April 28, 2009; Mr. Léo's Neighbourhood

Surveying my world

The upshot of what I last described in this blog was that I was sick for a couple of days and then everything pretty much settled back to normal. 

This last weekend, though, it was hot as hell and because of this the Mooks and I spent a lot of time on the balcony. Across the alley is an apartment block and a lot of the people over there, too, seemed to be spending time on their balconies or at least with their doors and windows open and so I got to know them and—stick a dick up my ass and call me a corn-dog!—this is one great load of wack-jobs. They say this is a cool, middle-class neighbourhood. Not from where I was sitting, let me tell you.

The most normal one I saw was a guy who sat in the same chair for the whole weekend playing a video game. His chair was in front of the balcony door and it was all I saw but it must have been connected to a catheter bag because he didn't even move to pee. He had that look on his face, too, that Mook A gets when he plays World of Warcraft; like there is no real world—just a world of night elves and orcs...and just how fuckin' sad is that?

Right across from us, at eye level, is a straight couple. At least I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt 'cause they have two cats and everyone knows guys with cats are sissies, faggots or whipped. Cats are for girls and ladies who need to get laid (why the fuck do you think they're called pussies?...chew on that). Anyway, assuming, again, the guy's straight, he doesn't like that he's living across from the Mooks who obviously are not. He even thinks the Mooks have the hots for him 'cause once in a while when one or the other is on our balcony he gets pissed and comes out and stares them down like the Mooks have been eyeing him. The fact is, the guy across the way is one of those who walks around without a shirt all the time and really shouldn't. (As Mook A always says during out walks: "Léo, why is it that that men in short-shorts and muscle-shirts are never the men you want to see in them?" He talks to me like I would fucking answer him even if I could.) 

While that tard is worried about the Mooks being voyeurs, he seems to be oblivious to the old degenerate living directly above him. This guy has a severe smoking problem (I know this 'cause he wakes me every morning as he heaves up a lung.) Once in a while he comes onto the balcony—just at the open door of it—wearing a long t-shirt. It took me a bit to figure out that was all he was wearing and a bit more to figure out that the cocktail weiner in his hand was his cocktail weiner. He stands there looking down at the Mooks (who never look back), beating that sad little piece of meat like it had committed a crime against humanity. The tragedy is that this piece of gray, over-cooked pasta in his hand never gets vaguely close to al dente, if you know what I mean (and I think you do). More tragic yet, is that if the Mooks aren't looking at him, does that mean he's whipping it out for me?

I get shivers.

April 24, 2009; Their Delicate Sensibilities

I am on the outs with the Mooks and they're threatening me with something called a muzzle whenever we go for a walk. I can't imagine that's good.

It started last night when Mook B took me out for the final walk of the day. I was still hungry, even after my supper, so I did what I always do: ate everything. But here's the thing: the Mooks have decided that when I stick something in my mouth they're going after it no matter what. So one or the other pounces on me and yanks my mouth open and if I don't immediately drop what I have in my mouth—like if I try to swallow it—they keep going after it into my throat.

Last night was no exception. I just jammed that delicious-smelling something in my mouth (soft and fresh and aromatic was it) and Mook B was on me like white on rice. We were almost home and we were doing battle on the street but—boom!— he lost, I swallowed.

Then he let out a howl: "Oh! My! God!" But it was a howl of disgust, I think. He got me into the house and yelled for Mook A to bring him paper towels quickly because he had gotten what I had eaten all over his hands. Mook A, as he threw down the towels, yelled, "What was it?!" B: "What do you fucking think it was!" A (exploding): "You fucking disgusting little animal! What the fuck is wrong with you! You just ate, God Damn It! Why the fuck would you eat..." Yadda yadda yadda, same-old, same-old, same-old.

However, this time it was a bit different. Mook A spent the next ten minutes washing his hands under steaming water like he was fucking Lady Macbeth trying to get rid of the blood and Mook B wouldn't come near me for a post-walk cuddle (as he is wont to do). In fact, the two of them didn't want to touch me, and if I brought my face near theirs they just cringed away. This was getting personal.

Well, what goes down, must, sometimes, come up. And it did. In one big blob. Mook A noticed and let out a little girlie shriek and Mook B, trying to recover from the episode of the walk, lying like a swooning Victorian lady on the sofa, whispered, "Is it...?" and when A said, "Yes," B just curled up into a fetal ball on the sofa and whimpered.

The mess was cleaned up and until bed time neither of them wanted to come near me. Oh! I tried to cuddle or play with them (nip at their fingers or kiss them) but each time they became OCD and dashed into the bathroom to wash and rewash their face or hands. 

At bedtime, Mook B, who likes me to curl up with him, kept me at the end of the bed and told Mook A, "He's hard to love, isn't he?" 

Jeez, guys, get a grip! It was just something everyone produces! Even you!

Susan Boyle Eat Yer Heart Out

April 20, 2009; A Weapon of Mass Destruction

Though I am better now, I was some sick this weekend. I ate something (oh! it could have been one of a thousand things I jam into my mouth during walks or at home—dustballs, bits of stick, leaves, Starbucks lids, tree bark, grass, elastic bands) and it was not passing. It was so bad I couldn't even eat on Friday.

