't look right." Even the rescue had a date for euthanasia because she was so dog-aggressive.

Then I came along; a single, dogless woman who wanted a pet who would just jump up into the cab of mytruck and go...anywhere and everywhere. And Holly's nature fit that bill perfectly.

It took me 8 years to get her accustomed to other dogs. On a leash, she was fine. She graduated at the top of her obedience class at the age of two, beating out a Golden Retriever from a reputable breeder. Let her loose around other dogs, though, and it was full-on war. Like I said, it took me 8 years of working with her before I could take her to the dog park and get another dog as a pet. Even before that breakthrough, she was the best dog ever.

When I got her, she was damaged. Almost unadoptable to anyone except someone like me. Lots of people wanted her because they liked the way she looked, but her situation was not optimal for anyone. Not to mention that there were so many other dogs in rescue that were "more adoptable" than she was.

Holly has slowed down quite a bit, being almost 14 and suffering from laryngeal paralysis - most likely due to the abuse she suffered as a young dog - but she's perfect for me. That's the catalyst for my rant.

Holly's the best thing that's ever happened to me. When I felt I had no reason to live, I realized that Holly would, most likely, be euthanized because nobody else could handle her. I could never let that happen, because she had so much love to give, is so willing to please, and has been so easy to train. But she suffered for far too long and we went through so many hard years - even with me - as I tried to undo all the damage she'd incurred before I came along. It was difficult. I refused to give up, because I saw her love and intellect and, without meaning to be too cheesy, we are like soulmates.

My deaf boy came to me in a different way, and he is a HUGE responsibility in a few ways, but what I get out of our relationship outweighs the complications. It could also be argued that some of the undesirable issues could easily be solved if I put some work into it. Just to give you an idea about that special-needs stuff...he was in rescue for two years before I adopted him. The others at the rescue - the deaf ones with eye problems as well - had been there for as long as six years.

It's a tragedy that so many people view animals as a way to make money, rather than recognize their true purposes: either to do what their breed was meant to do, or to be fantastic companions. I'm tired of seeing pit bull, terrier, and chihuahua mixes stuck in shelters where they're living on borrowed time.

I feel as if I lost my focus. I'm sorry for that. There are just so many points I wanted to make and so many facets to the problem...Maybe I should have done some pre-writing! LOL.

Please...leave a comment and let me know what YOU think about anything I touched on here. Am I off-base? Too critical? Do you agree? Have any information or thoughts you'd like to add?

 

Chapter Five - Paul B.

I met Paul through some friends. He was a computer genius that was into all the same local music all of us were. He was quite a bit older and I don't really recall ever showing any interest in the guy. But, he was the guy with the biggest car - a 1960-something sedan that would hold, like, 12 people - so he was always willing to drive, so we saw each other a lot.

Paul wasn't a love interest; he was a "date" rapist, although there was never any date involved. So, does that just make him a straight-up rapist? I suppose.

On his 21st birthday, he asked if he could stop by and bring me a piece of cake and some champagne. We were both night people; he worked graveyard at some oil company in their IT department, and I just had my days backwards. He showed up at about 11pm and came in with cake and a bottle of champagne. I had no intention of drinking any of it, either. I've always gotten terrible headaches from just one glass. At that time, I wasn't a big drinker anyway and, when I did, it was usually just beer or wine coolers.

However, I brought in one glass and two plates. We ate cake and he poured some champagne. He was drinking out of the bottle and told me that glass was for me. Only it was really more like a tumbler, not really a glass. I figured, "What the hell...it's Moet, not Korbel!" We talked about just random stuff, some bands coming up that we wanted to see, gossiped about friends...you know...nothing of substance.

As it turned out, I got pretty drunk and told him it was time for him to go. He said it was fine, and he picked his stuff up and started to leave. I told him to let himself out and, very quickly after that, I passed out.

I don't know if he ever even really left, or if he left and came back, but I woke up with him on top of me, damned near beating the hell out of me. I weighed all of 90 pounds. Paul was skinny, but over 6 feet tall. I tried pushing him, I tried fighting, but he got what he wanted before I was able to do too much about it.

I could have screamed, I could have yelled until my father came running, gun in hand. In my shock, I actually thought *I* would be the one to get in trouble because I was drunk. I wasn't thinking straight at all.

