July 28, 2009; Pretty Pictures of The Future

...the horror...the horror...

The Mooks don't get one thing: I can always understand them. They vaguely suspect I understand more English then I let on (beyond "sit" "bad dog" "stop that" etc.) but they don't know I understand everything in French, English, a little Italian and some pieces and bits of other languages. (You pick this up all your life—puppy mills, pounds, owners, alleys, during walks—and dogs absorb information far better than humans; it's the nose/brain thing.)

This is a valuable tool because it keeps me in the loop—indeed, so far in the loop, I'm pretty much the one twirling the lariat. It can be fun. Like the other day, Mook A was repeating a good joke to Mook B: "If your cat goes missing, don't bother to put up posters. 1) We don't care. 2) Your cat is dead." You can't beat a good dead cat joke.

But knowing the languages can also be irritating. For instance, we were all out on the balcony the other day, enjoying the warmth, listening to the rustle of the leaves and keeping squirrels away, when the Mooks started talking about me in French. They were discussing the fact that I was getting closer and closer to being able to open the screen door by myself. Indeed, I just run at it like mad, smash my nose into it and it jumps back a good foot before slamming shut on me. Then their nastiness began.

Mook A: You realize, we're going to have to get back into the habit of closing the inside door so he can't get out.

Mook B: Why?

A: As brilliant as the dog is, he's more like a retarded child—he doesn't understand consequence; he just goes for it. What would happen is we'd be out one day and he would run for the door, get it open, zip halfway through and the door would close before his big porker ass could get through.

(As A loses more weight—19 pounds and counting!!!! he never refrains from telling the world—the comments about my "porkiness" get more frequent. I don't like it.)

A: (Continuing) And then you know how he is. He'd start shrieking—

B: —shit—

A: —yeah. And every fucking neighbour would be out on their balconies and in the alley and calling the cops and the SPCA and we'd come home to find our door broken down and a citation for animal cruelty.

B: (Laughing) You're exaggerating!

A: Oh! You think? How about the time that he got his front paws and shoulders through the railings of the balcony and the only thing holding him back from a two-story fall was that gigantic arse of his! What did he do 'til I saved him? Panic and shriek!

B: ...good point.

A: I told you: he's a little bit of a tard: an idiot savant. Never underestimate both his smarts and his profound stupidity.

I had to work very hard in pretending to have my attention elsewhere as this went on. If they ever figure out I understand French, I lose a valuable weapon in this battle. But I can't say I was as amused as they seemed to be by this conversation.

Then A picked me up, looked me straight in the eyes and this time switched to English. "You know what would happen if you went back to the SPCA, Little One?" He waited to make sure I was listening. Oh! I was listening. "Your file would include the notation that your previous owners had had you for more than six months but still had not been able to control you. That would mean that no normal person would adopt you. Because of this, you'd find yourself owned by the only kind of person who would adopt you: a lunatic. Let me describe this person: 20-22, maybe, male, halfwit. He would tell his parents—he still lives with them in a basement room—he would take care of you, but he wouldn't. You'd hardly ever eat and when you did half the things you do here, he'd beat you like a gong."

My mouth went dry. You've got to say one thing about A: he paints a vivid picture. But it got more vivid. "When he was drunk on his parents liquor, he'd get sad and lonely and horny. He'd spend the first half of the night dealing with the reason no girl will touch him: his acne. Then, in a fit of drunkenness and horniness, he'd probably sodomize that fat ass of yours."

I could smell the guy's room: old sweat, pizza, feet, spunk. I could see the guy going from cuddles to...oh! my God!

The Mook went on. "And one day, his parents would find him hanging in the close where he'd pulled a David Carradine: auto-erotic asphyxiation. They'd only know he was dead because you'd be at his bedroom door, bitching for food, as usual, and bothering them."

He stopped then and sipped his ice tea. I glanced over at B who was smiling like this was hilarious. A concluded. "You think the parents would adopt you? Ha. Ha. They would take you back to the SPCA where you would be received as unadoptable and then...oh...so...gently...the big sleep."

The last words were a whisper that floated off into the evening sky.

He hugged me hard and said, "So try not to be a tard, you little peckerhead!" and he and B laughed and both cuddled and kissed me. It was the first time I think I needed the affection.

I could have used it later too when I had the nightmare, but the Mooks were sleeping soundly.