On Saturday all I had in my intestines was the whatever and emptiness (ie: air; ie: gas). In French they have an expression for when someone is vigourous and enthusiastic: "Il pête le feu!" (He's farting fire!) I was vigourously and enthusiastically farting and though it was not fire if there had been an open flame around, the building's roof would have blown off. Though I find such smells delicious, as a rule, this one was so intense that ever I was getting a little queasy from what was blasting out of me. And I was cold! The Mooks had opened every window and door and were running a fan full tilt and still were gasping for air.

Then, during the evening walk, I got rid of the unrecognizable something and Mook A yelled at me as he cleaned it off the sidewalk, "I don't even want to look! I don't want to know what stupid thing you shoved into your stupid fucking face, idiot dog!" Mean, eh? (Though I do have a tendency to eat now, ask questions later.) 

A funny historical face that's germane to the discussion. There's a cigarette company up here called Peter Jackson and back in the day when you could announce cigarettes on billboards, their ad-firm came up with the slogan, "I have Peter on the lips" and plastered it all over the city. However, the ad firm—a real bunch of demi-tards—translated the slogan into French as, "J'ai Peter aux lêvres" or "I farted on lips." 

A peter on the lips can be some people's cuppa, but few want a fart there. But after how nastily Mook A treated me in my time of trouble, the next time I feel nuclear farts like the ones from this weekend coming on, I'm aiming straight for his lips.

I'll melt his fucking face off.

The Hunt

April 15, 2009: The Presidential Pooch

Do you suppose I could eat...like...NOW, MOTHERFUCKER!

Hey! I know, faggots, and that fucking dog is a faggot! Even the name—Bo—is faggotty, don't you think?

Why do I have a chip on my shoulder about this? Well, I met one of those dogs in the pound; a Portuguese Water Dog. The only water he into was water sports (if you know what I mean and I think you do). He tried to come on to me in the pen, being all nicey-nicey with that fruity accent and everything and then—boom—he was on me like fleas in heat. I thought he wanted to play but soon I was fighting for my life and my male virginity (if you know what I mean and I think you do). Had to take a piece of the fucker's nose and ear, I tell ya!

PWDs are not faggots like my faggots—the Mooks—who are more old sissies than faggots. PWDs are hardcore. Maybe faggot is the wrong word; maybe psycho is more the word. They don't hump legs like most normal dogs do; they go straight for the orifii—male, female, animal, vegetable or mineral. Imagine poor Malia, Sasha, Michelle or even the Prez playing hide-the-toy, innocently enough, and suddenly one of them has a face full of dog bone! What does the secret service do then? Envision the next day's Washington Post: "Bo shot dead for attempted rape of First Lady." (Well, it would certainly give the nation something to talk about besides the financial crisis.)

The thing is, all the reports on this animal talk about him as high-energy, high-maintenance, or (my favourite) frisky! Yeah...frisky like Jeffrey Dahmer was frisky. Cause PWDs not only do the nasty; if you deny them the nasty, they get violent. They play hard, at first, and then the game turns ugly and people (or other dogs) get hurt.

You watch. Photo ops now. Secret burials in the Rose Garden later. And suddenly, the First Dog has morphed into the First Budgie. 

April 13, 2009; The Visitor

So what the fuck are you up to now?

So on Saturday the Mooks receive a visitor—let's call her Mookette—and she's someone I've met before and someone I generally like. Pretty good, for one of them, 'cause she always brings me a treat and she smells nice; some smell that's sweet and subtle and stays on my fur for a bit after she hugs me. (Look, just because I don't have balls doesn't mean that I don't like the scent of a woman...Hoo-Ah!)

The three of them start by scarfing down pizza right there in front of me without so much as offering me a little sliver of pepperoni. They're having a fine old time, aren't they?, while I quiver in the corner from hunger. 

Then it's walk time and the Mookette wants to show Mook A how it's done. Firstly she says I should be in a harness not a collar and my ears perk up because then I'd be able to pull the Mooks to my heart's content without feeling the least bit of discomfort and if I'm really lucky, the extra weight I could put on the harness might enable me to drag one or the other in front of a moving car. But Mook A laughs and says no way. "If he's not suffering a little, then I'm suffering." Fucker.

After a bit of walking the Mookette thinks she's got control of me. Just to see if she does, I decide to do a little test. The two of them are nattering on the sidewalk about who should pay for the film they just rented and yadda yadda yadda on it goes and I decide to step off the sidewalk and under the wheels of a parked car that's about to take off. Mook A screams (sort of girly-like) and the Mookette, so nice and gentle on that leash up 'til now, yanks me back so hard I'm airborne for a bit. The guy in the car says, "Sorry," the Mook says, "Sorry," Mookette looks shaken and my little part of the world is under my sway again. 