As soon as he was done, he got up, zipped up his jeans, said, "Thanks. See ya around," and walked out of my house, leaving me in a limp huddle, crying uncontrollably but silently. The very next thing I did was vomit a few times - more from disgust, not drunkenness - take a shower, and pass out in the bathtub.
Like most young women, it went unreported. I felt ashamed that I could have let it happen. I felt guilty because I let him into my home. It was my fault, right? Having a 21-year old guy come over at that hour of the night, even if I thought he was a good friend, was a foolish mistake, and it was my bad judgment that caused that situation, right?

Apparently, like most guys who do that type of thing, he didn't think he'd done anything wrong. Any time I saw him out somewhere, he acted all friendly with me, as if nothing had happened. My friends had no clue why I refused to go anywhere with him, although they suspected something pretty bad had happened between us because I refused to discuss it.

You would think that I'd learned a lesson from that. I didn't. As you already know if you've been a longtime reader, I continue to put myself in risky situations.

He took something from me. When he left my house that night, he took my Give-A-Shit. In the 4 people I'd slept with, the 'relationships' ran the gamut of circumstances. I guess I felt like, at that point, sex really meant nothing at all. If it was so easy for someone to get that from me, regardless of the method, then it must not be that special after all, right? That was a turning point for me. I realized that the giving and withholding of sex gave me a sick amount of power. He'd stripped me of my dignity so there was no point in trying to recover it. Or so I thought.

That previous paragraph was sort of a revelation. I hadn't really analyzed what had happened; I'd pretty much just skipped over it and never dealt with it. Never talked to my shrinks about it, never really talked about it with anyone. I guess I just figured some stuff out, huh?

Where is he now? Beats me. After I told my friends I never wanted anything to do with him ever again, I didn't see him again. Somebody gave me an update on him awhile back, I think, but it might have been about someone else. Really, any time someone would speak his name, I'd tune out.

So, I'm not sure if he should be listed here, but he is. Because it happened, and it still counts. Just not in the good way. For the record, I was raped again several years later. Someone followed me up to my apartment when I left the pool. He came in the door and attacked me. My roommate came in - just a few seconds too late to prevent the actual rape part - but she scared him off and he ran away. Again, I never reported it again. I didn't get a very good look at his face and neither did she. I had no idea who he was, so what was the point? That event, however, is probably what gave me a huge aversion to very dark-haired men. It makes my skin crawl. No matter who it is, how nice they are, that's all I can think about.

And that's the end of that. Time to move on.

Next up: Mike S

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Chapter Four - Chris D #1

I met Chris D #1 (yeah, there's been more than one of those) at some concert of a local band. I don't remember who it was, how we met, or much else about it. Either way, I thought he was cute and we had the music thing in common.

There are really only five memories I have of the guy. I don't remember anything spectacular or freaky about the sex. Sorry to disappoint. It was just kind of a normal relationship. Well, normal for ME, anyway.

The first: He was poor - I mean, DIRT poor - and lived in a dilapidated shotgun shack in the gang-filled west end of downtown. He lived with his grandmother and his mother, sister, and nephew lived in an equally-dilapidated shack next door. The houses were so old they were falling apart and it was almost impossible for them to keep them clean. I figured the reason he always took me through the back door into the house was because his room was next that door. I went over one day and he didn't answer the back door, so I went to the front. His grandmother let me in. It looked like a scene from a horror film. It was decorated in typical "old lady" decor, but everything was coated with a thick layer of dust. Roses that were years old, turned gray from the filth. I had to walk through the kitchen to get to his room and the water heater was in the corner. There was what can only be described as a mob colony of German cockroaches huddled in the corner; thousands of them. I guess that was why Chris's room was always spotless. I thought he had OCD because he vacuumed when he got up and before bed and sprayed around his door and windows all the time.

The second: He was the first person I met that snorted flake heroin. I didn't even know there was such a thing until I met him. And I did it a few times, but decided I didn't like it. This was before Nirvana became mainstream and the Seattle thing was just beginning to get some recognition with us weird undergrounders. He claimed to have stopped doing it when I expressed my displeasure, but I'm pretty sure he kept doing it, just not when I was around.

