March 30, 2009; Black Friday

Faux-hawk Léo

Friday was a big day and I am still recovering.

While Mook A was being tended to by his nurse, Mook B has the audacity to go out and leave me alone. Well, there's always a way to deal with that: eat something valuable. I found the connector to the fax machine and made quick work of it.

Mistake...I almost immediately started feeling awful—something about undigested plastic in your gut and trying to get it out. It wouldn't come up and I knew it would just go on and then...Lordie!...come out the other end. I tried to remember how big a piece of plastic I had swallowed—fast!—when A came at me after the nurse left. It must have been big all I knew at the time is that I had to get rid of the evidence. 

As I was dealing with this the Mooks decided it was finally time for my bath and although, on principle, I am against this kind of fiddling about with my person, the hot water did feel good, especially with my digestion working overtime.

That night even the Mooks knew something was wrong because I did not want any supper. I just wanted to go to bed.

The next day I was firing off gas with the frequency and pungency of a week-old cadaver. It got so bad even I couldn't stand it and kept changing places in the house, trying to leave behind a smell that would make a puppy-mill hound weep. The Mooks opened the windows and A said of the smell and of me, "I think he's already dead and just walking around. Zombie dog." Ha-fucking-ha mofo.

Saturday night, relief. It wasn't pretty, it was on the rug, and it did not smell as if I had shot a bouquet of roses out my arse. The Mooks freaked. A even took a pill and bitched about me being a retard, again and that he could not deal with another sick dog.

I slept like the dead and has returned to normal. Just goes to show you: you really should watch what you eat. 

The Bath

March 27, 2009: The Show

Sometimes you just need a little nap in the sun

The Mooks keep screwing with me, trying to get me to compromise on my principles. For instance, with food. 

When I came here I was so hungry I'd have eaten any crap which is what the Mooks served in the shape of some dry, tasteless kibble. Worse, it had no odour. Everyone knows flavour starts in the nose. After a couple of days of eating this shit, I stopped and they panicked and started adding this wonderfully odiferous and juicy wet food to the mix. Yummy. Then one night they tried to get me to eat it dry again. Stupidly, I thought they were out of the good stuff and bunged it down anyway. They then decided to keep on with just the kibble. 

Hunger strike time. Two days went by and I would nibble the kibble, stop, sigh and sit down as if in mourning for my life. Finally, back came the good stuff. Then, last night, Mook B decided to get cute and filled the bowl with just kibble. He shook the bowl, thinking the clatter of the "food" would give me a hard-on or something. I just turned my head. Mexican standoff. Of course he gave in and the good stuff came out because they both know what I'm capable of when I'm really pissed.

The other thing is this NILIF atrocity still reigns. The problem? When it's time to go out, I get really excited; I can't help myself and go a little berserk. (Any walk can turn into an esc ape, you see.) Now they expect the show each time, figuring that the walk I deserve is something I should earn. (Nothing in life is free, say the fuckwads.) So now my natural excitement has been turned into a show and no one moves to the door 'til I do the fucking thing. 

I hate them I hate them I hate them.

The show

March 22, 2009; Toy Story

I finally turned fucking Mr. Snowman into an amputee. He's the "toy" the Mooks gave me, sure that it was indestructible. It still had the late Cosmo's slobber all over it and I'm sure the smiling snowy jackass was in one piece because the great dalmatian didn't have the killer instinct. I've been working on that white bastard hard. Next the other arm and the prick's head.

Mr. Snowman—not so smiley now, are you, Motherfucker!

The Mooks don't get that a toy, for me, is whatever I can murder. It's not fun. It's survival and nourishment. Like that squeaky think whose screaming I stopped for good. Or that rubber thing that kept me out of that room and off the bed; it's in doorstop heaven now.

The doorstop before burial.

I am so tired of being held back, told "no" and picked up to keep me from killing and devouring something—squirrel, dog or garbage. My spirit is breaking. Thank God for pillows.

A pillow thingy. Did you know these things have guts you can eat and they're tasty. Problem is they don't stay down (or in, as the case may be).

March 19, 2009; They have their uses...

I have finally found a use for the Mooks: saving my life.

