December 28, 2009; Christmas Crap

Hundreds of dollars of gifts for each other and not a single one for me, the fucks!

Christmas has more or less come and gone. I say more or less because these two seem to make it go on and on and on by inviting people over after the day for gift exchanges, meals, snacks and whatnot.

On the day itself, though, it was as to be expected: Mook A got a Kindle from B, B got a ton of books and candy from A, and I sat there in heady anticipation and got sweet-fuck-all. Things were a little better when lunch rolled around and they took out this roasted turkey the size of a fat six-year-old. It was clear they weren't going to eat it at one sitting (though they did seem to be trying). It was then they managed to spread a bit of the Christmas spirit to little old me and I started to see nice, juicy clumps of fresh, hot turkey flying at me. They also made themselves sandwiches, from time to time the rest of the day, and if I was there I managed to get a little more turkey. So though my giftie-self wasn't satisfied, my stomach was. At one point things got even better. Mook B left the door of the bathroom open and before anyone had noticed I managed to grab myself a wonderful, largish and aromatic piece of soap. B suddenly saw me doing this and bellowed, "Drop it! Drop it!' and I did the only smart thing: I swallowed it whole.

Here's the thing with soap: it doesn't taste nearly as good as it smells and there was a rather unpleasant aftertaste and little burps and farts for the rest of the day which burnt both esophagus and arsehole.

On Boxing Day Sis and Bro came over with one of their kids and all I can say about that is that I didn't get any gifts—again!—and only a little turkey this time. But the next day Cate swung by and, finally, there were gifts for me! She opened with some cookies and then, when it was time for the afternoon walk, she brought out my big gift: a winter coat. It's warm, it's dry and I don't look too queer in it though it does hold my fur down so when I shake out to fluff up my coat I get no satisfaction. As we were walking that first time (me in the coat) we ran into Bengie and the two of us commiserated about our winter-wear. Mind, I didn't have the heart to tell him that he did look like a faggot in his blue, hand-knitted sweater and booties. I also ran into Ginger in her own little coat. She, however, had absolutely no Christmas spirit. She had just endured an eight hour car ride back from fuck-knows-where with the one-legged Ginger-lady and she was in a horrific mood. I wanted to play and she wanted to rip my dick off and would have damn near succeeded if her mistress hadn't intervened. "She's never liked overly-energetic dogs," Gingerlady said lamely to explain the little bitch's appalling behaviour. All I can say is that I'm going to think long and hard before I go snuffling that dog's cunt again.

Meanwhile, B has developed a cold and is hacking all over the house which means it is only a matter of time before A picks it up, it gathers steam in his poor, beaten body and he ends up in the hospital again with pneumonia or plague or some fucking thing only he is capable of catching. I mean, I don't wish it on him; it is nice to have the two of them here for walks and neither keeping track of who gave me a hunk of turkey when. It means that my life—despite the distinct lack of gifts—is one of eating, sleeping, walking, and eating and sleeping again.

I suppose, as Christmases go, it could be worse.

December 22, 2009; Men and Women

There is a general slowing down happening in La Maison Mook and this means that, mostly, Mooks A and B and I laze about in front of the TV. We're watching a lot of movies, many of them shit (like this thing called Surfer, Dude with Matthew McConaughey who apparently doesn't give a shit what he does with his career).

But some of the films are just baffling, like this thing Diary of a Shopaholic, where the silly gash who is the main character appears to be retarded. The Mooks hated the fucking movie more than I did and stopped it about 30 minutes in—thank Keer-ist!—but not before I started to wonder about women, men and men and women. You see, that film is what they call a chick-flick and that would suggest that it is aimed at all women and that would further suggest all women are retarded. However, my experience with broads suggests otherwise. I mean, take Cate and Sis—they seem like really solid, together people. Are they unusual in that respect? I don't know.

But here's the thing: if you look at the friends (not relatives) who surround the Mooks, almost every one of them is single and, at their ages, not likely to be changing that status in the near future. I've heard some of Cate's talk about men in her life, and when Straight Guy (SG) was here after the fire at his place, he not only talked about his love-life but also about the contorted lives of people he knows. The running theme of all these stories is that no sane person seems to be able to hook up with any other sane person. And it's not looks! I'd do Cate (and have tried to!). And I know the Mook A has more than a little penchant for SG. So what's the deal?

Here's my theory: I think that as humans age they get wiser and although this is a good thing in some ways, it is utterly useless in chosing a mate. Ask any 20-year-old! Fucking is where it has to start. It's basic. It's why dogs sniff each other's assholes and lick each others gonads. I mean, being friends is fine and dandy, and so is being intellectual equals, but I think older, wiser people have piled so much heavy meaning onto something (ie: porking) that they don't even do it anymore and, worse, don't realize how important it is because they aren't doing it!

A dog can sniff out a lot of info from another dog's bunghole or the smell and taste of another dog's piss. In the same way, how a person kisses can tell you so much about the other person as does the fact that they are willing (or not) to go downtown and, then, if they're any good when they're down there. That oh-so-smart guy you've got your eye on isn't quite so smart, is he?, if while he's down there he's licking all the wrong places; you know...spit sloshing down your leg, tongue flying everywhere, but the actual pleasure-button nowhere near the soaking action! And, vice versa, she may believe everything you believe (ie: vegetarianism, etc.), but if, when she kisses, her mouth is all dessicated and her cooter is almost crispy from dryness, then you have to know that her vegetarianism has driven her to despise all meat (if you know what I mean and I think you do).

Humans of a certain age have piled so much importance onto good old shtupping, that they don't realize it's the best way to find a mate while having fun. When the boning is good, you see it all: drama, tragedy and comedy in the form of moans, tears and laughter. The meaning of a person comes through because they are raw and naked and honest whereas Mr. or Ms Perfect can always cloak their faults in nice clothes, pretty talk and a handsome or pretty little smile (which is actually a smile of utter bafflement and stupidity but which all humans wish to see as a smile of intelligence and—ah, yes!—agreement).

So, bottom line, I think humans take sex way too seriously except when they're doing it when they don't take it nearly as seriously as they should.

Meanwhile, preparation for Christmas, here, goes on with the arrival of a Christmas tree. I don't get the Mooks. They buy a turkey the size of a horse and a tree the size of a chihuahua. And then they get pissed because I decide to snack on the fucking decorations.

Go figure.

December 19, 2009; Going Apeshit

Six days to go to Christmas and the Mooks are losing their fucking minds!

There's been lots of talking and whispering about gifts and I know what Mook A is getting for B and vice versa, but in all of this chatter I haven't heard so much as a murmur from either of them about anything for me. I suspect these two are like all those other "sane" people who see dogs as dogs and not much else; we're not members of the family or any other fucking thing like that so we don't merit birthdays or Christmases or anniversaries. Frank, my old owner, made a big thing out of the holidays. He refused all invitations out and made it about him and me. So there was lots of food, gifts, smoking, booze and porn. All day until we both fell asleep on the sofa from utter satiation.

The only thing I've heard about a gift for me has been from Cate and she hinted it might be clothes and she hinted it might go with my new Harley Davidson collar. So I suspect we're talking something leather. However, here's the thing about leather: there's a very thin line between looking like a Hell's Angel and looking like one of those guys at a gay pride parade who has the chaps and vest, yes, but also rings on his fingers, toes, nipples and dick and a buttplug already in place.

Meanwhile, the Christmas tree is coming tomorrow and I guess I'll deal with that when it gets here; some of those things are very intrusive—cutting your territory by about half so it becomes a requirement to mark it. Today they bought the turkey and it was so fucking honking I didn't know if I should eat it or fuck it. I sniffed its ass and realized there wasn't much pleasure to be had either way. I guess I'll wait to see what the stuffing is like (if you know what I mean and I think you do).

Strangely, in all the mad preparation and silliness, the realities go on. A Christmas with Frank was time-stopping—nothing that was real or vaguely harsh was allowed to intrude. Here, A still has to change his appliance every three or four days and the day after Christmas he has to haul his sorry arse to the clinic to see a nurse (and that was only after hard negotiation so that he wouldn't have to go in on Christmas day itself!). So the Mooks make their Christmas around these things—try to make the realities banal and, I guess, in time (and if they work hard at it), life's little miseries will take on a kind of banality...like brushing your teeth.