The third: All was one of our favorite bands. We listened to the Descendants and All constantly. He sort of considered "Net" to be our song. It's still one of my favorites! Anyway, I remember so clearly when we traveled to watch All play at the Axiom in Houston and it was a magical event for us. It was just a really great show. It meant a lot to us and it meant a lot to me personally because I'd been a fan for so long.

The fourth: Every time we had sex, he would jump up right before he came and would run to the bathroom. He said it was disrespectful to ejaculate in or on a woman, and he wouldn't do it. He always just ran to the toilet and dumped it there. Interesting, huh?

The fifth: Emmitt came over one night and I was trying to get rid of him. He wouldn't go away and, at that moment, Chris called. I told Emmitt to shut the hell up before I even answered but, sure enough, as soon as I got in the middle of the "good night" conversation, Emmitt piped up, "Who is THAT?" as loud as he could. Chris freaked out, with good reason. I tried to explain what was going on but, well...it didn't work. That was the last time I spoke to him. All over a misunderstanding. And I guess he quit going to shows because I didn't see him anywhere again. Either that or he was really good at avoiding me.

Where is he now? I wanted to catch up with him several years ago, but his number was disconnected. I figured I'd go by his house. Both his house and his mother's house had been razed and replaced with $300K townhomes (isn't neighborhood revitalization awesome?). Either way, I found out that he died in 2001. I have no idea how or where. I was hoping to just catch up with him and see how he was, but that's what I found when I started digging: his death record. Died young. What do you think? Heroin? That's what I was guessing.

Next up: Chapter 5 - Paul B.
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Chapter Three - Rene

Rene was Emmitt's best friend. It was Rene's house where I first met Emmitt in the first place. I don't remember how we ended up getting together, but we did. I guess that's when they quit being friends, I suppose. We really had very little in common. I was pretty heavy into the local music scene, but he was into the club scene.

There was nothing about Rene, looking back, that was good for me. Oh, who am I kidding...I knew that then. He was a drug dealer and owned his own house at only 18. He had two GT Mustangs. He wasn't very careful about keeping his profile low-key. Maybe that was part of the attraction.

I had just started attending a private school that was extremely lenient on rules. It was a work-at-your-own-pace kind of structure (if you could call it structure), and we were required to attend classes for a certain number of hours a week, taken as we saw fit. It allowed for two hour lunches if that's what we wanted. I did that a bit too often with Rene.

What I remember most were the days he'd pick me up from school and we'd spend that time in his car, 98% of the time in the backseat. I usually had to stay at school almost all of Monday just so I could make sure I had enough spare hours to waste having tawdry sex with a loser for a couple of hours each day for the rest of the week.

The bulk of everything I remember about Rene revolves around the different parking locations over that period of time. Sometimes we'd just pull around behind the school (which was actually housed in a church), sometimes we'd go to the city park by the creek (which was across the street from an elementary school), or do other crazy things like go park in the middle of the grocery store parking lot, just to see if anyone would notice.

Please remember, I wasn't always sober; I still had a bit of a drug habit myself, and often did things that make me shudder to think about now. Once, he came to pick me up and one of his friends (i hated the guy), was in the passenger's seat, reeking of alcohol. Passed out cold. Rene and I still had sex in the backseat. I can't imagine the guy stayed passed out the whole time - I still suspect that he was just fine but Rene was trying to prove a point about how much of a freak I was - and that he was watching instead. Given Rene's affinity for exhibitionism, it wouldn't surprise me too much. Given that I typically didn't give a shit, the fact that I did it doesn't surprise me much, either.

On the weekends, I'd usually spend the nights with him. Sex was all we did. There was usually pizza and beer involved, though. Sometimes, if we were feeling particularly skanky, we'd get a 4-pack of Everclear Purple Passion.

One of the most embarrassing and freaky things that ever happened involved his pit bull, Sandy. She was a sweet dog, but she would crawl under the covers after we were asleep. Rene had an oral fixation with me and would often wake up in the middle of the night and go down on me. Do you see where this is going? Yeah. One morning, I thought it was him, but it wasn't. I figured it out pretty quickly, and I made him establish a "no dogs in the bedroom" rule from there on out.

It wasn't the quality - that's for sure - but the quantity. Bobby's emotional involvement in our relationship had fooled me into thinking that most people who slept together cared for each other. I guess I made the mistake in thinking that because Rene spent so much time and money on me that he must've actually cared about me. I think that was probably where my ridiculous idea of sex = affection began.

