December 21, 2010; A Dog's Christmas

The Smell Carol

I smell the smells

Where are the smells

They seem to say

Eat me today!

Christmas is good

Everything's food!

Smells in the pan

Smells in the can

Pong Pong Pong Pong

That is there song

Quiv'ring my dong

It can't be wrong!

One seems to hear

From those who're near

Don't touch the meal

That is the deal

But smells compel

Eat! Go to hell!

Feast on the trash!

Then make a dash!

Hairy, hairy, hairy, hairy food ball

Hairy, hairy, hairy, hairy food ball

Under the chair

Just waiting there

Smelling so good

It gives me wood

Pong Pong Pong Pong

I'm Dreaming...

I'm dreaming of a tight cooter

Just like the ones I used to know

The ones that glisten

Or used for pissin'

And got my dog balls all aglow.

I'm dreaming of a ripe pussy

With every bitch I smell in heat

May her thighs be hairy and right

And may her howling always be a fright!

O Christmas Tree!

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

Your are so great for pee-ing!

It's like outdoors has come inside

And soon you'll smell like something died!

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

You are so great for pee-ing!

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

It's also great for eating!

The candy canes that hang from it,

And bark and needles in my shit!

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

You're also great for eating!

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

Your baubels taste delightful!

The prezzies wrapped, beneath a bough -

They almost scream, "Come drench me now!"

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

You baubels taste delightful!

December 17, 2010; The Fink

Again things were quiet. Again I knew he was pissed. I said nothing because I knew, knew, knew Skeeter was going to break the silence. I was crammed into the La-Z-Boy next to him but there was no warmth and comfort in the atmosphere. "You are starting to remind me of a teacher I had."

"Because of the way I impart vast wisdom?" I snarked.

"Because of your wide streak of cruelty—"

"—Cruelty! That's going rather far, isn't it?—"

"You distracted poor Shutup on the stairs again!" he said of the idiot dog up the street who was scared of the stairs to his apartment and sometimes, big as he was, had to be carried up them. Skeeter spluttered as he went on, "You fucking KNEW the stairs were icy!—"

"—ass over motherfucking tea-kettle!" I said yodelling with laughter at the image of that white moron sliding down half the flight before losing it the rest of the way. All because I had barked up at him, "Hey! Reject!"

"IT'S NOT FUCKING FUNNY!" Skeeter roared so hard my ears flapped back.

"May I just say this," I said, staying calm, "you do not understand the world of dogs."

"There you go...just like my teacher. He was an acting coach when I was in theatre school and everything he did that was just downright cruel he justified by saying, 'People, if you think this is mean, you are not ready for the theatre where things are so much harder.' But it's simple. He was a prick and anyone who had a brain smelled his special brand of bullshit a mile off. He was just a bastard who made people cry—"

"—sissies, probably—"

"—I WAS NOT A FUCKING SISSY!"

My ears flapped back again but I was not so thick I did not realize I had touched a nerve and—how odd is this?—was sorry about it. And—again odd—sorry because I had struck a nerve; not sorry because of what the repercussions might be to me. (Something awfully strange was happening in the dynamics of Skeeter's and my relationship and I was not sure I liked it.) There was a long silence as he, quite obviously, slipped off into memory-land and I considered how I would approach this. Finally I said, "What did he do to you?"

He sighed deeply and began: "I was playing a role in a play he was directing for the school and I had this long-ass speech in the middle of the play and I could not, not, not do it. So he started cutting the speech which was a-okay with me. I don't know how I did it, but I survived opening night. After, though, the cunt took me aside while I was at the premiere party and asked me to get my script. He cut the speech some more...to its bare bones. After opening night!" He sighed again.

"That doesn't sound so bad," I said.

"That's not the clincher."

"Oh?"

He sighed again and continued, "After we'd scribbled all over our scripts he said, 'I'd like to cut the whole character but the play wouldn't make sense.'"

"Ouch!" I said, holding in a shriek of laughter.

"Yes, ouch." And it was clear it still hurt a little. "It set back my development as an actor for ages. And I want you to think about that and what you did to that poor mutt in the name of being a dog."

I said nothing. My thoughts were all confused: sudden undoglike feelings of pity for Shutup did battle with the hi-larious image of him trying desperately to grip onto the icy steps as he slid, slid, slid and then tumbled to the bottom. I also had an image of how Ginger used to snot off at me and make me sad. Was this possible? Human feelings? This was not supposed to be! Nor was what I said next! "I'm sorry." There was a moment of silence...stunned silence.

"A Christmas miracle!" he said and hugged me hard.

And peace reigned, once again, in the land.