July 25, 2009; The Beast

What? Were these teeth made for whistling? I think not.

I'm worried.

It's my rep. I have discussed this before. It's one thing to have lousy rep with the Mooks—I mean, who gives a fucking shit, right? But what I project out there—beyond the doors of The Fortress of Faggotry—is very important. How the neighbours look at you is how the dogs look at you is how the world looks at you. They don't care what you do behind closed doors, but there, in their world, every little move is important.

Where you shit, where you piss, what you eat, who you cozy up to and who you show hostility—it's all part of it. It all depends on how you play this game (and it is a game, like wearing clothes is a game for the hominids). You can be seen by one and sundry as the village idiot: the dog bounding about ingratiatingly, wagging its tail at any old fucking thing, and barking joyously at a whisper or a fart. You can be seen as the 'hood's pussy: whining and wimpering in terror when someone cracks their knuckles or belches, shaking when strangers come near, or peeing a little when another dog is within 100 yards. There are also the semi-steroidal alpha dogs who are always kept on a short leash because they'd eat your baby (or your fucking Yorkie) and use the bones for toothpicks.

Then there's my kind...or what I wanted to be my kind. Élite. You may come and kiss my paws but only if I'll allow it. You may call me cute, but also pay attention to the pearly-whites—they aren't there just for kibble. You may pet me in exchange for food. But you must always respect me because I may be little but I am the Ruler of All I Survey and if you don't like it, kiss my hairy arsehole. If you send those vibes out there, even the alphas will bow a little because they know that in a fight they might kill me, but they wouldn't walk away completely intact.

Well, the last few days, after weeks of work, I have been blowing it big time and I haven't endeared myself to the Mooks either. When I was kidnaped by them, I was told, quite clearly, "We will never hit you unless you get vicious." That was good because a dog my size getting smacked about loses all street cred. For this reason and for the sake of my rep on the street—and with great difficulty—I try to refrain from going after rollerbladers, skateboarders, and joggers because the Mooks added a swift smack to the leash-flyback if I bothered the aforementioned castes. They were right (and you'll won't see me say that often!)—no one on earth likes a squirrely dog.

Then...

I was out with Mook B for the evening walk a while back and we ran into Ginger and her owner talking with two ladies—daughter and mother, both old as fucking Methuselah. Ginger decided to be a real twat and ran around and around the three women and I just followed, tearing about. Problem? I was leashed and before you know it, I am roping the broads like bulls in a rodeo! One of the blue-hairs got rope burns and nearly tipped over. (Note: B never knows what to do in these situations while A and Ginger's owner are like ballet dancers when it comes to handling my long leash.) After they were all untangled, everyone, including Ginger and her owner, looked at me with those looks: that thing is not right in the head.

Oh-oh.

But it gets worse.

I was walking along with Mook A and the little old lady down the street—a pleasant but witch-faced, hunch-backed crone of a thing—opened her door as we passed. It caught me off guard and I went a little bloodthirsty. Well, the results were instant: the leash-flyback, the smack, the "Bad dog! Bad dog!" and the little old lady, whom I've met before, saying, "It might look like one, but that's no little lamb." Her voice said it all: I was nuts.

Then, the next day, with A again; a nice lady approached and had that look of affection and potential food offerings in her eyes, but when she leaned over there was this smell and, once again, I was caught off guard... Her: "Strange, he didn't look nasty." (Read: bananas, loopy, loco, psycho...any word in the thesaurus will do.)

Now in my defense, this last one is hard to explain. Dogs notice smells. We like ones humans hate and the reverse is also true. But our noses are far better and we notice smells no human can sense that set off all our alarms. Sometimes we can't even explain them. This was one of those times. Was she psycho herself? Was she dangerous? Had she drowned a puppy in her toilet? It was something and it screamed: RED ALERT! RED ALERT!

So there you have it. Worse, they were all women and women, like bitches, jabber and gossip—they have a secret network of information about everything (men, women, animals, spring fashion) and they can ruin your life in a New York minute. Unless I mount a campaign of suck-uppedness like the world has never seen since Chamberlain and Hitler, I will officially become the neighbourhood Head Case.

That must not happen.

