February 27, 2009; A week ends...

So it was announced, yesterday, that I had gone eight days without an "accident" and the Mooks were going on and on about how I was now a perfect fit and yadda yadda yadda. So I figured I'd remind them who was the boss—despite all this NILIF nonsense (which they are still nuts about). So I peed on the couch. Strangely this did not cause the normal hysterics and I suspect it's because they're both exhausted; B from working his ass off and using all his spare time to go mental and A—well A...everyone knows how tiring being unemployed and doing nothing can be.

Meanwhile, we had a little panic this week because, it turns out, that I am becoming covered in spots. So off went A to the internet and he found all sorts of stuff about Black Skin Disease which had me scabbing and oozing and stinking up the joint. If there's one thing I can say in my defense it's that I do not fucking stink. Then Mook A Googled "black spots Jack Russell" and found out that I will be changing my skin colour for a bit yet. The Mooks made a joke that I was channeling Cosmo, the late great dalmatian. Hardy har har.

So now it's the weekend and they better not be too tired to keep me occupied, the fuckers, 'cause when I get bored...well, you know.

 

February 25, 2009; Adjustments

Things are not good at Mook Manor. A was laid off of his job. (I'm starting to think that two shoes to the head of that fucking idiot wasn't enough—for what he did to the world economy he deserved the Imelda Marcos collection at least.) 

A is a sad case. He is still being seen by a nurse three times a week to deal with the wounds of a surgery he had four months ago. (This has the added benefit of me getting kitchy-koos from a bunch of disease-carrying Florence and Felix Nightingales.) Then A's dog died. Now he has lost his job. 

Meanwhile B is at least employed. Too employed. He has two jobs, is president of a professional association and is trying to start up a business. When he isn't on the phone or answering his e-mail he is climbing the walls with stress. Can you say: heart attack?

"Singing" (turn down your sound...this one blasts)

Mook A took me in his arms when he got the bad news about his job and said, "No matter what, you'll be taken care of. I'll starve before I stop feeding you." I should hope so, you fucking loser! Get a job!

February 23, 2009; The Legacy

Bohemian Léo

It has been five days since my last "accident", I am constantly reminded, and see that the Mooks are getting pretty complacent. Might have to shake things up soon. 

Meanwhile, got my stitches out and dared to have a look at the catastrophe between my legs. A sadder sight you have not seen: that little empty sack flapping about in the breeze below that wondrous thing which used to do other things besides just pee. Lordie, there will come a day of judgement for this vile race and all they have done to us.

When I arrived here, and even now, from time to time, the Mooks call me Cosmo instead of my slave-name, Léo. I wondered who this Cosmo was and have gleaned from conversations that he was the last poor beast who inhabited this place. I knew there had been one—his smell is everywhere—but I knew nothing about him except that he peed high (and I, as you can imagine from my puniness, pee low).

The late, great Cosmo

As it turns out, the pictures placed around the house are of this famous Cosmo. Let me just say this: if I was to swing that way, I'd do him. A fine specimen not just of Dalmatian but of glorious, masculine dog. I wondered how he survived in this place full of homo-sickuals; his butchness must have been tested on a daily basis. I mean the size of him screams "virile" where as my size doesn't scream anything—more like it whispers and the whispers ain't nice. 

Anyway, from what I have heard Cosmo did his job as all pound dogs should when he arrived: he annointed everything (especially soft furniture), but slowly he was domesticated, especially after he too was mutilated as I have been. He soon became the subject of the humiliations I am already enduring, though his abuse was more public and took the form of him modeling for Christmas cards.

Christmas Cosmo (the poor fuck)

I wonder what fate awaits me now...what sissification program they have in store for me. I have nothing against their "lifestyle" as long as they don't want to recruit me. Sean Penn can give all the solemn Oscar speeches about "them" that he wants, but that doesn't mean I want to become a boy in that band. 

I take a moment of silence and grieve my late brother, Cosmo, who gave so much. I hope he comes back in a better, happier life and pees on both their graves.