The approaching festivities mean one little misery for me: that I are now dealing with real winter—gargantuan piles of snow, -20 cold and ice, gravel and salt. The Mooks don't like walking me in this crap at all, but they nevertheless keep pretending that the fresh air is good for them (even though they both chain-smoke during the entire outing). This must be said for both of them: they notice when I start hobbling from the salt or ice or gravel and they deal with immediately and in a relatively gentle way and, when we get back in and are cuddling, they take my feet in their hands and warm up my poor, pink and abused little pads.

However, they do not deal with another problem of winter: the beads of frozen piss which stay stuck in my cock hair after a walk. You want to know cold? Have hard little ball-bearings of iced urine bedecking your pecker.

December 16, 2009; Christmas is coming

Christmas is coming!

The nerves are getting raw!

Please to slip a fifty in the small dog's paw!

Please to slip a fifty in the small dog's paw!

If you haven't got a fifty, then a twenty just might do;

If you haven't got a twenty—well then—hey! Fuck you!

Yesterday the Mooks woke up from their post-travel, post-hospital stupours and noticed it was ten days before Christmas and they had done nothing to prepare.

Immediately there was panic and consternation and no shortage of nattering. Mook B ended up with the task of preparing the Christmas card which in this household, as it turns out, always features the dog. As I am the dog, I was set up for a modeling session. This wasn't to hard because the "inspired artistes" who were doing the shoot had absolutely nothing original up there sleeves so I just had to lie on my back and stare at the lens. Sort of like for porn.

However, after the pictures were taken there was the not-so-small task of actually doing the cards and the task was conferred upon B, again. As you may have read, when it comes to technology B's not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree and after some weeping about pixels and centimeters and inches, A had to stick his nose in and then the fur really started to fly.

"EVERY FUCKING YEAR, YEAR IN, YEAR OUT, IT'S THE SAME FUCKING THING WITH THE CHRISTMAS CARD. YOU NEVER WRITE DOWN THE PROCESS SO THAT WE CAN JUST GET IT OVER WITH AND GET ON WITH OUR FUCKING LIVES. WHY DON'T WE JUST BUY SOME UNICEF CARDS...OR THE ONES FROM THOSE PEOPLE WHO PAINT WITH THEIR FEET! WHY—EVERY YEAR!—DO WE HAVE TO GO THROUGH THIS SAME DRAMA!"

After the diatribe, A slammed out of the house to begin the Christmas groceries which will include a turkey the size of an Irish Setter, and all the fixings. The house became positively peaceful when he left and B and I just hummed along in the bliss of silence. The card got done, but as it is not yet two days before Christmas it has not been sent to anyone.

Meanwhile, Mook A does have a few reasons to be in a pissy mood. He's on mega-antibiotics for that thing on his hand and he wakes up every morning feeling like he's been out drinking hard the night before. This morning he had two different medical appointments at two different places both before ten o'clockn and left here for them feeling wretched and retchy. If things don't get better by next week, then he will have to continue his thrice-weekly visits to the clinic during the holidays. Considering the moaning he does each time he has to go to the clinic, we won't be getting too many fucking Silent Nights around here.

The house does not smell like ginger and vanilla, yet; but for me, it's never been that way. First with Frank and now with the Mooks, come Christmas, Easter or The Feast of the Immaculate Conception, the house has always smelled like cigarettes and dog.

Mmmmmmmmmm.

Oh! TV night!

They're showing a Peanuts Special

And then there's the thing where the deer's nose is red

Long are the hours of 'toons and wretched movies

The ones with Bing make we wish I was dead.

And then there's bed and dreams of turkey dark meat

And up we get to see the bird's still cold!

Fall on your knees!

Proceed now with the blowjob!

No food! No tube!

You might as well just use the lube!

No food! No tube!

Thank God we bought so-o-o-o-o-me lube!

December 13, 2009; Back to normal?

Things are not quite back to normal at La Maison Mook, but they're getting there.

It didn't take long before I was the subject of ("humourous") abuse. For instance... I have this nylon chew toy shaped like a bone and whenever things get to be too much for me I gnaw away at that thing until the tension passes. There's something to be said for ripping bits off of inanimate objects. The problem is, that being the well-organized canine that I am, I destroy my toys in a kind of order. For instance, when I had that fucking Santa doll, I could have just torn it to shreds, picking it apart all over its little felt body, but that would have taken months. Instead, I found the bottom seam and just kept worrying that with my teeth until I'd literally torn the thing a new asshole and could then yank his cotton intestines out in long white streamers. You see? Organized.

The problem with the nylon bone is that I set to gnawing it on one end, and when I got that end gnawed off it no longer looked like a bone, did it? In fact, Mook A was the first to notice what it did look like. "Hey! Look at that! Léo has made himself a dildo!" Hilarity ensued and then the two of them went at it: "Have you seen Léo's dildo?" or "Time to wash off Léo's dildo!" or "I wonder into which hidden hole Léo shoved his dildo."

Oh! But it gets worse! Yesterday Cate came to visit, after her trip to Florida, and she brought me a new nylon bone. I mean, it was a monster of a thing. But being the organized (perhaps over-organized) dog that I am, I still wanted the old one to finish with first, so I was sort of ignoring the new one. "I guess," says Mook A, "he wants to finish sucking and chewing on his dildo before starting on a bigger one...needs the practice, I guess." Ha! Ha! Ha! A good giggle was had by all.

Later I tried to hump Cate, but my heart wasn't in it. "You see," quipped A, "he's got a taste for dildo now."

I think I shall wait until he, in particular, is asleep, and find a place to hide that fucking dildo. Shouldn't be long 'til the stupid twat is getting daily visits from nurses again.

Meanwhile, Christmas is, indeed, coming and so the snow is piling up on the ground and the wind whips about. What this means is that I'm getting cold and am forced to cuddle up close to one or the other of the Mooks which, of course, makes me look more like a suck than ever. But this must be said: I did miss—while B was traveling and A was in the hospital—the no-questions-asked aspect of cuddling. I mean, I just had to look at the couch, do the sit-give-paw rigmarole and I'm warm—the Mooks get the look. As nice as they were, A's Sis didn't immediately get when I needed the cuddle. Maybe after a little training she would have, but, as I said, training humans can be draining.

A trained human is worth his or her weight in gold. With or without dildo jokes.

December 10, 2009; May You Live in Interesting Times

The things I have seen...

I don't want to sound racist by saying that all slanty-eyed people look alike so it doesn't matter who said such and such, so I'll say I think it was a Chinaman who invented the curse: "May you live in interesting times." Someone must have cast that curse on me and the Mooks recently.

You'll remember that in my last blog I mentioned that Mook B was about to go to a clinic for a cut in his had. Well, yes and no. He went to the clinic a few hours after I wrote the entry, but came back 30 minutes later 'cause the place was closed. Problem was: his cut was no longer just a little cut that my beloved nurse had warned him to have tended to. No, now his cut was huge and red and his wrist had disappeared into his arm and his arm had lost its elbow and these strange red lines ran up from the cut on his hand to the middle of what can only be described as an over-stuffed, dark-red sausage; something a Brit might fry up and have for breakfast, maybe. A started to get sweaty and so he called the special phone number for medical information and was told by the counsellor there to get to an emergency ward ASAFP.

He gathered some things, plunked me in the kitchen and then did something I wasn't expecting. The Mooks don't make a big production when they go out—they don't say bye-bye or give me a hug or make kissy noises; they think by doing nothing when they leave, I am conned into thinking they're only going out to buy cigarettes and am therefore less traumatized and less likely to do something destructive. (Dipshits...destruction has nothing to do with time.) On this occasion, however, as A was leaving, he leaned down to me and said, in a strange voice, "I hope I see you very soon, Little Feller," and gave me a little kiss on the nose and a little skritch behind the ear.

Oh-oh.

That was the last I heard from him for three days and nights. I set to gnawing on my bone, then fell asleep. When I woke up I had the strange sensation that I needed to pee. It's strange because, normally, the Mooks have fed me and hustled me out the door before the need-sensation sets in. I paced about a little, wondering what I was in for now. Then I started to get worried. Was this serious? Was my Mook coming back at all?