July 22, 2009; At The Movies

What I'd look like if I had been put together by the wackos who made The Tracey Fragments

I don't want this to become one of those tedious lame-ass places where film geeks get their rocks off by displaying their erudition to readerships of four (including their mother, cat and a couple of goldfish), but I have to talk about movies. I have no choice.

You see, the Mooks have subscribed to HBO and The Movie Network and so now it's a steady diet of films. Sadly, most of them are those little ones that people who have a brain don't waste their time or money on but might glance at when they're free on TV and there is nothing else to watch in the summer...but they would change the channel fairly quickly. Not the Mooks—they live and breathe for these fucking artsy-fartsy pieces of shit.

Another problem: they seem to have a fetish for this actress named Ellen Page. You may have heard of her, she was in that movie Juno and was nominated for an Oscar for it. I watched it with Frank and he thought it was obscene and immoral 'cause the little whore of the title (Page) had gotten herself knocked up.

Anyhoo...

In the last few days we have watched two Ellen Page movies. The first was called An American Crime and it is somewhat of a crime it was every fucking made. I mean, it was about this kid, see, and she is left behind by her parents who work for the circus and she lives with a neighbour and then first she's tortured and beaten by the neighbour-lady and then by the lady's kids and then by all the kids in the neighbourhood and then she is dead. Not exactly farce, is it?, watching a 13-year-old being beaten and tortured to death (and let's not forget the words, "I am a prostitute and proud of it" carved on her stomach before she was deaded). The thing is, it was a true fucking story! When that kind of crap is trotted across my TV, I think I was better off in the fucking puppy mill!

Then we watched The Tracy Fragments, another one of those great Canadian films which explains why Canadians hate Canadian films and why this is a pipsqueak nation of over-subsidized whiney artistes. The story in this one might have been okay, but the whole thing was done on a variety of split-screens, with images floating about and no single one ever particularly clear. And that was for every single second of the movie. And it was an interminable—and I mean blow-your-fucking-brains-out-then-have-a-friend-shoot-you-in-the-heart-to-make-sure-you're-dead-interminable—80 cocksucking minutes! What the fuck is wrong with these people???!!!! Don't they watch their own movies? Were they all on drugs or were they still trying to see what that wonderful new editing software could do? I mean, shove a stick up my ass and call me a shish-ke-dog!

And you know what????

Today Mook B is out of town and Mook A plans to spend the whole day watching operas he taped from his lovely new channels.

Kill me. Kill me now.

July 19, 2009; The Bulge and The Bitches

Me at the pound

Me now

Sure, you can see I've lost my waist, but Jesus-Fuck! I was at the pound!

There is a little war that is being waged between me and Mook A: The Weight War. First, you better know that he is on a diet and has lost 14 pounds. That is the weight of a good-sized small dog. From the looks of him, however, he has about two poodles and a German Shepherd to go (and that's just in his arse). The thing is, he's started to notice the weight of those around him. He can't fault Mook B who is somewhat of a stringbean with those little matchstick legs he obsesses about. But during our walks together, A definitely notices who, in the neighbourhood, is overweight, underweight or, he sighs, "Juuuuuuuuust right..." He seems to sigh this way whenever a shirtless male jogger passes by (he's quite talented: he can strangle me back with the leash while devouring the jogger with his eyes).

But the one unpleasant offshoot of all this is that he has taken to noticing my weight. He and B have a phobia of having a little dog who is obese (the 'hood is full of little old ladies with little old dogs who clearly get more in their food-bowls than kibble). The moment when A tends to comment—and around other people, thanks much!—is when we go into the corner store for milk or his lottery ticket (poor people seem to find a million ways to shit their money away). Whenever we go in, he lifts me up under my front legs and dangles me about as he shops. He then says, for all to hear, "You're getting tubby, you little monster!" and takes to calling me "Porky" in these instances. It's not a nickname in which I find much delight, and pay him back later in the walk by making sure I have a nice dump in the middle of the sidewalk at precisely the moment I see a shirtless male jogger coming towards us. Pick up dogshit and see if you can flirt at the same time, jizz-wad!

The other dogs on the street don't seem to notice that I've put on the weight and I don't mean just the fat dogs. The beautiful black Caniche Royal next door still plays with me (apparently he hated Cosmo); Ginger, when she pays attention, doesn't seem to mind. And then there all the dogs of all the fags on the block. So many fags, so many little, squirrelly chihuahuas and terriers yapping and grunting at me.