At last they gave me a little liberty and allowed me to go out onto the balcony to watch (ie: hunt...but they don't know that) squirrels. There was one playing in the yard, two floors down, and I stuck my head through the balcony railing. Mook B said, "Shouldn't we stop him?" Mook A: "He can't get his shoulders through." It was true then, but a little while later when B was working inside and A was reading his paper, smoking, drinking coffee and not paying any attention (there is always that moment if you wait for it), I got my shoulders through the railing. 

The problem? That's all I could got through. So there I was hanging out there, my front feet floating above 30 feet of nothing, and my ass not getting through the railings so I could jump or fall, as the case may be. So I started to push this way and that and now my shoulders weren't coming back to terra firma and it was nuts. I guess I was making noise 'cause A threw down his paper, bellowed and grabbed me by the ass and yanked me back. 

I was relieved except by what he was saying: "You are the most retarded dog I have ever met; truly the mind boggles at how stupid you are." I bet he wouldn't say that to Neil Armstrong or Vasco da Gama or any human explorers. However, the fact remains that if I had fallen through the railings there was nothing to stop me becoming yard-kill, unlike other times I've done it. (Like once before with my last slave-owners where I dropped into a gutter just below the balcony and toddled along all around the house before coming back in...dogs can do that if you let them.)

What I get to see of the balcony now...from inside the door

Later, Mook B also saved my life...sort of. I like to meet other dogs but I also like to fight other dogs. B is trying desperately to "socialize" me so he lets me, during our walks, go for a sniff if we meet a pooch on the street (they're all pooches and dandiesand Lassies out there...no real dogs anymore. Usually I don't like what I sniff and go straight for the idiot's jugular (a snarl at this point always helps the drama). Most times, the other goomer backs off; big or small, they're almost always cowards. But sometimes they don't and...well...I could get killed. That's when Mook B yanks hard on the leash and I go flying back out of danger. Just to show I'm no pussy, though, I do continue to snarl and if the two of us are still kept apart I let out one of those blistering SAVE ME SAVE ME I'M BEING BEATEN TO DEATH!!! screams. Yeah, Mook B may have saved me, but he's not allowed to be proud of it. 

So, slowly, I'm developing a nice rep in the hood for being the crazy fuck who jumps off balconies and beats up dogs ten times his size or just screams like a lunatic off his meds.

I like it.

Vikki with some fat married pervert with a cheap watch

PS: Received an e-mail from my cousin Vikki and she's not doing well. She's a spirited old bitch who's easy to love. My thoughts are with her.

March 15, 2009; Tricks of the Trade

Me

My Tormentor

When I heard about this NILIF (Nothing in life is free) thing going into effect with me and the Mooks (see February 18), I figured it was time I came up with some strategies of my own to show them who was really the boss.

I've already done pretty well with "the look" (also February 18). When they're in that warm fuzzy place, I can get them to do just about anything. However I needed to dominate the walks, the only time when I am out of the house and, also, outside of their comfort zone.

For instance, today I almost got away again. It's something I've been working on for weeks: the shit and sprint. You start off by having a dump, then the Mook (in this case B) leans over to pick it up with a baggie (fuck, these humans are wacked out), and then he sets to tying a knot in the bag and while he's doing that (and especially if he has gloves on) he is fumbling about, hardly holding on to the leash and they you GO GO GO!!!!! The leash goes flying out of his hands and you're off.

Always be pulling and, if you can, get them to walk into polls.

Today it was hilarious. Mook B yelling and crying and slipping on the ice as I ran ran ran. Then, again, those traitorous others... I stopped to sniff this old golden lab—just a big, slow-witted boob—when his mistress grabbed my leash and held on 'til Mook B, gloriously sweaty and out of breath, caught up. Dammit. But the sight of him all panting and relieved and grateful was almost worth the loss of freedom.

Another great trick, and I tried it yesterday on Mook A, is shaming. During the walks I want to smell things, eat things, meet things, hunt things—garbage, other dog's crap, candy wrappers, dogs, squirrels—but since the Great Escape (see February 13), A holds onto the leash like it's tied to a life buoy and yanks me back whenever I get too close to something His Mookship doesn't approve of. So here's what I did: there was a blue-eyed German shepherd I absolutely wanted to meet but the Mook yanked, yanked, yanked and the shepherd's mistress did too. So I pulled the leash to its limit and let out a symphony of screams as if I was being beaten like the red-haired stepchild. It was a perfect noise because even those within earshot who didn't think I was being kicked about would have thought I was under a car. Time on the street stopped as I shrieked. People came out of their homes and halted on the sidewalk, looking for the pulverized little dog-body under the car or the bleeding victim of torture. 