December 12, 2010: Christmas Past

Finally they removed the snow on the sidewalks but then they put down grit and salt. What is wrong with these people!? They don't remove the snow and my dick is dragging in the it; they remove the snow and I'm hopping about with grit between my pads and salt burning my tootsies! And then where they don't put the shit down it's a fucking ice rink and if I don't grab my claws right through to the pavement, I'm falling on my arse and one of the two assholes I live with finds this just hi-fucking-larious!

I didn't notice this before? Why?

"I know why," said the oh-so-familiar voice as I came into the kitchen for my late-night sip of water.

"Hello, Cosmo," I mumbled.

As usual, the phantom Dalmatian was smoking an illegal-smelling cigarette and was splayed out on the kitchen floor contemplating the ceiling as he spoke. "Having a harder winter, are you? Feeling colder, sleeping more, that kinda thing?"

"Yes."

"It's 'cause you're older," he said.

"I'm not even four, goddammit!"

"Four is not three. Three is not two. Two is not one. One is not a puppy." His voice drifted off into the ether and, for a bit, so did his shape.

Finally I barked, "Life is crap! I cannot believe it's so hard! Salt and grit and snowdrifts and fucking heat in the summer with things floating in my water bowl and never getting food when I want it and sit! and heel! and sit-fucking-pretty! and yanking on the leash and the assholes telling me where to sleep and when and when to play and when to be still!"

"Yeah, those whiney Haitians don't know what real misery is," Cosmo said, sighing.

"Yeah, fuck!"

"Shshshshshshshshshshshsh!" Cosmo whispered and the Cosmo Effect took over. I don't know if it was him, actually, or lack of sleep or his opium-laced cigarettes but he had a way of getting me to simmer down. I splayed on the floor, looking up at the ceiling with him.

"I wonder what Christmas will be like this year," I said.

"You had Christmas with them last year, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but things have changed. We talk now, for one thing, which means we all have secrets which can explode at any moment and from what I've read in books Christmas is often a time for family strife."

Cosmo snorted and said, "That's funny."

"What?"

"You just called them family."

There was a long, horrified silence. Family...oh! my fucking stars! Talk about different from last year. "Well," I said, "it's not your normal family."

"There is no such thing as a normal family. Before I moved in with the boys I was the 'baby' of a young professional couple who just adored me. I mean I was being groomed for a professional life because I was show-dog material—"

"—sure you were—"

"—no, really! I was already in training and I was still their favourite thing. It was a cuddle-fest!"

"So how come you ended up with these guys?"

"She got knocked up."

"Ah!"

"And all the books said Dalmatians and babies don't mix. So off I went to the SPCA. I thought I was in a family, but I wasn't. Then I came here, to the homos, and thought nevernevernevernever...but—"

"—yeah, but..."

"Funny how things work out, isn't it?

"Not fucking funny at all."

"Hey! Gifts...turkey...laziness...cuddling..."

"And snow and grit and salt!"

He chuckled drowsily and said, "Into each turkey a little grit must fall." He dozed off, then, and soon the Cosmo Effect kicked back in and I did too. When I awoke he had gone, as usual, and I toddled back to Boo-Boo's bed.

As I was drifting off to sleep the word "family" rolled about in my head. Finally I thought, "Nah!" and giggled at the stupidity of it all. Boo woke up a little, pulled me close to him, gave me a peck on the top of the head and went back to sleep and soon, warm as a baby, I was out too.

December 9, 2010; Where are the Snows of Yesteryear

The minute the door opened I jumped back. "What is this shit!"

"Will you keep your voice down, the neighbours are going to hear!" Skeeter hissed.

"I don't give a flying fuck! You are not taking me out in this crap!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, will you stop being such a pussy." And the door shut and we were in it. We were out there, in the mountains of fucking snow which had fallen in the mere six hours since our last walk.

"I'll hold it in. I swear. Just let me go back in!" I yowled, barely heard over the fucking wind which was now slapping my ears against me head.

"You haven't been able to hold it in since you've been with us...down the goddam stairs!" he commanded. And off we went into this shit, the first storm of the season. I don't hate winter, but there had been nothing in the way of snow removal and we were plowing through about two feet of powder. "Please, please—"

"—just do your business. Stop acting like you've never seen a winter—"

"—but normally I get to ease into it. This is one big pile of shit for the first storm of the year, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he said, no longer worried about people hearing because the wind was so loud and the mind-boggling amount of snow falling was muffling all sound. We continued to struggle on but all my favourite places to piss were under the snow and so I had to really bury my nose in to even get close to an interesting spotting. "I can't do this!" I yelled.

"Just do it!" he roared. "It's freezing!"

"I'm dragging my dick in this snow! My dick is actually dragging in the snow!!! Do you know how that feels?!?! Of course you don't! You don't give a shit about me! Why don't you just fucking leave me out here to die!?!? That's what you want, isn't it? You're a cruel, cruel man!!! Do you have any idea how hard it is to piss in this!"