Then there was noise at the door and my little bladdered quivered with anticipation. When the door opened, it wasn't Mook A, B, C or D! It was A's sister (whom we'll call Sis from now on) and her husband (whom we'll call Bro). Sis and Bro hustled about, gathered stuff, then toddled down the stairs with me behind them, now with a bladder screaming for a slash.

I got to pee. I got to shit. But then I was getting into a truck and we were driving off! What was this? A kidnaping or a rescue? I was a stress-case and Sis seemed to know it 'cause she held me on her lap in the front seat and cuddled me and whispered sweetnesses. The last time I had been in a car it had not gone well (barf everywhere) and this time there was the added stress of a missing Mook. I started drooling, Sis said, "Oh-oh!" but then we were stopping. We were at their house—I'd visited it for Mook A's birthday—and food was being served and I was part of a new family.

Well, this had certainly gotten interesting (in the Chinaman's sense). But then I heard from Sis that things were considerably more "interesting" for Mook A. He had been admitted to hospital, post-haste, was being administered massive amounts of last-defense antibiotics, was sleeping in a corridor of the emergency ward, and was in a kind of isolation (even there) because they didn't know if his germs were contagious or just busily eating his arm off. At least he was relatively alive.

And hey! I was in hog heaven! They treated me less like a house-guest and more like the boss. I pretty much got anything I wanted just by doing little dances: going out, a treat, a place on a couch and—without even trying—a place on their bed that night where I found out Bro snores like a sawmill and Sis grinds her teeth like a pitbull skinning a teacup terrier. (Are there any normal people in this fucking family!?)

We all settled in quite nicely. The next morning I had a little accident because Sis and Bro just were not fast enough in getting me out (and had to be taught a lesson, don't you know). I was starting to worry I would have to train them (as I had Frank and the Mooks)—a long and tedious process. But they were picking up the signals fairly quickly and I tried not to abuse the situation (ie: doing the piss dance just because I'm bored and want to go out).

News from the hospital was that A was not allowed to walk the halls without rubber gloves and a yellow gown which announced to everyone he was contagious; sorta like those lepers in Ben Hur calling out: "Unclean! Unclean!" The news was he had run out of cigarettes and was bumming and sharing smokes with the junkies in the emergency ward, who were in a similar situation (although their cuts were from an excess of needles). His iPod had died, he couldn't read in the dark of his cubicle and was quietly going mental.

But hey! I was eating two squares and had a perfectly nice couple waiting on me and fulfilling most of my desires. I liked to cuddle with Sis on the couch for TV and I liked to wander around Bro as he cooked (yes, that is faggie, but I'm not judging).

But there was that gnawing worry: when would I be back with the Mooks, in my place, with my smells and my various edibles (Kleenex in the unemptied garbage cans and food—like dill-pickle chip crumbs— in the unvacuumed carpet). Sis and Bro are a little too anal for my taste, nice as they are. A house is not a home unless there's something to eat under the sofa.

On the second morning, Sis had to go to work. Toward the end of the morning, Bro started to make lunch for the both of them. I wandered about, stretched a bit, and thought I might like to go for a walk. So I did my little show and Bro threw on his coat and took me out. It was gloriously sunny outside and I could have drifted about outside for hours. We were slowly returning to the house when we heard some kind of commotion. As we walked on it started to become clear the noise was coming from our street. When we turned the corner we saw that there were three fire-trucks in front of the apartment and the firemen were about to break down the door with these big axes. You know that cooking Bro was doing before my little dance to pee? Well, he had left oil on the stove as he dashed me outside, it had burned, set off the alarms and the security company (on getting no one at the apartment to answer the phone) had sent out the big guns.

Again: Is no one in this family normal? Clearly, early-onset Alzheimer's is running through them all. On one side you've got a guy who's dying 'cause he can't keep a friggin' cut on his hand clean, on the other one who burns the house down for fried onions. Needless to say, the atmosphere within this happy little family iced up a little when Sis found out what had happened and though she was still being nice to me, she did seem to take my little piss-dances a little less seriously.

Meanwhile, back with A, after four or six IVs of massive doses of antibiotics, he was being released from the hospital, but with orders to present himself twice a day to a local clinic to get more IVs. At that same clinic, they would also do the stuff my beloved home-nurse usually does and tend to the new wound on his hand. To give him a break, though, it was decided that I would stay with Bro and Sis for a third night. This made me a little sad 'cause I really do miss the other place where there are so many nooks and crannies where so many interesting things (paper clips, chocolate bar wrappings, socks) can be found and snacked upon.

But here's the other thing (and I may regret admitting this):

I was missing the Mooks. Both of them. I wanted to be with A and I wanted B back from France and I wanted their bickering and laughing and smoking (for a dog raised by a smoker—Frank—the smell is an addiction in itself). I also wanted the messy, routine-less life they seemed to lead where there are surprises almost every day—nurses and friends who don't mind being humped, one-legged ladies, prostate-less barbers and dogs on the street who love-me-love-me-not (ie: Ginger).

And 24 hours later, that's what I had. Back home. Both of them there. Excitement and noise and silliness and stupidity (Mook B got his iPhone pickpocketed during a short visit to Barcelona and A came out of the hospital, not realizing the world had iced over while he was there, and nearly broke his back tumbling down in front of the entrance for the ambulances).

Things are back to normal now. Some things have changed. Because A gets his treatments at the clinic now, I don't see my nurse anymore and this breaks my heart. Also, the Mooks bicker a little less, for now; the guilt of travel and the appreciation of loved ones after an illness plays a role in that. And I have two new good friends, Sis and Bro, and a refuge if I need it.

And Christmas is coming. God bless us everyone!

(And eat a bowl of dick if you don't get I'm being sarcastic.)

December 5, 2009; Vacation Part IV

It's all in the eyes; if they are looking in your cute little peepers, you win!

Frank used to tell a lovely story:

An old man, alone and lonely, would go to the park at the end of his street each day to watch the world go by. Some days he felt at peace, thinking that he was part of this world of people picnicking and children playing. Other days he was restless—wondering if he fit in, if he was still included in anyone's life or if he was just an old man sitting on a bench; a fixture.

But the best days came when he saw a little girl of eight or nine come into the park with her little white dog. The child would play with the pet with such abandon, shrieking with laughter, or the child would simply sit under a tree, holding the little animal lovingly and whispering into its ear. When the little girl and her dog were there, the old man felt that he was part of the world—imagined, even, that he was part of the little girl's family.

One day, the little girl was playing fairly near the bench where the old man always sat and he summoned the courage to call out to her. The little girl looked up from her play with the dog and smiled a radiant smile at the old man and came over to him, without even a whisper of suspicion or doubt. The old man's heart was warmed.

"Hello, sir," the little girl said with all the politeness some parent or teacher had drilled into her.

"Hello, little girl," the old man said. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Why certainly!" she said, with a hint of a lisp and the old man smiled broadly, remembering a child from his own past who had such a lisp...a good memory.

"What's your name, little girl?" he asked.

"My name is Petal."

"My, my—such a beautiful name. How did you get some a pretty name?" he asked.

"Well," she began, about to tell a story often-heard and beloved, "when I was born, and my mother was in the hospital, my father came to visit her with a huge bouquet of pink roses. As he put the vase of roses on her bed-side table, one single petal fluttered in the wind and floated onto her bed, falling onto the white sheets. My mother took this as a sign and said to my father, 'We shall call our little girl Petal' and my daddy smiled and knew that it was the perfect name."

The old man's heart was near bursting with emotion and he thought he might shed a tear at hearing such a fine story. He brushed his eyes surreptitiously so as not to worry the little child. At this, the little dog let out the smallest and sweetest bark, vying for attention. The old man smiled and said, "And, dear Petal, what is your little friend's name?"

"Porky," said the child.

"Porky! What an odd name!" said the old man. "And why does the charming little being have such a name?"

"Because he fucks pigs."

WAKE UP PEOPLE! FRANK WAS INCAPABLE OF TELLING A "LOVELY" FUCKING STORY!

Yes, yes, yes he had moments where he was a little softer than usual—exactly like the moment I had with his ghost the other night—but mostly he was a funny, foul-mouthed old coot. So, no, I am not going to turn into the Saint Léo just because Frank asked me to cut the Mooks some slack. I will, however, do as he says: hold off for a while and see how things turn out.