All saw perfect little old me and Mook A, looking as guilty as you can look without a noose around your neck. He tried to explain, through the shrieking, that this was the first time I'd done that. You always win the upper hand if they have to admit it's the first time you've done something because it suggests they don't know their dog well and don't know how to deal with him.

So, fellow slaves, there is NILIF, yes. But it can also mean: Now I'm Leader, Idiot Fuckwad.

March 11, 2009; Running Around

Spotted Dick (a British dessert)

Spotted Dick (a Canadian desert)

Everyone in Mook Manor is running around. Mook A is running around trying to get on social assistance (which, from the look on his face when he came back from the government offices today, does not look like a fun thing). Mook B is running around like he is always running around; fifty things at once and all dipped in hysteria. Even their friend, who came on Sunday and was so much fun, also lost her job and is running around for another one too. The world is nuts.

What this means is that I have to do my own running around. (Go to film—and a darker, muddier, cheaper looking film you haven't seen...but you'll get the picture.)

I wonder if the running around will ever stop on their parts so they can spend a little time paying attention to me. Might be time to anoint a bed or a rug again.

March 9, 2009; Walkies!

Yesterday the Mooks had a friend over—not a bad person, as persons go—and Mook A thought it might be nice to go for a walk with me and his friend.

I don't know what he had in mind—maybe some nice little sylvan thing with picnics in the park and the sun shining over a scene of peace and joy—but I know what I had in mind: staking out my territory.

At first it was the same-old-same-old of "sit" and "heel" and "short leash" and "behave." Leashes mean nothing to me. They're short, they're long, I don't give a shit; I run. Keep up. Mook A wasn't keeping up and fell on a patch of ice and nearly broke his neck. Sadly it was only nearly. 

The Mook was trying to be nice about it, with his friend looking on, but I could hear that he was getting pissed at me as we went into the park. Being a Sunday, the park was dog heaven. Being winter/spring, the park was a sea of water, mud and the emergence of piles of dog shit released from their coats of snow. It was beautiful! I was running all over the place! Burying my nose in a pile of shit here, running over to a pile of garbage there, dancing in the mud, splashing in the water. 

But then there were the other dogs. I don't know why the humans don't get that I'm not fucking around. This is my park and those other dogs are guests in it if I feel like having them there. With the constant tugging on my leash and yanking on my collar, I didn't feel like having them there. Some couple came up to us with some black pile of fur on a leash and after sniffing him out for a bit, I thought it might be wiser to take the hair-pile's throat out. The Mook yanked me back so hard I went flying and he started apologizing to the other couple saying, "We just got him and we're still learning about his temperament." What an submissive, ingratiating asshole he is sometimes. Then there were the squirrels. There was one tree-rat who was begging to get shredded and I went after it and the Mook pulled me back. I went mental. Keeping me from a squirrel is just wrong and I just kept yanking and yanking and screaming and barking and because I was being strangled it looked and sounded like murder in the park. 

Feeling self-conscious about how he was treating me, we left the park and went to Starbuck's and the lady went in for coffee while I sat outside with the Mook. Dogs everywhere and they all wanted to get in my fucking face. What is it about house dogs and this insane need to be warm and fuzzy. Don't they know anything about territory? Were they all lobotomized? A lab came up to me and the Mook pulled me back. The lab's owner said, "He's very gentle." Listen, you silly bitch, your blond ass-kisser might be gentle, I am not—back off! She didn't so I had to rip off the lab's nose...or try to because once again I went flying back on that fucking leash. The Mook, now, was just one big ball of nervous and attentive energy.

Just before the lady came back with the coffee, a guy with a pug came over. This was one butt-ugly dog and it didn't help that his tongue was hanging out of the side of its mouth, lashing about like some fish he had caught and was trying desperately to hold to. This wasn't so much about invading my territory as about get that arsehole passing off as a face away from me. The good thing about pugs? Being small they get it. A snarl from my guts did the trick. 

When the lady came out with coffee (nothing for me...they never think I might like something) we went straight home. "That was fun!" the Mook said sarcastically and for the last bit of the walk he was yelling, "Heel!" the whole way.