But I have noticed one bad thing: my reflexes are a little slower. There's this great dog just up the road. I can't tell you what it is or if it's a bitch or not. It's tiny, very low to the ground and when it lies on its stomach it looks like a discarded furry bedroom slipper. But we have fun. The fun can get a little rough, and when it gets too rough for the other, it comes running to my Mook and curls up on his shoes. A loves this thing and pats it and snuggles it. So I do what I have to do! I stomp on it. No one fucks with my Mook. Normally that ends the fun and it goes scurrying back to one of its two masters (they may be gay or brothers or something but the Mooks like them...if you know what I mean and I think you do!). Well yesterday, I was stomping on the animated little throw-rug and it nipped me...I mean it was one of those nips on the nose that brings tears to your eyes and if I was like those yappy chihuahuas I would have been shrieking like an amateur soprano on crystal meth! But instead I just jumped back, stunned. The carpet ran back into the house and Mook A roared with laughter and said, "You deserved that, you fat little thing! Porky's not moving as fast as he used to, is he?"

I fumed all the way home, him laughing like some nut. He felt compelled to tell the story to Mook B and to anyone else who phoned, stressing the "Porky" aspect.

Now, of course, I'll have to add lots of leaves and grass to my diet; not to lose weight—no—but to make sure I got a good load locked and loaded every-fucking-time he sees a jogger this summer.

He will pay.

July 16, 2009; New Fronts Open in the Battle

How could you possibly punish this dog?

Everytime I think I'm out...they pull me back in! Fucking Mooks are at it again; if it's not one thing it another.

For instance: they know I don't like to be alone. It is their fucking job in life to keep me company and to keep me amused. Apparently they don't see it that way as they permit themselves to go swanning off to wherever two losers swan off too (probably sex in the alleys or blowjobs in public bathrooms). So what do they do? They stick me in the kitchen with all the doors closed and put out this tortured, stunk-up rag of a blanket to keep me warm. Well, sorry—that won't fucking do. So I pissed on it—my first act of obvious displeasure in over two weeks (there are hundreds of acts of covert displeasure—like pissing in well-hidden places where it dries 'til there is nothing but a smell driving them nuts). Mook B came home and didn't notice; moreover, he had bought me a little mattress of my own that had "lunch" written all over it; so I set to work removing seams. While I was toiling away, Mook A came home and damned if he didn't notice the wet blanket. He came for me...very deliberately and calmly and it scared the crap out of me, as it is wont to do, and I hid under a desk. No go. He got me by the scruff of the neck (again, not my preferred mode of travel), took me to the blanket and roared. Then he planted me on the new mattress and for the next hour I was not allowed to move from it.

You think that's all? Nope. A has a way of ripping you a new asshole that is so subtle that you don't notice it 'til you realize you're shitting from your foot or someplace. After the detention I get the silent treatment and when I try to make some kind of peace I hear, "Get away from me you awful animal." Then, an hour or so later, all is more or less back to normal except I see myself sucking up to them like a fucking crackwhore in need of a fix. I hate myself that way.

Then there are the joggers, skateboarders and rollerbladers; I'm not allowed to attack them! Indeed, yesterday I was on the long leash and two skaters were coming up behind us on the bike path and I just did what I would do: go to clothesline the pair of them with my leash. They both jammed on the brakes and A yanked back my leash so fast I went flying. He grabbed me into his arms, and shrieked his fucking fag-breath in my face, "Next time you do anything like that I'm going to rip your fucking idiot head off!" Then he was all solicitous with the skaters who were fine except Missy had maybe pulled a muscle or some such sissy thing. All I could think was, "If you can't handle hunter-animals, you little sow, stop making that noise with those fuckwad gadgets on your feet."

Since then whenever there are 'boarders, 'bladers or joggers, my leash is so short I am practically hanging and no volume or number of little gagging and choking sounds will give me relief 'til the "danger" has passed. What kind of a topsy-turvy world are we fucking living in when a self-respecting hunting dog can't go after logical prey? How soon before joggers, 'bladers and 'boarders are allowed to get married and create offspring?

Meanwhile, Ginger is being a real twat and there is no way I'm wasting anymore time on that stuck-up bitch. The other day she wouldn't even let me play with her rubber ball! Yeah, I know it was her fucking toy I had in my mouth when she went ballistic, but if my toy was in her mouth I'd be nothing but grateful. So fuck her.

