writing doodle - as yet untitled - no idea where it fits

Three days, fifteen condos, apartments, guesthouses, trailers, and shanties, and finally XXX found the only place Big Red and I could possibly call home.

The two bedroom bungalow had a small yard in back and white picket fence in front.  There were a couple of mature trees, some rosebushes that had seen better days, and enough room to rough house in the backyard.  If it had been two stories, it would have been the Mayberry ideal, but one floor I could definitely work with.  There was still an old rotary dial phone with the longest cord I'd ever seen sitting on the kitchen counter.  I picked it up, no dial tone.  Heavy enough to use as a weapon, it would be well worth keeping and no one would assume anything.

The house came with the barest of basics.  The refrigerator was just this side of a college beer cooler.  The stove had two burners that worked and two that took up space.  The oven had a series of cast iron skillets in it, no telling if it worked or not.  The showerhead was handheld, if I didn't like it, I could always submerge myself in the minuscule 1950s tub.  The whole place had linoleum  not the vinyl stuff from the 60s and 70s, but from the 30s or 40s complete with what looked like divets from a woman's high heeled shoe.  

Sure it was ugly, the floors all looked like they belonged in a service station, but they would be low maintenance and until we got all the way through the puppies, low maintenance was good.

The landlord didn't care about the dog's size or breed.  Apparently didn't care whether or not I painted, but wanted approval on wallpaper.  No loud parties, hey if a party of two gets too loud and the cops are called, I would be proud and she should at least be smiling, not a problem.  All utilities were on me, as I expected.  And the landlord could enter if I either granted permission or gave 24 hours notice.  Typical.