To that end, I have not yet killed Mook A though we have been alone for ten days (since Mook B went off on vacation) and I am, in the parlance of humans, behaving. No shitting on the floor, beds, or carpets. No peeing. No barfing. Just to add a little variety and to remind A that I am in the house with him (and to tear him away from the fucking TV and/or computer) I skipped a couple of meals. He became adequately concerned and things got back to normal (ie: I ate and became the boss again).

It's not like the whole time has been without incident. I was nearly killed during yesterday morning's walk because this idiot cunt backed out of her driveway without so much as a glance back and I was right there. That extensible leash sure came in handy with A yanking me hard enough to go flying into his arms. The lady nodded sorry and A nodded back. What he should have done is break her fucking windshield, stupid twat.

Also, there is a stray cat that has decided to cozy up to A. I made the mistake of being nice to the fucker and the fucker was nice to me and A turned all gooey and it was all sweetness and light. Then A said something to the cat that curled my hair: "If I could, I'd take you in, poor thing, but I don't think this one would have it." "This one" was, of course, me and there is no way I would have it. If he gives that meowing piece of shit so much as a bowl of milk, I'll spray the walls with urine and shit.

A cat....do you fucking believe it? A fucking cat...in my fucking house.

This is another sign of Mook A quietly going nuts from boredom and lonliness. As you know Mook B and Cate are off who-knows-where having the time of their lives while the two of us rot in this crumby apartment. Also, this weekend, The Straight Guy is out of town and he was supposed to come here to watch movies (and hopefully break up the monotony). A's other confidante, some chick he talks to long-distance a lot, is also out of town for the weekend. So the next 48 hours should be the real test.

At least there are the nurses and, luckily, my beloved is on weekend shift so I won't have to deal with strangers (who don't get me like she does). Problem is, with nurses each day nothing medical gets ignored. A got this itty-bitty cut on his hand and the damn thing got so infected that he was having trouble moving his entire right wrist and lower arm. The nurse didn't like it. So, off he goes, tomorrow morning (the nurse is coming by at 8:30 especial), to a clinic. It will be the longest time we are parted since B left. Part of me is relieved to have some alone-time, but if he's gone too long...well....shit happens.

December 2, 2009; Vacation, Part III

Been sleeping during the day...a lot.

No one dead yet.

Well, yes there is.

Two nights ago, it all came together. After a decent day of watching movies, walks, and eating off the sidewalk, Mook A and I retired and, after him toodling around the television dial for a bit, it was lights out. He was soon asleep and, despite the nervousness I feel about what's in that kitchen, his snoring next to me made me drowsy too. Yes, you can sleep virtually all day, every day, but when there is a warm body next to you and it's breathing relatively steadily, you either fuck it or you nap.

My eyes were just closing when the noises started in the kitchen. This time there was no doubt. Something was in there. It was not a mouse because I've heard mouse noises before and they're little and, in the main, just aggravating. These noises were bigger. Like bumping into furniture. Like something was in there that was unfamiliar with the layout of the place.

Every one of my hairs stood on end. My bladder was aching, I wanted to pee so bad but I had a pretty good notion what would happen if I peed in the bed: I would be banished, until Mook B's return, to the kitchen each night and considering what was out there, that was not option. So I held it in, trembled like mad and tried not to weep. Right there, in that bed, at midnight, I was turning into every dog I have ever despised. I was a chihuahua. I got up and crossed to the other side of the bed—putting Mook A between me and the kitchen—but this woke him up, pissed him off, and in half-sleep he tossed me about with his legs until I was back where I started. There is one side of the bed that it his, period, end of story. It's not like with Mook B where he pretty much sleeps where I let him.

I don't really know how much time passed. The two alarm clocks A had set up (he's not a morning flower, let me tell you) did not have luminescent faces so all I know was that it was night and that it was the worst night of my life.

Aside from the thumping about, the ghost did not make any other noises. It did not moan or rattle chains or anything. (Despite what you may have heard or read, ghosts—once present in a space—have substance; they do not wander through walls. They have solidity and have to deal with other solid objects.)

An hour must have passed and my fear—coupled with lack of sleep—was slowly turning into pissedoffedness. I may not like this place and I certainly don't like the others who live here but—fuck-shits!—this is my fucking place! I no longer had to pee, but thought that a sip of water might be nice and also decided that the endless nights where I didn't get up to have a drink and didn't wander a little to stretch my legs had to come to an end.

So...

I got up. I sniffed the air. There was a smell. It was familiar. Garbage? I moved forward. I sniffed again, rolling the flavour of the air around in my mouth and sinuses. Something. Something. Old? Finally, after a long, long walk to the center of the kitchen, I could see the thing. Just an outline without an outline—very hard to describe—but like a light-cast with more shape. Like mid-daylight—with it's harsh lines and shadows—but fainter. It was definitely a ghost, now looking out the window. And then I saw.

"Frank?" I snerfed nervously.

"Hello, Little Fellow," he said, turning to me. The fear rushed out of me but then there was sadness. He knelt down on the floor, with more agility then he ever had, and said, "Yes. It's happened. I was a little confused when it did; pretty sudden and all—while watching the twats and homos on Survivor. I stayed around to see how the daughter and her fuckwad would handle it and, I am glad to say, there were lots of tears. Then I was done at her place. Then I came here."

"You knew where I was?"

"Yes." And then it hit both of us. We understood each other. We could talk. He laughed. I snerfed. And there, on the floor, we cuddled a little. He lit a cigarette, sighed and said, "I can smoke as many of these as I want now. It's fucking wonderful. I was wondering when you'd come here to the kitchen to see me. It took you long enough." And he laughed and scratched my ears. It felt like lace being drawn gently over my fur and I trembled a little like with the cold but it was not from cold 'cause the lacy feeling was warm.

"How have you been, Little Guy?"

"They're not you."

"Well, no. And they're homos. And from what I can tell, artsy homos. And, Jesus Fuck, liberals."

"Yes."

"But they seem okay. Let you sleep in their bed. Feed you—"

"—but not the good stuff you fed me—"

"—yes, well...if you'd continued eating that shit, you'd be floating about with me right now." He laughed again and again he scratched me and I moved in closer and lay down across his legs like the old days.

"I miss you," I said.

"I miss you too. But we were good together and that's the most important thing. That we had that time, right?"

"I wish I could come with you," I said and it came out a little...well...chihuahua.

"Look," he said, pulling me closer so that we were one thing...a big shapeless cuddle. "Look," he said again, making sure I was going to listen to him and understand that it was important. "You were the best thing that happened to me. You are the best thing. Don't let anyone ever tell you differently. You're a pile of nutsy wonderfulness...ah! I'm blithering."

"No!" I said.

"Yes, yes I am. Just 'cause I'm dead doesn't make me any smarter. But listen. I know one thing: the sick one...that homo over there...he won't ever say it but he needs you. And the other one...the one on the trip...his heart was so broken when his last mutt died that he thought he would never be the same. But you helped him—"

"—yes, but—"

"—no buts...It's the truth. I've been here for a while watching and that's how it is. And it could be worse for you, couldn't it? A lot worse. Like at the puppy mill—"

"—how do you know about that?—"

"—now I pretty much know everything. All the answers. Anyhoo, that's not important. Just listen to me: make do. Even if you hate them (and you can hate them all you want) make do. It's not all about you."

I snerfed because, if he knew everything now, he certainly knew that the guiding philosophy of every single dog in the universe is: It's all about me. He laughed, as if he was reading my mind. Then he said, "Did I give you a good life?"

"Oh! yes!" I said, my voice going chihuahua.

"Then you owe me a favour and this is the one I'm asking. Just stick it out for a bit. Then, in a while, if you really, really, really don't like it, then do what you have to do."

"A while?"

"No sense in not finding out what Christmas is like here, right? My guess is if they're like all aging fags who've been together for a while, they channel the sexual frustration into decorating, gifts and a big motherfucking turkey with all the fixings!" I drooled a little.

Then there was quiet, the room filling with the cigarette smoke that was not cigarette smoke. His warmth wrapped around me and I was nodding off. "Sleep well, Little Fellow," he said quietly. "I love you."

"I love you too," I said and off, off, off I went.

I awoke to the sound of the two alarm clocks. Oh! I had slept so well. So, so well. But I was in the bed, with Mook A, and he was yawning and stretching and trying to find the fucking clocks to turn them off. He pulled himself up to sitting position and I moved in closer for warmth and because I didn't want to get up just yet. He laughed and gave me a kiss on the nose and said, "Time to get up; we both need to pee." I realized that, yes, I needed to pee something fierce.