Eventually, he met some rich girl with a Daddy complex who was rebelling against her family hard enough to proclaim her love for Rene. He couldn't help himself; she'd been Homecoming Queen at the local high school and she had great grades and a bright future. I told him I understood (I did), and that I was okay with it (which I really was, mostly).

We still got together for a weekend marathon every once in a great while, as our lives continued on and we moved on. He moved out of town but came into town every so often. He gave his grandmother his house, which I thought was kinda nice.

There's an interesting story about how I got him to help me buy a gun when I was 17, but that might be an entry for another time. It's a fun story to tell, though.

Where is he now? I have no clue. I haven't spoken to him in probably 15 years. I'm not sure how long he was in the drug game and I haven't done anything to try to find him. No need.

Next up: Chris D.
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Chapter Two: Bobby B

My love affair with Bobby had existed pretty much since I began high school. He was the second person I was introduced to at the school and so then it began. We started seeing each other. I was still a virgin and he said he liked it, but he wasn't going to be the first one. "My father always used to say, a girl always falls in love with her first and they'll never get over it, and I believe that. I don't believe in love, though, so I can't be your first," he said. "I'm not seeing anyone else, and I can wait, but if you get the opportunity, take it. I'd love to be able to finally be with you." He was a junior, I was a freshman, and as much as I wanted him to change his mind, he wouldn't. The whole thing was kinda weird, but whatever. It wasn't like I had any better options.

I won't get into the whole thing about how much he taught me - in several arenas - but I learned more about what men like and more about drugs than I ever thought I would.

(by the way, you should always be wary of a teenager that's been given the master bedroom. i've known three of them, and they were always super-fucked up)

We dated for close to the whole school year and then we had that conversation. You know...the one that makes the sky feel as if it's falling into your stomach. He told me that he was interested in another girl and was ready to start having sex again and he didn't want to lie to me. So we broke up. And soon after that was when Emmitt came along. I still saw Bobby at school and we still hung out. We kinda started seeing each other when things with Emily didn't work out so well and they ended it only a month after they got together.

A few weeks into Emmitt, he went away on vacation with his parents for a week. And the day he left, I called Bobby. I didn't even have to tell him why I was calling; he already knew.

I remember the pink hue cast all over his bedroom from the red scarf he'd draped over the lamp. We were tired, worn out, and sweaty. His drapes swished in the breeze of the fan. The smell of incense filled the room as we smoked the cliche after-sex cigarettes. Kate Bush's angelic voice filled our ears, Bobby's hand swirling around on my back to the beat of the music. I felt so secure and so loved, wrapped up in the satin sheets, feather down comforter, and his arms. I stayed late into the night, succumbing to desire time and time again, Bobby attentive to every need and whim I had. I could feel him on my skin and smell him in my hair and when the CD changed and he mumbled softly the lyrics to "Just Like Heaven," I distinctly remember thinking, Yes. JUST like it.

That experience, that feeling...that's what I thought it was all supposed to be about. I knew he wasn't in love with me and I was okay with that. I was getting the best part of him and, much like women feel as if sex is the most precious thing to share with someone, I felt that same thing about what he was giving me: the most precious thing to share with me.

And it wasn't just about sex with us. It wasn't about a relationship, either. He got back with Emily while we were still doing our thing. And, yes, Emmitt came back but I didn't stop seeing Bobby. I did love him, just in a different way. Emmitt...there were no feelings there whatsoever, but he did things for me, so I kept it up. Eventually, Bobby decided to stop seeing me and committed himself to Emily. I was disappointed, but I understood.

But I will never forget the feeling of the carpet burns on my back, rolling around on the floor, drinking screwdrivers made with vodka given to us by his mother, jamming out to Jimi Hendrix before doing it all over again. There are so many things about that time that I don't remember, as well. That's not entirely all his fault, though.

Where is he now?

