The following was an entry in a "Bohemian" contest which required the use of "10 disparate words": pomegranate, Alice, campground, forty bucks. nemesis, turtle, black hole, French, salve and hernia. That may explain why it sounds somewhat "random" and peculiar.
Here then, submitted for your approval, is

"Java Dawg"

I bought the French Poodle for forty bucks from a nimrod named Alice who'd posted him on craigslist. She'd been evicted from her forestland cabin and had to temporarily move into a campground. For an extra 10 bucks, she said, she'd throw in her turtle, Maury. She told me the big Standard's name was Vinny Schwartz, a name that bespoke both his Italianate attitude and his Rastafarian appearance. Alice planned on finding more bucolic digs someday and hoped she could buy Vinny back from me for fifty bucks after she'd found her paradise. Fat chance, I thought, telling her she could keep Maury but I couldn't make any promises about returning Vinny. There was always the chance we might fall in love.
She smiled softly, then mercilessly harpooned me with a seductive wink.
I'd always regarded Poodles with wonder and admiration but, peculiarly, turtles had become my nemesis ever since an alligator snapping turtle took a quarter-pounder out of my butt while I was swimming in a cypress pond near Slidell, La. The transplanted Acadians I was visiting tried to salve my sheared spirits by whipping up Tortuga Etouffee, but the black hole the snapper had rent in my derriere meant that part of me had become part of him, and I wanted no part of them apples. A month later, I came close to giving myself a hernia while helping a group of reef huggers rescue a big Leatherback from a boatload of hungry Haitians. I avoid all turtles now (and most Haitians).
Vinny was in his fifth year and hadn't seen a bad day in his life. Intelligent, affectionate, athletic, fearless, he was adored by all those who came to know him. A seasoned traveler, he'd spent nights with me in hotels, homes, hen houses and conveyances both moving and stationary.
He'd harmonized with coyotes in Monument Valley, watched a Corn Dance in Taos, followed a Condor soaring high above Escalante Steps, and studied three grizzly cubs in Denali. He'd been transfixed by the Sockeye run near Sitka, and once cheered the spirits of Aunt Gladys in Sun City, where she still pined for the tribe of miniature Schnauzers that had warmed her during Syracuse's bitter winters a quarter-century ago.
We'd been sojourning for two years and were road-weary and ready for a long rest, when one day we came to a lush, sun-drenched valley tucked between breezy, coastal hills. Granada (Spanish for "pomegranate"), was home to 68 people and a cozy cafe advertising fresh, homemade pies; today's were pecan and rhubarb. Tantalizing French press coffee welcomed us home.
Vinny stunned me by exploding from the van. Howling like a demon, he tore up the cafe's steps (narrowly sidestepping a vaguely familiar turtle) and burst through the door. Following him in, I was instantly hosed with a devilish smile and, while one arm hugged Vinny, another proffered a $50 bill.
"What took you so long?" said Alice sweetly, slowly reeling in her trusty harpoon.