The day was ordinary but comfy and easy. Last night, after lights out, I waited for a bit but the only noises coming from the kitchen were the sounds of the fridge gurgling and the floor settling and the gentle, gentle winter wind outside.

Before long, my eyes were closing. I was out.

November 29, 2009; Vacation, Part II

This fat fuck is on my fucking balcony! Is there no respect!

There are a few things that are worrying me with Mook B in France and me alone with Mook A. I'll start with the lack of sleep I'm getting. I'm now in Mook A's bed for the duration of the other one's vacation and though it is as cozy as you could want, it gives on to the fucking kitchen and—worse!—he leaves the kitchen door open all night in case I want to walk about and get some water. But I'll be damned if I'm moving from the fucking bed in the night hours as, I tell you, there is a ghost in there.

There's one thing you should know about dogs. We know our ghosts. When you see us pricking up our ears or hear us whining or growling at nothing...think again! It isn't nothing. We not only hear and smell the spirits which roam about, we can sense them even when they're barely around. You've seen dogs reacting strangely to places which seem perfectly banal...well, it's the ghosts. Yes, yes, yes we know that you humans think it's all bunk but that's because you're stupid.

So, for now, I live with the damn thing and dread that it will try to make its presence felt even more. I'll tell you this...I get awfully thirsty at night and I'm really happy when the sun starts to rise.

Meanwhile, there is other craziness here. Mook A is starting to talk to me. I don't mean: "Get off the fucking couch!" or "Go lie down!" I mean chats. He has taken to watching two or three movies a day and although this used to keep him fairly docile and let me sleep (curled up beside him) lately he's started to get mouthy. He always talks at the TV (losing his mind when some right-winger shows up on CNN), but this is different. We were watching Appaloosa and he said, "Do you like Westerns, Leo?" (Note: he pronounces my name in English, Mook B in French.) I glanced up at him, thinking he was just jabbering, but he was actually looking at me, waiting for an answer like. "I don't usually enjoy Westerns," he went on, "but this one has Viggo Mortensen and Ed Harris and that is a whole lot of eye candy." Well, I should have known. I thought he'd shut up, but he went on. "I like Ed Harris for his eyes, which I noticed for the first time when he was in The Right Stuff. And Viggo...what to say about Viggo..." He sighed like a teen girl reading Tiger Beat. "I fell for him when he took off his shirt in Psycho. I was hooked. And I don't think he's married."

Well...a: Too much information and b: You can dream on about Viggo and you. But A went on telling me he didn't usually like Westerns 'cause the guys didn't take their shirts off but I can tell you this about Appaloosa: it was the gayest film I've seen since Brokeback Mountain. If Mortensen wasn't in love with Harris, I'll eat my Harley Davidson collar!

There is one good thing about Mook A's talking. When we're out walking, and because it's late autumn, the squirrels are everywhere and getting more aggressive and snotty with me. They've taken to taunting me on the street, running up a tree (just out of reach) and chittering at me...mocking me. That's when A steps in. "You fucking little coward!" he bellowed at one this morning. "Come back down on the sidewalk and face the music, you fucking tree rat shit. You'll be making all sorts of different noises when Leo's finished with you!" Then he turned to me and said, "Right?" I snerfed that he was quite right and he laughed his head off. You gotta like that about him, at least.

Meanwhile, we're hearing nearly nothing from Mook B in France. Apparently his sacred little iPhone is a piece of shit over there and that's after he paid to get it unlocked; a whole 250 Eurines or whatever the fuck those commie faggots over there use to buy their scag and child prostitutes.

Anyhoo...

Five days together, alone, and no one is dead yet...so I suppose that's good.

November 26, 2009; The Vacation, Part I

This is the Straight Guy (SG). Of course, he isn't sitting very "straight", in any sense of the word, but he's not far if I need him.

Mook B is away in Paris and it is the third day I have been alone with Mook A.

It started badly with A giving me a bath the first day. If you watch CSI or those shows, it seems to me that rapists sometimes force their victims to bathe before doing bad things to them. But as it turns out, in A's own charming turn of phrase, "If you're going to sleep in my bed, I don't want your filth and your nasty arse in there with me."

The first night was the worst 'cause I found out there's a ghost in the kitchen. A's bedroom is right off the kitchen and he left his door open so that I could wander or drink water in the night, but I didn't move from that fucking bed 'cause all through the night there were sounds—bumps, clunks and skitters—coming from there I had never heard before and I don't think I slept a wink. A finally got annoyed with me jumping up and down in the bed in consternation and yanked me over to the other side of the him and forced me to lie down and curl up.

The best thing about the time so far is that I almost got away. It was the third or fourth walk together and as we came out and when I usually sit as A lights his cigarette before starting, I decided to see what would happen if I yanked as he did this. Sure enough, the leash-handle flew from his hand and I was free. But here's the thing: this is a new leash (one of those extensible ones) and it all snaps back into this really heavy box. So as I ran down the stairs to get away, that fucking box was smacking me in the ass and when I got to the sidewalk my only concern was to get it away from my butt. Needless to say A caught up to me and what made it all so much worse was that Ginger was a few feet away watching this spectacle. She snerfed with disdain and I knew that my wooing of her had taken a giant leap backward.

So, just to assure A that he had not reacquired the upper hand, I decided to add something totally new to my repertoire! As we walked along this lady came over to pet me. At first I did my usual joyful song and dance for her but as her voice hit some level of delight, in octaves only a dog can hear, I decided to bite her. Not a playful bite, but a good little nip on the end of her fingers. She yelped and A pulled me back, apologizing profusely. As we walked away he was completely confused—as was the plan—and was saying, "What the fuck was that all about?!" It was soon forgotten, however, so on a later walk he wasn't expecting anything when this huge, hysterically happy and opera-soprano-high-voiced lady shrieked from across the street how cute I was and made her way towards us. I, again, did the little dance of joy but then, again, bit her too adding a series of maniac snarls for effect. The lady jumped back and said, "Is this normal for him?! Is he angry?! Is he happy?!" A just grinned stupidly, dragging me away, and said, "He's never done such things before." Heheheheh...

Except...

When we were out of view of civilized people he got insanely angry, knelt beside me, bellowed in my face and, for good measure, clomped me in the head with the leash-box. From then on, 'til today, he did not let me approach other people and when a little girl in the schoolyard begged to pet me he told her, in grave tones, "He's a mean dog, sorry."

Now, as I've said, there is a thin line between being the neighbourhood dog who's got 'tude and the neighbourhood dog who's out of his fucking mind and only the truly sick dogs want to cross that line, so I'm going to have to be careful about this or I see in my future short-leash walks and—save us all!—a muzzle. I wouldn't put that past A.

However, I am examining possible escape plans. Winter is coming and I really don't want to do the whole alleys and parks thing again so I thought that—should I get away—I'll run over to Straight Guy (SG)'s house. You know: the one who had the fire and lived here a couple of days? He owes me for taking up my space and maybe he'd keep me safe 'til Mook B gets back or until I can find another place to live. I don't want him to adopt me, no, 'cause I've seen his place (when Mook A was watering his plants this summer) and this guy is way too much of a clean-freak to want a dog around him permanently.

So, as you can see, except for the ghost in the kitchen (I wonder who it is!), nobody is dead and there haven't been any natural disasters.

Yet.

November 23, 2009; Better

Now what?

I am much, much better. But, just for good measure, after all the nausea and diarrhea had passed I took a dump on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night right in front of the fridge. I was hoping Mook A would get up for his midnight pee and glass of water (which he gets from the fridge) but no such luck. However, because I had been sick, I wasn't even punished for it. Must remember that.

I suspect you wonder why dogs eat crap on the street which makes us sick. Well, first: we don't know it's going to make us sick and it all smells good. But, most importantly, second: being a dog is an art and we must suffer for our art.

Meanwhile, my appetite is still not what it was, I'm lazy, the weight is coming back from sheer inertia... Oh! my fucking Christ! I'm turning into Mook A! Before you know it I'll be nerding out online with people named Mouse and Yogi!