Amen.

February 20, 2009; What I'm dealing with...

Russian Granny Léo

As the humiliation continues (see the photos...gawd!), let me tell you what I'm dealing with:

Mook A was talking on the phone with a friend and explaining the process they took to get me out of the pound and into their own prison. Mook A had to fill in forms and there was one block that asked "What are you planning for your new dog" followed by a list of options with little squares where you had to put a checkmark: working dog, play with children, guard dog, breeding. At the end of this list was another square for "Other" with a line to write something in. Mook A wrote: Love.

Street Léo

This goes to show you what fucking Pollyannas I'm dealing with. I wonder about the imaginary world they live in: lollipops instead of trees and green licorice instead of grass. I can deal with real people in a real universe but I'm not sure what to do with these two Space Cadets.

Meanwhile was watching the news last night (hey! what do you think we're doing when you force us to lie on your laps, dammit!) and saw that that black guy was visiting the country. He looks okay, especially compared to the mega-Mook who was president before. I'm not saying someone should have shot that last one (assassinations are messy things and usually make martyrs out of the worst assholes) but if anyone deserved to have a shoe pitched at his bean it was him. 

Don't like the politics? Sue me! What the fuck else do I have to do in this stupid little apartment where, apparently, life is so nice that everyone farts clouds of candy floss.

Intello Léo

February 18, 2009; The Gospel according to NILIF

Okay, I peed on the bed again and then, for good measure, I peed on the couch, expecting that this time they would finally let me go out of exhaustion. But no. They went on the internet and they got wise to what I was up to. (Christ! I hate the way they network!) Now, I have no access to the couch or the bed until Mook B turns in and lets me up. They let me sleep on a little ottoman near the window and when I get on their nerves it's, "Bed!" and I am expected to fly onto it and be a "good boy." Yeeej!

But Mook A found something else...something terrible...on the internet. It's NILIF. It's a...gulp!...dog-training philosophy and it stands for Nothing In Life Is Free. What it means is that the trainer/master/slaver never gives anything to the dog/slave without the latter earning it. If I want to get up on the couch or get cuddled or have a walk or even something insignificant like getting my ears scratched, I have to obey some arbitrary command like "sit" or "give paw" just so the Mooks can show me who's the boss. If I do what they want, they do what I want. Fuck! How long before the transaction includes oral sex and sodomy?

Figure 1.: The Look

Figure 2.: The "Snooze" (with sound effects of sighing etc.)

What makes this especially infuriating is that I had it made. I had two tricks to get them to do what I wanted when I wanted it done: the look (see fig. 1) and, if I was close by or in their arms, closing my eyes (see fig. 2) and snorting in that contented way faggotty little lap dogs have when they're warm. Now the look and the snooze thing don't work. I have to perform some irrational party trick to please their fucking Holinesses.

So I really have to get away. A small dog without dominance in a household is just a bitch.

Nothing is Working; February 16, 2009

Film: A Zen Moment

On the third day, when they thought everything was going to be perfect, I got them: pissed on the bed while they were otherwise occupied. I thought surely they would let me go. But all they did was get sad and explain to each other that this was something they would both have to get used to for a while because I was "adapting." Idiots.

Then there was the botched escape which would have worked if I hadn't let my own fucking drives get in the way. The bitch...who knew she was a collaborator. (When the revolution happens we're going to have to deal with all these Mommy's-Little-Babies.)

Then yesterday I pissed on the bed again. Nothing again. Then there were visitors later and I thought this was my chance. I danced and yodeled and entertained and thought they would all let their guard down, especially when the guests went to leave. But don't listen to what other dogs tell you. The enemy is not stupid. Worse, I was playing hard with one of them and, dammit if the drive didn't get in the way again and I didn't find myself humping her arm. Suddenly they weren't going "awwww" anymore, just "ewwwww" and that's no good if you want people to let their guard down. One of the visitors even said, "You're going to have to keep him on a tight leash because, castrated or not, he still had certain drives—still has hormones in his system." I hate her.