As if.

After a walk like that you need your rest.

March 6, 2009; Play

Sometimes playing is not about fun

One way I can deal with the Mooks is by "playing" with them. They seem to find this enormously entertaining but for me it serves several purposes.

I don't play. I burn off energy (sitting around and sleeping is making me flabby and flab is a prisoner's worst enemy—makes escape more difficult). I also find out what entertains them. Entertained slave masters are complacent and lazy and don't notice things...like when I'm moving toward an open door. But mostly it gives me a chance to hurt them.

Many times they have said, after an energetic "play" session, "He's rough, the little bastard." Yup. I don't hold back. I hop about, bobbing and weaving like Muhammad Ali, aiming for the face. If I can't actually bite the nose or some other protuberance, I go for the hands. This sounds innocuous but a dozen or so small nips on the hands can cause big problems, especially in winter. The dry hands of winter get drier, after "play" the have to be washed, and all those little bites and scratches, over a few days, take their toll. Within a week, and without being able to trace how it happened (ie: "playing" with me), their hands look like raw hamburger and no amount of lotion and washing will help. In fact, washing can make it worse. Mook A's hands look like he was grating cheese and slipped into the grater...over and over again.

So, let us "play", motherfuckers, for tomorrow you die.

March 4, 2009; The Upper Hand?

If you wait long enough, someone dumb opens the door.

I decided to have a dump last night and I did it right in front of the Mooks, looking straight into Mook A's eyes as he yelled, "No! No! Bad dog!" But that's all he did. No paper swatting, no smack, no pitching me outside. 

The thing is they still haven't figured out that I speaka da lingo so I heard A say to B, "Do you think he was trying to tell us something; like he really needed to go out?" What a pair of ultra-maroons! But then A, the imbecile, went on: "The problem is he's so cute I find it hard to punish him." My God!, what do I have to do to get out of this fucking place? Shit in his ear? 

What an enterprising dog can do to an Xbox battery pack

But then it got positively surreal. A, again: "Why was I the only one yelling? Why don't you be the heavy sometimes?!" Ah!, thought I, a button to push! So I pushed pushed pushed. I spent the rest of the night snubbing A until he was being so nice I thought he's suck my useless cock to get back on my good side. NOTHING IN LIFE IS FREE, MOTHERFUCKER!! NILIF MY HAIRY ARSEHOLE!

Now I figure if I can't get out of this place, I might be able to enslave these two myself and soon will be the alpha dog, as I should be. 

Watch me.

When the paparazzi get into your face, you have to get into theirs

March 2, 2009; Lassie, Go Home

Exotic Léo

The problem with all adopted dogs is that the new masters all have an image in their head of what they want. It ain't what they get. 

For one thing, most masters want a Lassie. That is dog code for dogs who are slavish to their masters. It comes from a TV and movie dog back in the 50s and 60s who was always solving problem for the retarded humans. A real dog would have left Timmy drown in that fucking well, but not Lassie. Lassie was played by a guy 'cause, as everyone knows, bitches are dumb as posts. But even though it was a guy playing her, Lassie/Laddie was still the kind of sissy who probably squats when he pees and then licks the master's hands for the privilege.

Lassie was a collie. No one really wants a collie anymore. They're long-hairs and hard to keep clean. I only knew one collie and she was in the pound for a long time; a dog as mangey as a whore's beaver.

Though Lassie behaviour is what people want, they want different looks now. A while back it was dalmatians because of that idiot movie. Now it's Marleys. Everyone wants a fucking Marley and everyone soon gets rid of their fucking Marleys. There were eight labs in the pound, each one fucking crazier than the last. When the pound dog-walkers would come in at the end of the afternoon, they labs would start to shriek like a chorus of Wagnerian sopranos shitfaced on schnapps. That's how I got adopted, really. The Mooks came and while they were there, looking over the other dogs, the walkers arrived and all these Faux-Marleys went bananas. 

Group barking is beneath me and the Mooks noticed and figured I was a "good dog." That's when I should have crapped on the floor and had dinner or some damn thing like that to keep from the subsequent enslavement. 

So here's to the Lassies and the Laddies. May they rot in their little garden graves for having made life impossible for the rest of us. 

Fundamentalist Léo