I suppose that it's just as well that I'm turning into the Mook as in a piddling 36 hours or so it's going to be him and me alone as Mook B is off to Paris with his fucking iPhone (the better to keep tabs on the battle of wills between me and A). Worse, my other buffer, Cate, is now in Florida and is paying the price of abandoning me—her e-mails report the resort she's staying at is a deadzone. (Which, in Florida, means there's no one around who can wipe his or her own arsehole for the blubber, wrinkles or arthritis).

Right now Mook A and I are enjoying a kind of détente. We spend a lot of time cuddling (for warmth not love, fuckwads!) and watching TV. Thankfully, A is feeling so brainless these days we don't have to slog through his usual favourites—art films—we're getting lots of explosions and blood which is the way I like it; nothing like watching humans blown away or being devoured by zombies to cheer up a condemned dog.

Mook B keeps asking A what he wants from Paris. Indeed, between Cate and B, A is being drowned in solicitousness. I have apparently become invisible. No one asks me what I want from Paris or Florida or fucking anywhere. B has stocked the freezer with all of A's favourite foods but I continue to survive on a diet of crap kibble soaked in store-bought broth. You know what that tastes like? A Floridian's arsehole is what.

The only consolation is that Mook A's own asshole still looks like it belongs to the head cheerleader for the prison football team, so my beloved nurse visits five times a week now with a swing nurse on weekends. I wonder if their code of ethics requires them to report if I'm starving to death, being beaten or have a bladder that's about to explode. Mind, if their code of ethics requires that, I suppose it certainly requires them to report when I kill Mook A in his sleep and eat his fucking face off.

Pray for me.

November 20, 2009; So Sick...

So sick I can't even eat my fucking cookie...just carry it around and sleep with it.

Sooooooooo sick...

Barfing...everywhere...

Shitting...everywhere...

...blood...

Can't eat. Can't sleep. Wander about.

And they gnaw my nuts for being sick even as they try to commiserate. "What did you eat now?" they ask.

I think I know what it is...I think Mook A fed me something to get rid of me before Mook B goes off to Paris on Tuesday.

I'm dying here.

Ack!

November 17, 2009; Two Men and a Phone

Sometimes you can just watch them and not believe your eyes.

You can make suppositions about the dynamics of a given relationship by the way a couple deals with technology. For instance, my ex-owner, Frank, could get his daughter to buy him damn near anything because she knew nothing about technology and he knew just a little bit. He convinced her that he needed a Blu-ray player because his eyes were going and that he needed a better quality picture to be able to watch his movies. What his daughter didn't know is that he had read somewhere that the porn industry was going to switch to Blu-ray and there was nothing so terribly wrong with his eyes. So, basically, Frank got his Blu-ray for his Blue Balls. Frank would see an ad or read an article about some new gadget and he would get it and they would just all pile up around the apartment. The only low-tech thing he had was me.

Even at the puppy mill and the pound there was always some young geek trying to impress some chick way out of his league with his new mp3 player or his new cellular and you could tell if he had an iota of a chance if the chick was vaguely fascinated. (Most were not...like Frank's daughter they were mostly interested in how much skin they could expose and how high they could hike their skin-tight pants up into their snatches.)

Then we have the Mooks. I have pretty much sensed that Mook A is the technoid and Mook B the tech-tard. Every time B wants to watch a movie, for instance, A has to re-explain how the three remotes work. So it was damn odd when, three days ago, B came home with a brand new iPhone. This was not his style at all, especially since his hobby seems to be losing his cels all over creation. Moreover, he had been working for two days at getting the fucking thing and had bounced from one phone store to another getting a different story from each of them and another six different stories from his phone company about whether or not he would be able to upgrade from his current cel plan. So it was somewhat of a miracle when Mook A and I came out of the bathroom from changing his appliance and there was B with an iPhone box and about 80,000 gadgets for the thing spread out all over the kitchen table.

Though the idiot phone was supposed to be able to communicate with B's computer...well, it wasn't. That's when A was drafted to help even though it was clear (to me, at least) that he was choking with envy that B had this wondrous little toy and he did not (being unemployed and desperately poor and all). Whenever B asked a question (in the most weak, shaky and subservient little voice you've ever heard—think Minnie Mouse on a meth low) B would bellow, "Giveitgiveitgiveit! Give...it...to...me!!!" Then A would fiddle about—only impressing B with the fiddling and not fooling me at all—and pronounce, "I do not know why you can't take two minutes to do this and this instead of dragging me into your tech problems every fucking time. Have you never heard of a manual or even the tech help you're paying for!" At this B quailed and dared to say, "Why are you yelling at me?" To which A exploded, "HOW MANY TIMES AND WITH HOW MANY FUCKING COMPUTERS AND ANSWERING MACHINES AND CEL PHONES AND IPODS AND COFFEE-FUCKING-MACHINES HAVE WE BEEN THROUGH THIS!!! YOU BUY THE FUCKING MACHINE ALREADY LOADED WITH FRENCH FROM FRANCE AND WITH FRENCH FROM FRANCE MANUALS AND IT HAS ALL THESE ASSHOLE TECHNICAL TERMS EVEN A FUCKING FROG DOESN'T UNDERSTAND INSTEAD OF GETTING THE MACHINE IN ENGLISH SO I CAN UNDERSTAND AND HELP YOU OUT!!! CALL TECH HELP IF THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE GOING TO DO EVERY FUCKING TIME!!!" At this point, despite the opera calling tech help always represents, B would rather do just that instead of getting another shit-storm from A.

It took hours, but the problems were solved and this is when, my friends, the dynamic shifts from the dominant "tech-savvy" person to the previously slavish techno-tard who, after all, owns the actual coveted object. It was clear, for the rest of the day, that B was delighting in showing A all the wondrous things that the iPhone could do (and it is a great toy).

Late that night, the real winner of the war was declared, though, without B even knowing it. As B slept, music from his iPhone drifting into his dreams, A was alone in the living room re-programming B's ratty cast-off cel phone.

From the bedroom there were the strains of The Police's Greatest Hits, from the other the sad beep-beep-beeps of a little machine which might—one day!—be able to make phone calls...and that's all.

November 14, 2009; Identity Crisis!

A little down the street from us live these two women. One of them is like a thousand years old and she's a bit like one of those crones in a fairy story except her hair is really, really blond. She lives with her daughter who is getting up there, in terms of crone-ism, and her hair is bright, bright red. They have a cat.

Now this cat and I have a strange relationship. Once, while walking with Mook A, the cat seemed to show some interest in me while not showing the hostility that virtually every other cat in the neighbourhood gives me. I started to approach the cat, also without hostility. The redhead told the Mook, "She really, really hates dogs" but that didn't prevent the crone, who had the cat on a leash, from approaching me and the Mook with the animal. It was strange. It was creepy-mysterioso. The cat and I touched noses. The redhead said she'd never seen anything like it.

Three days ago I was in the alley (again with A) and we came up to the apartment building where the biddies and their feline live. The cat was in the backyard behind a fence and when it saw me it came forward to the fence. This is where things get weird. I approached the fence slowly as did the cat. A gave me all the leash that I wanted so I wasn't strangling. The cat and I only had the fence between us now. We could almost touch. I could smell that hideous smell cats have but all that did was to intoxicate me a little. The cat hissed at but it was a gentle—almost lulling—sound and it moved back. I moved back. We both moved forward but so, so slowly. Almost touching again, now, she hissed a little and I noticed that she was a she

and that she stank of something else besides cat...she smelled of wet pussy (if you know what I mean, and I think you do). She moved back, just out of reach, and hissed a little and I felt I had to do something to get her to come forward again so I started to snerf and whimper and hop about. That's when Mook A said, "That's enough" and dragged me off.

"I have no fucking idea what that was all about," he said to me as we left. "I think you're getting really, really crazy and all that back and forth and shit was just a little bit queer, Little One." Note: every time Mook B wants to crawl up my asshole and hit my every nerve he will accuse me of the one thing that hits: queerness. I don't know why...must be a queer thing. But when he calls me queer and uses that epithet, Little One, I want to kill him, myself...the world. But it did make me think. What the fuck was going on between me and that fucking cat? Was it something—ick!—sexual or was that cat trying to dominate me and, from all appearances, succeeding? And what is a dog dominated by a cat but a prison bitch. Might as well just bend over and stay that way.

It gets worse.