So now I'm a little lost. I have crazy-ass zen moments and then I have moments where they think I am playing when I'm actually practicing to kill them all in their sleep. They can go "awwwww" all they want. Soon the gurgling blood of their torn throats will be muffling any sound they make.

Film: Preparing the Murder

The Great Escape; February 13, 2009

I knew the friend was coming in the morning and I knew Mook A would let me go down to greet her. What they didn't know is that I had been planning this for three days and they expected nothing; I could tell because when Mook A opened the door, he and the friend yelled in horror as I bolted.

Off I ran with cries of, "Léo! Léo!" becoming ever more frantic (and fainter) behind me.

Off across a street where traffic was light. Off across the main shopping street. Off across another one-lane street. Off across a four-lane thoroughfare. Running and jumping and dancing and stopping from time to time to sniff another dog or evade someone who thought I was lost or some collaborator who was trying to prevent my escape.

Now the voices in the distance were mournful. But what was to stop me? I still have the bright red wound between my legs, a collar around my neck and—Jesus H. Christ!—they've put one of those faggy foulards on me that all the other dogs laugh at!

Off west, this time—block after block after block and then...there she was...my ruin; my downfall; my femme fatale.

One thing you should know: just because you don't have balls doesn't mean you don't want to hump something. So I followed the bitch home. Her slavemaster let me. I even followed the lovely-haired madonna/whore into her house and, slam, I was caught. 

My dick had done it to me again, goddammit! And sure enough, 20 minutes later, Mook B appeared. There is some nasty network among them where all dogs belong to everyone and all of them squeal on all the other dogs. It's fascism and we are the oppressed.

All the way home, on a leash, I was angry. All the way home Mook B was weeping. When I got home, though, Mook A shouted at me, "You little bastard!" 

But his eyes were red too. Well lick my empty scrotum both of you. (Except you might like that!)

Dancing With The Enemy; February 11, 2009

I can tell a lot about a person from the music they listen to. I've had a wander around the Mooks' CD racks and it's frightening.

Mook A (the stocky one) likes German opera—the kind where a chorus of half-a-hundred hefty Herren and fifty fat Fräuleins try to drown out an aria sung by an adenoidal tenor and a soprano who is shrieking like a castrated Hitler. 

Mook B (the skinny one) likes folk. Not the good stuff but the kind where some dollar-store Sonny and Cher stink up the stage with an aroma of patchouli, pot, week-old-sweat and their own foul talent. 

The songs are the same in German or cracker-barrel English: love duets where everything is sugar and nothing is good, hard, doggie-style fucking (the kind where you lock in and not even a bucket of water can pull you apart...like with Gigi, a real slut of a shih tzu back in the hood).

If I ever get out of here, I have to send flowers to Steve Jobs for inventing the iPod. Can you imagine if I had to listen to that music as often as they do? I wouldn't be drinking from the toilet, I'd be drinking Drano. 

Out of the Hospital; February 10, 2009

My God...look what they done to my boys!

Sooooo tired...

Let me sleep. 

Let me dream of revenge.

Awaiting the Horror; February 9, 2009

What would you call a relationship that begins with you being castrated? Fucked, right? So I am in a pen at the SPCA, minding my own business. (They'd picked me up wandering about in a very rich neighbourhood, but nobody had ever claimed me. Just as well...the people I lived with before had no idea...) The two middle-aged men (what's up with that!?) come in and I do my little dance, right—there's always a possibility they have food—and they do the standard-issue "Awwww" thing that everyone does before they leave me alone, minding my own business as I said.

But these two do have food and take me into the visiting room and dandle it in front of me, the bastards.

So I sit and there's that "Awww" shit again and before you know it, they're taking me for a little walk. That's when I knew this wasn't just a couple of mooks coming for a visit. They didn't know I understood French...Lord knows, I wish I didn't.

 

Now I wait. It's happening tomorrow. And I wait.