He ended up marrying Emily when she got pregnant after high school. They moved to Austin. One night when I went to the tattoo shop for some work, he showed up for a piercing. We talked for a very short while and he left. I kinda felt punched in the stomach. Then I heard nothing until about a year ago. He found me on Facebook. He'd divorced Emily - amicable breakup, they just shouldn't have gotten married - and is dating a much younger girl. They seem happy, despite some of the rockiness we talked about and, last I heard, he'd proposed to her. He's working as a mechanic in a dealership and his son is a really, really smart kid and has a killer personality - just like his parents. We spent hours talking and texting, reminiscing about all the good times and fun, and he helped fill in a ton of the blanks from my teenage years I don't remember. He's invited me to come up and spend some time with them, but I'm not really into that idea. We still talk even now, but he hasn't made it down to my part of the state yet. He hates it here - I don't blame him - but when he comes, he promised we'll get together. When we do get together, I'm sure it will be a very interesting evening.

Next up: Chapter 3: Rene, Emmitt's best friend.

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Chapter One - Emmitt

I was the last of all my friends to be a virgin. I didn't consider 14 to be a normal age to start having sex, so I was confused about why all my friends were doing it. But you probably remember your mind as a teenager; racing, obsessive, thinking no further into the future than to the weekend. At that stage in my life, 3 months seemed like an eternity. Listening to my friends talk about their exploits over an entire school year made me feel as if I'd never find someone.

The main issue was that my friends were actually in relationships; they weren't just sleeping around. I, on the other hand, couldn't keep anyone around longer than 2 or 3 months and I was miserable and finally came to terms with the fact that waiting for "the right guy" was a fairy tale accessible to only a few. So I decided that I'd just go ahead and get it over with, with the next guy that didn't repulse me and tried to get in my pants.

As luck would have it, there was a party that weekend. I ended up getting chummy with a guy named Emmitt who was not even remotely my type. Ralph Lauren and Cole Haan and all buttoned up. Came from a rich neighborhood, went to great schools and, basically, came across as a spoiled little rich boy. Although I spent the night at the party with him, I didn't drink or use drugs (ha! at the time!), and everybody was pretty hammered. He took me up on the roof of the host's house and we talked for quite some time. I found out about his checkered past and his getting sent to boot camp and reform school and how he totally changed his life around. He swore he didn't use any drugs at all anymore, but I suspected that he smoked weed quite a bit. After all, we were at the house of a drug dealer. An 18-year old drug dealer who owned his own house and two new Mustangs. 5.0 Mustangs, too...not those stupid little 4-bangers. We fooled around a little but, mostly, I just wanted to sleep.

He borrowed his friend's Mustang to take me home the next morning. My parents were at work and I thought, You know, Stillie...maybe this is the way to go. So I invited him in. We fooled around a little bit more and then told him to go for it. I'd never told him I was a virgin, either. Like a moron, condom-less and impulsive, we had sex. Short, pathetic, "i'm not sure he's in yet because he's that small" sex. Like most girls, I was underwhelmed. Totally unimpressed. I mean, sure, I liked the feeling but it was just easier to take care of myself and actually revel in the sensations.

He wouldn't leave. I literally had to kick him out. I told him I didn't want to see him anymore. I mean, we had nothing in common besides acquaintances and I'd gotten what I needed. He showed up at my house every evening, begging my father to let him see me. Dad didn't understand why I wouldn't want to go out with such a "nice looking boy with a nice car" who "obviously comes from money."

Eventually he wore me down and we started dating. He went out of town for a week over the summer and I started having sex with another guy I'd been crushing on for 2 years. But that's Chapter Two. Emmitt and I had been going out for about three months when he went to eat Christmas dinner with my family. I overheard my oldest cousin say, "Well, she finally brought a guy over...she must not be a virgin anymore." Gah. It was about a month later when I took my best girlfriend over to his house one afternoon. He started mildly flirting with her and I broke up with him right there. Then I started fucking his best friend. But that's another story. Chapter Three, to be exact.

Where Is He Now?
Apparently, while we were dating, he'd been sleeping with another girl. He got her pregnant and her grandfather forced Emmitt to move in with them. I heard they got married later. I never had any desire to find him at all until I was doing some background checks and had to look up public records of someone with the same last name. Seems that the old ex got busted with pounds upon pounds of marijuana with the intent to distribute and, at last check, is currently in a local prison.

Next up: Chapter Two - Bobby B

(by the way...i don't plan on writing so much for all of these guys. i just figured, you know...the first and all. good background for you to get a feel for my self-destructive pattern.)