Mook A, again, was walking me that night and when we were done he asked Mook B, "Have you ever noticed our dog walks a little faggy?" B laughed but A went on, "You know, he's always rushing ahead and when he rushes without running his back hips sway from side to side and you start to notice how little...and dainty...his paws are and how the nails clicking on the sidewalk sound like high heels."

Fucker! I could have explained that smaller dogs have to walk fast to keep up with their mooks and that we can't help how we look doing it and that all of this is the reason we tend to try to beat up on big dogs because big dogs call us "Sissy" all the time. It's how we are and it's the 'tude and...it's how we are!!!!!

But then it gets so worse.

Two night ago I was rough-housing on the couch with B. It was wild and wooly and before I knew it I was trying to hump his arm and had a massive hard on. All play stopped. A said, "Well...there you go. He's gay after all!" B laughed—laughed!—and said, "You think we've turned him?" There was much mirth between the two of them but I wasn't laughing. Not laughing at all.

Yesterday, as a kind of joke between them and the world, the Mooks bought me a new collar. It had studs on it and was made of black leather and the brand name was Harley Davidson. They both thought this was riotous but I'll tell you now: I am going to earn those studs.

Watch me.

November 11, 2009; Unexpected Journeys

And what about me, fuckwads?

It's been a weird couple of days (but then again, in my fucked up life, when are they not weird, dammit!).

Firstly, I'm off my food. I don't know what it is, but I can be perfectly satisfied with my vittles and then, suddenly, the stuff they are putting in my bowl tastes like ass. To try to get me to lose weight, they have been mixing chicken broth (low-cal the fuckers) with my kibble. This was okay because I like the smell of dead poultry as much as the next hound. But no one can eat the same goddam crap, day in day out. So I stopped eating. I figured the Mooks would get the point and change the stuff but then, last night, Mook A declared, "I am not going to change that fuckin' dog food every three fuckin' months just because the Little Princess suddenly decides he doesn't like it! When he's hungry enough, he'll eat whatever shit we put in front of him." Yeah, well...I'll show the mofo what I can eat and I'll also show him what I can shit and, more importantly, where I can shit.

Meanwhile...

Yesterday Cate came for a visit and after they all ate a nice chicken dinner (and I ate nothing) they settled down to watch a movie. I wasn't quite yet in the mood to settle down so I started to play with Cate. She was up for it and we started to have a good wrestle. Here's the thing: I'm not absolutely sure, but I think she might be up for a little inter-species slap and tickle 'cause she didn't seem to be the least bit perturbed when my pink snake began to make an appearance. In fact, she just laughed harder. However, the Mooks (those two horny, homo hypocrites) stopped the fun and games as soon as my one-eyed mole showed itself.

Then...

Ack! Ack! Ack!

Cate and Mook B started to talk about traveling. They weren't talking about it in some vague, hypothetical way either! At the end of this week Cate is going off on a road trip for a month and—oh! my! god!—Mook B is going off to Paris at the end of the month and he'll be gone for two weeks! Do you have any idea what this means? It means that for two weeks I'll be stuck here, alone, with the man who is already calling me Piggy, Princess and a slew of other awful names and who is showing no patience for my little idiosyncrasies! I am going to be here, alone, in this prison with Mook A!

This is not good.

Sure, A is good for a cuddle from time to time and he is responsible for two of my four walks a day but he's impatient with me. If he doesn't want to cuddle we don't cuddle (whereas with everyone else, they pretty much bend to my will). If I want to go one way during a walk (ie: towards something that smells good and borderline-edible) and he wants to go the other way, he'll yank me so hard that we always, always, always go his way. Mook B is my bitch. If I want a cuddle, he picks me up, and if I want to eat roadkill he pretty much lets me. He also responds when I am ready to go out (instead of doing as A does: taking me out when it's time...his time). In bed I can take up as much space as I want and Mook B just moves out of the way. I have an odd feeling that if I am not sleeping on the cold, cold floor—when I'm alone with A—that there might be like a square foot of space he allows me on the bed and that will just not do for a wandering body like mine.

And food—my god!—food! Will I actually eat when B's away? Will A be so hardcore about not giving me something that will please me that I may just have to swallow my pride and eat a bowl of ass? I'd rather starve!

And what if A gets sick! I mean, let's face it, he's not the healthiest specimen of humanhood! Sure, the nurse comes three times a week but will she save me as she's loading A into an ambulance or will she forget me, leave me behind so that I just sit here for two weeks hoping against hope that someone remembers me? Hoping that someone feeds me, walks me, takes care of me! The Straight Guy (SG) lives two blocks away but he's so caught up with getting the smoke out of his building that he won't be running here to look after me. I don't think he even likes me and lord knows I'm not overly fond of him.

How can Cate and B just go off and leave me to this monster!

I'll die! I know I will!

November 8, 2009; More Life Lessons from a Hard Ass Dog

Professor Léo speaks. The wise listen.

- Nothing bothers humans like a dog who scoots. Even if you don't have an itch, do it. Think of it as combing your arse hair and always do it on a rug or a piece of upholstered furniture. It's the little things—like zipping your anus across the shag—which count in the war between us and them. And the best thing? They invariably think it's something they're doing wrong.

- When they want you to do a "trick" (with me it's singing) build up a good head of steam—get insanely excited—and shriek like you're the big-titted teenager in a movie with a horde of zombies on your tail. It's not at all what they wanted as tricks go, but they did want you to do something—it's their fault if you didn't understand what. Shrieking works two ways: you "obeyed" and, if you're lucky, you get on the last nerve of someone else in the household and soon you have them fighting because one of them got you hysterical. Beauty.

- After they have washed or bathed, "love" them. Cover their faces, hands—whatever bare skin is available—with dog slobber. If you've just eaten (and it's something really rancid) even better, because in the guise of "kissing" you have turned this soap-smelling sissy into something with the pong of like carrion. It's "love" for them, power for you.

- When you are "playing" with a human, try to stay behind them; this way you can get a good mount on before they notice they're being fucked and general consternation sets in. Remember: they are your bitches.

- Remember the three Ds: Dash, Disorient, Destroy. When out or in, run, run, run. Nothing determines control like one keeping the other wondering—wondering what you're running to, what you smell, might eat or plow your nose into, or what you might accost. Eventually they will try to exert power, this is when you Disorient—run back to them, behind, in front of them, around them, wrapping the leash in and out of their legs as you heed their command. Soon they're spinning like a dreidle at Chanukah. Then Destroy—a good swift yank on the leash and even if they don't fall you do cut the circulation off in their legs. How can they get mad? You "obeyed" didn't you?

- Mumble and whimper for nothing. My Mooks' hair stands on end if I so much as yawn funny. It becomes a case of "What does he want???!!!" Then there is the hilarious back and forth of trying to guess until they give me something nice like a walk (I may have diarrhea after all) or a seat on the couch (I may need attention). But be careful—too much whimpering could get them probing your mouth, skin and—God forbid!—arsehole for "problems." Worst case scenario: you're off to the vet. Rectal thermometers are never amusing.

- If you are on a walk and sniff something interesting (food, maybe?) then pretend to pee as you investigate and/or eat. My Mooks never let me follow my nose (something to do with the various occasions they had to fish plastic, leaves or branches out of my butt), but they always give me the time to pee and, being stupid humans, often look away as I do. The world then becomes a buffet! Dish it up!

- "Nice" is a weapon. If you hear the phrase "Good dog!" and you have not actually set out to be such a beast, then you have done the equivalent of shooting your wad into your own eye. Humans get exasperated and they get that way very easily. If you wish to have the upper hand, this is when you must be "nice." Lick noses, lie down and show your belly in submissive pose, lean into their legs like you cannot live without them or simply sit when they tell you to. Past transgressions are almost immediately forgotten and future ones forgiven in advance.

- In dealing with guests, remember the last paragraph. Dogs who get territorial with growls or bites are bush league. That's the surest way to get banished to another room and miss out on idiot guests feeding you treats you're normally not allowed to have or pulling you up onto a sofa or chair you're not allowed to sit on. However: guests are your enemy! This is your space and guests always have a tendency to stay too long and to take up far too much of your world. This is when "nice" matters. Show the unwanted visitor how "cute" you are by "playing" with them. Shriek at them in excitement. Play with their shoes (while, also, ripping them apart), jump and dance and sing even as you nip and tug (and tear) clothing and inflict the tiniest (but also most painful) little wounds on digits and limbs. As mentioned in previous discussions, this is also when, with female guests, you explore. Depending on your region or breed, this practice is known as Beaver Boring, Snatch Snorting or Cooter Cuddling. Before long everyone is a mess of twitches and tics of embarrassment and wants to get out as quickly as possible; you, on the other hand, have done nothing but be sweet to the callers.

