Chris Garcia came to Austin from the San Francisco Bay Area in 1998, the year of his first heat stroke. As the American-Statesman's movie critic, he is both loathed and dimly tolerated. Sandra Bullock, among others, will never speak to him again. He reads more than he eats, drinks more than he sleeps and breaks too many sticks when he drums.
Frequently using his tattered passport, he hasn't time for a dog but just enough for a rat named Tammy. He bit into the head of a chicken in China and plans to drink snake blood in Vietnam. He is a fervid animal lover.
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2009 > May > 03 > Entry
By Chris Garcia
| Sunday, May 3, 2009, 08:21 PM
Margaret and I looked at dogs today on South Congress, and we both sounded like cooing codgers pinching the cheeks of tiny children. The dogs were outside in pens — a rescue joint offering adoptions, so tempting on a warm and breezy Sunday — sleeping and gnawing and barking and bunching up blankets.
We talked about dogs. We shopped, but not for dogs. Margaret spent a lot of money. I bought a bizarre card for Mother’s Day that seemingly has nothing to do with the styrofoam holiday. We talked about aging and not aging and she touched the pimple by my nose.
Margaret’s in town. We caught up. I learned small things.
We also saw two chihuahuas. They have bulgy goldfish eyes.
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