Then it's back to the apartment and the three of them curl up on the sofa to watch the DVD. I'm bored and decide to get in all their faces their faces, but they seem interested in the film and finally I just give up and insist on a cuddle at least. Before you know it I'm hearing sobbing and everyone has tears in their eyes like a bunch of sissies and I'm thinking, "What now!?" 'til I look at the TV and  see this glorious old golden lab splayed out on a veterinarian's operating table looking a little the worse for wear. That blonde actor with the fucked-up nose is crying over the dog and—stick a dick in my ass and call me a lollypop!—the vet in the film is poking the needle into the Lab! Oh! My! Fuck! It's Marley and Me!!!!

What started out as torturing me with pizza turns into subjecting me to a doggie snuff film. These are sick, sick people. 

And the lesson? Just cause a chick smells good, doesn't mean she can't get you killed.

April 8, 2009; Confederacy of Dunces

I know I'm gorgeous, but get that fucking thing out of my face!

My relationship with the Mooks is a real tard-fest; them and me.

Yesterday Mook B took me for my walk and he was so fucking scattered, as he usually is in the morning, that he put the clip of the leash onto the loop for my ID tags instead of the loop of the collar. Well, the loop broke, didn't it?, and I just started running.

Problem? I didn't know I was off the leash and thought the idiot Mook was running behind me as usual. I had forgotten he had sciatica and these days hobbles about like he's a candidate for a walker and Depends.

So I'm running along and then stop at the main street, sitting as I usually do, waiting to cross the road. It's only then I heard the Mook puffing and panting behind me and clipping the leash on again.

I think there's something in the air in this fucking apartment that makes all three of us imbeciles. It's a miracle we don't faint from lack of oxygen to the brain each time we fart.

April 6, 2009; Tricking

It's called a Lazyboy; I'm the boy, I want to be lazy, dammit

Shit on all that is holy; in the game of power that is my life with the Mooks, I have been fucking up royally.

Mook A has been trying to get me to do tricks and the motherfucker uses food to get me to perform. I've resisted well—bringing him practically to tears of frustration 'til he finally just throws up his hands and tosses me the cocksucking cookie. But I've let him get me twice in the last couple of days, goddammit.

First, he tried to get me to sing. He was making that shrieking noise he thinks is a howl and it was drilling into my brain so I started barking. Problem? I held one note of the barking for about three bars and, jayzus!, I was singing. Sure! Fine! The cunt gave me the cookie! But now he expects me to sing for it and he's waaaaaay more patient.

Then, yesterday, he was fucking about, amusing himself by torturing me. I was just sitting there and he was holding an effing cookie just above my head, out of reach of my mouth. I was hypnotized by that cookie.  It was like there was a force between my mouth and that cookie. That cookie was my life. That cookie was my breath. That cookie was my soul.  Then, mysteriously, the cookie was at my nose. A was yelling for Mook B, "Look! Look! He's sitting pretty!!" Well, stick a dick in my ass and call me a popsickle! I was sitting pretty and though I got the cookie, I could barely swallow it for the bile of humiliation rushing up my throat. 

If word gets out that I was sitting-fucking-pretty I'll be the bitch of every dog in the neighbourhood. Even the bitches.

In Memoriam

My Beautiful Cousin Vikki 

Any dog's death diminished me because I am involved in dogkind.

April 3, 2009: On Their Toes

Sometimes I have to wait so long for the goddam walk and it gets me so MAD!!

I've found a great way to fuck with the soi-disant masters and put them in their places at the same time. It's loads of fun too. 

First you "behave" for a couple of days. Wait for them to say something like "He's finally fitting in" or " Well, he seems to be trained now." Then you calmly take a dump, preferably on the rug. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you'll have to deal with the symphony of "Bad dog! Bad Dog!"s but sticks and stones yadda yadda yadda.

Now, y'understand, the Mooks are nervous, wondering if this will be a pattern. That's when the real fun starts. You need a drink of water? Don't just walk to get a sip...RUN!!! The click, click, click of the nails on the floor adds to the nerve-wracking effect. They, of course, are wondering what's so urgent and have to stop what they're doing and follow. Wait a little while for things to settle down and then any time you have to go somewhere—bed, water, a little walk around the pad—RUN RUN RUN!!!

They're sure you're running to deal with an intestinal need and come tearing after you. Now...wait 'til they settle down again and are really busy. Here, that means Mook A is playing World of Warcraft (wait 'til he announces to Mook B that he's putting the headset on and that he's doing a team run). Then wait 'til Mook B is likewise occupied; that means he's giving himself an ulcer answering work e-mail. Then sneak out of the room. Go to another room. Find something—anything—and start crunching on it. It doesn't even have to be edible or valuable, just crunchy. The Mooks will come a-running. If you're lucky, Mook A has caused a complete wipeout of his World of Warcraft team and Mook B has prematurely pressed the send button on his work e-mail and ruined his career.

If you do all these things over and over again during the day, you don't even have to take another dump on the floor (because, let's face it, that's just gross). The "Masters" will be turned into twitching piles of exposed nerve-endings. What's even better: you sleep like a baby, they hardly sleep at all. 

It's a riot.

A baby seal: a cute white thing that gets wacked on the head for doing nothing.

Me: A cute white thing that gets away with murder.