November 5, 2009; Fire!

Just above the car to the right is SG's balcony. Get the picture?

The evening was odd to begin with. I was alone with Mook A and he was playing his idiot game. Then he gave me my evening walk (which is normally B's job) and settled down to watch TV. Where was B? At a meeting of his professional association. Then it was very late and A went to bed, inviting me to come and cuddle with him. I did, of course (as all beds are mine in this place and must be claimed and reclaimed) and promptly fell asleep.

At one in the morning, B finally came home and he was a basket case because his meeting had gone wretchedly. I nodded awake to hear a bit of it but it was same-old, same-old though A was very consoling. B was a mess of nerves so A proposed to give him a couple of tranquilizers. I thought, "Oh-oh!" 'cause B had already smoked a joint and had a couple of beers to try to decompress.

Yadda-yadda-yadda on it went and then—what's this!?—the doorbell rang at two. B went down and I heard this familiar voice and wondered if it was worth getting out of the bed for. But the decision was made for me when A got up and went to the door. There was their friend, a straight guy (we'll call him SG) who's pretty cool about my two homos. But he wasn't cool. He was babbling, talking about a fire or some damn thing and then changing the subject about 80 times. Soon he was ushered into the house and it looked like he was spending the night (goddammit as if the fucking place isn't small enough for him to be horning in on my space!).

The deal was that SG's apartment building was apparently burning to the ground; he had been getting ready for bed, had seen an odd light at the window, gone to look and had been met by a wall of flames shooting over his balcony from the building next door. He grabbed what he could and came right over the the Mooks. The Mooks were properly condoling but then it just started to get weird as SG proposed, and the Mooks accepted, to take a walk to go look at the fire and, worse, to bring me with them. Hey, Fuckbrains!, it's 2:30 in the fucking a.m. and I need my fucking sleep, not some little quest into the cold, dark night! But nobody ever picks up on my moods so off we went.

I was in no hurry to get there as the night smelled good and I had some pissing to do, as long as we were out there. In a few minutes, though, we were watching the firemen break into SG's apartment while smoke poured out of the building next door and flames still shot out of windows here and there. Moreover, the cars parked behind the burning building had all blown up and there was a big autumn-dry tree that was threatening to explode and shoot burning leaves all over the neighbourhood. SG wasn't going to be sleeping in his bed that night, that's for sure. We watched the spectacle for way too long and I was starting to get cold. I tried to make the point that I wanted to leave by pestering all these weird people who, for some reason, were wandering about in their pyjamas and house-coats. What was spooky is that there must have been rats living in the vicinity of the fire as, suddenly, I was hearing all these weird, squeaky, noises and little skitters in the darkness. Finally, after I had put my muddy paws on one-too-many pyjama-ed people, we all toddled back to the Mooks'.

But—fercrissakes!—they weren't done yet. They drank tea and smoked cigarettes and chattered away and then SG asked B if he wouldn't mind coming with him, back to the conflagration, to see if the firemen would let him into his place to get some stuff. So off they went. A, I could see, was getting good and fucked up as he had taken his medication and was visibly wobbly. So we retired to his bed—again!—and were settling down for the night when the two other goofs came back. The firemen had told them to return in 20 minutes to get stuff out of the building.

I had a look at Mook B. There was something wrong with him. His eyes were sort of crossed and he was walking funny. I could tell his brain waves were off and that there were synapses in that pointy little head of his that were not connecting. But off B and SG went again. A decided there was no point going to bed just yet so he went outside onto the balcony to smoke and I sat in the kitchen wondering when the fuck this would all be over so I could get some motherfucking shut-eye. Why does everything happen to me!

Back they came, with a suitcase full of stuff. And on they went—talktalktalktalktalktalk. B looked really weird now and went off to his bedroom for a bit. No moves were being made towards beds or even preparation for sleep, so I sat on my little rug and snerfed with pissed-offedness. Suddenly there was B and something was very wrong with him. And the doofus was trying—politely—to move SG away from the bathroom door. SG was so preoccupied he didn't get this was happening and then there was the gusher: B puking up and down the bathroom door, on the floor, in the bathroom and, eventually, into the toilet. Not a pretty sight. And not pretty sounds, either, as when B is hurling it sounds like he's trying to snot out his stomach through his nose.

But here's another thing about couplehood: A just started to unroll a streamer of paper towel and as he continued to talk to SG about the fire and any damn thing that came into SG's head (as he wasn't particularly lucid at this point) A just went about the business of cleaning up the barf.

Finally...Finally!...they were talking about going to bed. I didn't wait as all of this was phenomenally tedious to me. I went to bed, B joined me and we fell asleep as A and SG yammered on in the kitchen until the fucking cows came home.

The next morning SG left to check the damage. The Mooks were sipping coffee when A, revealing far too much about his feelings, asked B what SG had been wearing when he got up. "The housecoat you lent him." Silence. "Do you think he's sexy?" A asked. My ears perked up. There was a brief hesitation before B said, "No." A snorted and I snerfed. You see, about a month ago A had told B, "I ran into SG on the street and he told me that he had seen you walking along and before he recognized you he had thought to himself, 'There's an attractive man.'" When B was told that story he did something I had only read about in books written by lady novelists: he simpered and blushed and said nothing but said everything.

Over the next day or so you could cut the sexual tension with a knife, though SG was completely oblivious of this. It's not like the Mooks tried to catch SG when he was changing clothes or naked in the bathroom or anything but I did notice that when SG was in that famous housecoat it was open down to his navel and A would become like those horny straights—the ones who, when they talk to a member of the opposite sex, never raise their eyes above tit-level. B was more coy about it but the whole scene became like one of those sordid Southern Gothic plays where a stranger comes into town and fucks with everyone's head.

However, when everyone was fully clothed it was a different matter. During those periods the three of them would just chatter on about "intellectual" things and then pat each other on the back for being so smart.

All I knew was this: I was not getting enough sleep, SG had the fucking nerve to put his wet shoes on my sleeping mat, my couch was being used for a bed or for the guys to talk instead of being reserved for me, and when I tried to poke SG into playing he had the unmitigated gall to push me away! And the fucker was a houseguest! (Who doesn't know that I pissed on his shoes...no one pushes me away.)

Finally, yesterday, SG was able to go home and not a moment too soon. Just before he left, though, I realized it was time to reassert my dominance and I got to do that in a most unexpected way. Mook B was taking me on my evening walk and decided he needed to make a stop at the local convenience store. Instead of taking me into it so I could warm myself a little, the fucking twat tied me to a tree! While he was in there this asshole drunk came over and started to "bark" at me. Fuck, he was pissing me off but he was staying just out of chomping range. Until, of course, I broke the leash. That's when B came out of the store, saw that I was free!free!free! and came after me.

After two days of playing fourth-fiddle to a straight guy—sexy or not (but who slept on my couch)—I figured it was time for the Mook to earn my love. So I ran and he ran. And I stopped and he tried to cajole me to come to him. And I ran and he ran and I stopped. Cajole. Run. Stop. Cajole. And all the time I was thinking: Work, you fucker! Work!

Four blocks later, and a couple of dashes across main arteries, I figured my bed and a little warmth might be a nice thing right now. I let the Mook catch me (and, of course, drown me in kisses of gratitude and adoration), and we went home.

But—my fucking stars and garters!—SG was sitting there smoking and blathering away with Mook A like it was still fucking party time! I started to think that they were all fucking queer for each other and just gave up. I went to sleep in the office where it was nice and dark and relatively quiet while the three of them said their endless goodbyes and lied about how fun and pleasant the SG's stay had been. I mean they must have been lying because no one can be that inconvenienced, not get any fucking out of it and be happy about anything.

The house is quiet. The Mooks are tired. Life is getting back to normal.

However, I did had to tear a cushion apart this morning just to remind the Mooks not to do anything like that ever again unless the fire victim comes with a bitch with a little fire in her for me.