The world is full of bitches.

July 13, 2009; The Uneasy Peace

What I look like after a walk in the pouring rain

There is peace in the land, these last two weeks, and it's starting to worry me. I don't know if it's because they are giving in on a lot of things or because I am giving in and anyone who knows me knows that I don't like to give in: it's not in my nature.

For instance, the walks. They tried to make me into one of those dogs who is walked twice a day. I didn't even know such beasts existed except that Mook A kept talking about his sainted sweethearts, Buddy and Kitoune who lived to 15 and 18 respectively with only two walks a day. I don't know what kind of mega-suckups those two were, but a dog who calls himself a dog cannot and, simply, will not put up with that shit.

Then they tried to make me into Cosmo the Younger as opposed to Cosmo the Older (who had to be walked very often because he had become incontinent). Apparently this earlier version of the beauteous dalmatian could manage with three walks a day. How nice for him. But the physical realities stand: his bladder was the size of my head, mine is the size of a peanut.

So I get my walks: one early in the morning, one later in the morning (before the nurse arrives because we all know what I'll do when she's there and I'm out of Mook A's control), one in later afternoon and one in the evening after supper. This works for me, but they still moan and bitch about it.

But here's the thing: I don't really need all those walks at those specific hours—I just insist on them. So they insist too even when I would not be so...er...insistent.

Like two days ago: it was a pouring rain and I mean pouring. I did the little dance of joy I can't resist doing when we are about to go out (the dance is instinct and I can't help it even though I know it's profoundly faggoty), and then my ass hit the landing of the stairs outside and I saw...well, I saw nothing. It was that kind of rain; sheets of it, blurring everything in front of us. This no longer seemed like a good idea at all but Mook A, dressed for the weather, literally dragged me down the stairs and into this. Worse! He didn't even shorten the fucking walk!

I pissed fast and then started to head back but he just yanked the leash and said, "Oh no, my little fucker, you wanted this and you're fucking getting it!" So on we went. And he was downright perverse about it. Normally the walk at that hour is called a mini-walk; it's ten minutes tops. But he claimed out loud, "Oh! How I love a good rainshower!" then he lit a cigarette, the cunt, and on we went. I kept trying to drag him back but he said, "But no! my little fuckwad, you haven't shit yet, have you?"

But I didn't need to shit! "We are going to do the full 20 minutes, dear fucker, and you can shit and piss to your heart's delight!" (Do you see why I hate him! He was calling my bluff.) So on we walked and I could feel the ice cold rain sloshing into every crevice of my body. There was no fur to protect me anymore from, it had all become a sodden, transparent mat.

I couldn't believe it! We got to the end of the block and crossed and started up another block, nowhere near coming home! I tried to find shelter under every balcony or in every open entrance hall to a building but he would just drag me out into the rain, saying "Why! You still haven't shit yet, my wee friend!" So I tried...by god I tried. I squatted and pushed and pushed and pushed 'til my eyes were bugging out and my sphincter was collapsing but all I could manage was a fart. "That just won't do," he said. That's when I thought I might kill him.

And on it went, for another 15 minutes. We got back onto our street and I started to yank us across the street instead of the usual to the end of the block and back the other side to our place but he was having none of it. So I squatted again and again I tried and I even waddled about, hoping that the bent-over position would churn my guts into action when finally—finally!—a turd the size of a robin's egg and the hardness of a rock came out. I think a part of my colon would have flown out after it, but I clamped down my butt cheeks fast to prevent that from happening. "There you go!" the motherfuckerfuckwadcuntfacetwatheadshitforbrainsbabyraper said in a chirpy voice as he picked it up.

And on we went to the bitter end, him humming Singing in the Rain while I just sloshed beside him.

I've got to figure this out...

It's one thing to do these fucking walks in the rain, it's quite another thing to do them when it's -40 outside (which it can be in the winters in this godforsaken place). I do not, do not, do not, want to give these two faggots an excuse to put me in a sweater and booties for the cold. Can you fucking imagine! If Ginger saw me like that, she'd assume...well we all know what she'd assume! How the fuck would a self-respecting dog live it down?

Or, of course, I could go ahead with my plan and kill them both.

July 10, 2009; Life Lessons from a Hard-Ass Dog

If you want to drive them really crazy, hide in plain sight; like under the chair they're sitting in as they angrily scream your name.

Here are some things I'd like to pass along:

- When someone says, "Don't put that in your mouth, it's not even food," remember: everything is food...whether it's digestible food or not is another matter.

- Walk as you shit and shit in tall grass. Bending over for a bit longer to find it and pick it up may be the only exercise your Mook gets.

- Never bite the hand that feeds you. Nip it really hard. But playfully.

- Doctors say you need plenty of water so get it where you can; toilets and puddles will do just fine.

- When sniffing another dog's arse, go in deep—you learn everything you need to know from their level of aggressivity to what they had for lunch yesterday.

-Do not lick another dog's dick. That's just queer. However, for any twat that presents itself to you, go to town.

- You are not a guard dog. Any intruder is a potential friend who might have food.

- Being "fixed" is no barrier to fun with the bitches—what do you think tongues are for and they're sooooooo grateful.

- With just a little work, while the owner is sleeping, even a little dog can get all the covers.

- The best time to nuzzle your owner's face is after your nose has been an inch-deep into another dog's shit. To nuzzle your owner any other time is just queer.

- In a fight a small dog will always win against a big dog if you bite down on his dick and don't let go until it's a meal or he's barking like the Queen of the Night in the Magic Flute.

- When meeting a woman who is seated or squatted down to meet you, aim your nose straight for her cooter. Tradition requires it. If you smell she's on the rag, really bore in there—she'll blush so deeply everyone will know she's got "the visitor" and you have successfully put another human in her place.

- If jogging with your owner, establish a nice steady rhythm and when your heartbeats are in sync, veer off into another runner or in front of a bicycle, clotheslining one or the other. Soon your owner will realize dog's don't jog—they run when they want to. When they want to.

- Never take medicine—it might be something to put you to sleep. If it is shoved down your throat, as the Mooks do with me, proceed to lick up all the hair and dust bunnies you find on the floor. Everything will come up shortly.

- Similarly, at the vet's office you'll get shots; they won't hurt but it's the principle: no one has the right to stick things into you. So struggle like you're being poked by a priest.

There's more, but that will do for now. Class dismissed.

July 7, 2009; The Morning Show

Staring always works

This morning, while Mook A was eating his cornflakes, we were watching the Michael Jackson coverage on CNN. We dogs are endlessly fascinated by what preoccupies you humans. Nukes in North Korea? No. Slaughter in the streets of Iran? No. Slaughter in the streets of Honduras? No. The death of a hasbeen pop-star who, no matter his previous accomplishments, was one step away from dying on his toilette like Elvis, so many drugs was he doing. Sorry if you're grieving, but it is worth a bit of a giggle out here in Dogland.

Unlike my afternoons, evenings and nights, when I pretty much sleep, my mornings are very varied. I always get up with Mook B and harass him relentlessly until he takes me out for a piss. This is easy to do: he tries to read his paper, I sit in front of him, placed just so, and stare at him. He tries to take his morning dump, I come into the bathroom, sit just so, and stare at him. I've found with both Mooks that they are incredibly vulnerable to this kind of thing in the bathroom. My theory: they feel guilty that they are allowed to relieve themselves whenever they want while I have to wait until my kidneys are humming and my bladder is all but exploding.

On the mornings with the nurses...well...that's always fun. But the mornings when there is no nurse's visit and Mook B goes off to work, I just sit and wait in the kitchen—on the cold, cold floor (the fuckers!)—until Mook A decides to shift his aging, dimpled, fat ass and get up. But there is pleasant variance in this too. If he gets up to get up, then we watch TV or he tries to read a book while I sit, placed just so, and stare at him. It's great fun, because there is nothing like loading stress on a human first thing in the morning (ie: will I or won't I piss/shit/puke on the floor/rug/furniture). Humans are hi-larious when they're all stressed out in the morning, especially these two with their aches and pains and smokers' coughs—rushing those feeble bodies outside becomes a symphony of grunts, belches, farts, hacking and wheezing, moans and bitching (particularly amusing if it's pouring rain).

The other variance with Mook A is if he's just getting up to pee. Feeling lazy (and guilty) he always invites me back to the bed to nap with him. This is almost as good as a bath because he has this big thick duvet that just wraps around you, warms you up and makes the sighs of pleasure come out of you whether you want them to or not. This qualifies as bliss in the world of the Mooks.

Sad, innit?

July 4, 2009; Dogz in the 'Hood

The idiot thinks I am staring at him in adoration...it's usually because I want something.

Everyone knows that a cute dog is a great cruising accessory but did you know that an old queer can be a great one too? I am finding that out more and more with Mook A.

I like Mook A's walks, despite the discipline he thinks he's imposing on me. All the "slow" and "short leash" and "sit" stuff is so easy to ignore and the rest of the time I can pretty much do what I want (except when I try to eat something and he goes just a little medieval on me). But doing what I want almost always involves a little of doing what he wants and that is cruising. We're a great team for that.

He slows down whenever there is a guy sitting outside with his shirt off, and this gives a chance to scope the 'hood, sniff the piss and set my targets. If it's a good day we'll get the double-play: a cute guy walking a cute dog. Queers have a thing for cute little dogs and, except for the two I live with, a lot of them go in for the bitches (they could do studies, I think). So the Mook will get to talking with the guy while I get to some serious arse-snorting. If I'm lucky she's into it and isn't some tarted up little cocktease. (Dogs who live with queers are almost always sexually frustrated; take it from me.) While the two queers are queering it up, we're down there doing everything but passing the batwang. (Like I said, I might have no balls, but the drive, if not the dribble, is still there.) Before long, the queers giggle like queers are wont to do when they see what the dogs are up to, separate us, and go on their merry-fairy little ways. This is fine with me; who wants long-term?

And then it's on to the next bitch. On hot days, I can semi-score with at least two and sometimes three. Of course, the Mook doesn't score anymore, he just flirts (which is more than Mook B does—his walks are all business). Beauty.

Meanwhile, A and I have finally reached a sort-of-truce about the nurse's visits. For one thing, because my Beloved is on vacation, we have a replacement nurse for two weeks and this required another tack. The Mook knew I wouldn't tolerate a stranger in the house, so I was introduced to her and she is a spitfire! She played with me for a bit and got me all jizzed up and then I was bum's-rushed off. But this time it was to the balcony and that was not a bad place to be. From the kitchen window I could see the arrival and departure, and through the bedroom window the atrocities being done to the Mook on his bed. So compromise all around and no confinements involved.

Peace reigns.

They are at last bending to my will.

July 1, 2009; Living With Old Men

How old are they? Mook A makes me watch hour after hour of fucking Coronation Street!

First off, Happy Canada Day.

As Frank used to say about it: whoopee. Frank was convinced that Canada was a pipsqueak country which had spent its entire history riding on the coattails of greater nations like France, England and the United States; a sort of parasite nation—a tick, say.

But I didn't want to talk about Frank or Canada Day though old people and their lives do figure. I want to talk about these two particular old people as today the Mooks are celebrating Mook B turning 50. Now that is fucking old. Not as old as Frank or some of the semi-dead things I see when we go for our walks but far older than dogs live and way older than humans deserve to live. I mean: what have humans ever done for the world? Enslaving each other as well as every kind of animal which can be put in a pen or locked in an office (like me when the nurse comes over, the cocksuckers). I go for a walk and breath in their exhaust fumes, their cigarette smoke, the stink of their children and their own rancid farts, which makes any fart which comes out of me smell like roses!

Mook A is even older than B and considering he is already being visited by a nurse three times a week, how—exactly?—does he serve society; I mean besides keeping nurses and doctors busy and filling my food bowl twice a day which any idiot not on crack can do. Mook B works...works hard. But the way he's going the stress should kill him before the medical system does, so at least he's realtively useful. Indeed, to be fair, both are relatively useful for a cuddle and a bed but—again—which human short of crack whores aren't?

There are so many of these humans who are utterly useless! I'm not talking the really old ones 'cause at least they have served their purpose and paid their taxes and also have the sweet little character trait of loving little dogs (and sometimes—ick—cats). I'm talking about the old who, at what they call middle-age, are barely serving a function. They wander through life watching their TV and DVDs, eating crap, smoking, drinking, staring into the approaching void and generally making the future worse.

People wonder why I want to get away all the time. It's because, let's face it, there's got to be something better out there and if there isn't, at least dogs have the good sense to make their own way without social safety nets and medicare and live a good life and—especially!— die young, leaving an adorable corpse.