"Oh! Stop your whining, you big baby," someone else said, "and don't you dare piss on me!" Suddenly, crawling out of the snow, as if by magic, came Cleo, and close behind her came Slicer. They had been hiding under a porch, under the snow. In the time it took the two to stretch, they became completely white from the snow falling harder now. But they looked good! Healthy and well-fed and there was a sparkle in Cleo's eyes and a warmth in Slicer's I had never seen before.

But then Slicer let out one of those incredible shrieks that turned my blood colder than it already was. I'm sure that he thought that noise from hell was a laugh because Cleo tittered along. Then Slicer howled with the wind and said, "Isn't this great!"

"He likes winter," Cleo said. "And now I do too. It's amazing how kind people around here are—leaving out food and clearing spaces for us to sleep." Slicer yowled in assent and if I had balls, they would have climbed out of my scrotum and up to my neck.

Skeeter was being very patient, considering how cold it was. Mind you, he was dressed for it and I was not. But here's the thing: the two cats came over, wrapped themselves around me, shielding me from the cold if not the snow. I suddenly understood how these two not only survived but seemed to be thriving in this! He was an alley cat and had always been, yes, but she, too, was so well-coated that it was as if she had become fully feral since last summer when she had been abandoned by her people. But something else... They were exuding an almost supernatural heat. I don't know if it was sexual heat or something else...something evolved, maybe? Was that possible? Cats?

Nah.

Finally I said, "I better get the sissy home." Slicer made that noise that made me so glad I was leaving. As we walked away, Cleo and her beau crawled back into the snow and back under the porch. The rest of the walk had me climbing into snowbanks for spots to relieve myself and freezing my arse along with my beezer.

Finally we were home and soon curled up in the La-Z-Boy. I was toasty warm, now, and content but still thinking about the cats. Skeeter said, "That was odd."

I looked at Boo-Boo who was watching Old Christine as he slept, and then looked at Skeet who was watching Old Christine as he surfed the net on his iPad. I thought: 18 years, these two.

Let's talk odd.

December 6, 2010; Dage Advice

I realize that I have been yammering on about my blog and internet friends and quoting letters from Ceecee without pointing out that in the world of hounds I am rather a celebrity. Not because I have keen wit—not JUST because I have keen wit—but because of a recent development too. That is my news! The Council of The Canine, in their last meeting of the year (which doubles as a Christmas party), decides which dogs will advance a level within the community. Because of my blog and the advice I hand out, I was made a dage.

A dage, for the ignorant, is a dog who is a sage and a mage—working magic through wisdom. When you are recognized as a dage the giving of advice and succour now becomes a vocation. As a result, and moreso than before, much of my e-mail is from those who need help. To shorten the process I will share some of this mail now as there are lessons to be learned by all.

Dear Leo
I live in a city where they use any fucking excuse to have fireworks and these scare the shit out of me...literally. It always sounds like a war breaking out. My people think I'm a big pussy and laugh when I shake and scream at me when I shit. What can I do? (I am a three-year-old male, though, mutilated, boxer, living with a pair of lesbians who have scary wall-hangings which they call ohkeaps).
Nervous

Dear Nervous
They are actually called O'Keeffes and they scare all males. As to the fireworks, it doesn't just sound like a war, it IS actually a war—people's war on Nature; piercing the sky, filling the air with chemical smells, blinding the wildlife. (Nature fights back with lightening, picking off the Humans—a few at a time—with forest fires and on golf courses). Here's the thing: if we don't fear death we don't fear big noises. Sure, we jump, but we don't have an ongoing fear. So embrace the noise. Love the noise. It is nothing. Now big winds...those are fucking scary.

Dear Leo
My people fuck a lot and everywhere and there is nothing more annoying than hearing (or worse, seeing!) people having a good time when they've cut your balls off. What do I do? (I am a seven-year-old male pug/poodle mix living with newly-marrieds.)
Pissed

Dear Pissed
A pug/poodle, eh? You must be one ugly mofo. Anyway, you have to cut newlyweds some slack as doing it often and doing it everywhere is what they do. Soon, you'll see, she'll be sucking the mailman and he'll be pulling late nights at work which means he's porking his assistant. It is a dog's duty, if the newlywed foolishness goes on too long, to stop it. I find shitting in her Blahniks or chewing up the condoms brings a couple back to the real world rather fast.

Dear Leo
I am an unspayed bitch who had a litter about a year ago. My people kept one of my pups, a male, and now the little bastard spends his time with his nose up my cooter. I know in our world this is okay, but it's getting on my nerves because he's snorfling about down there even when I'm not in heat. Help me please. (I am a beagle/jack mix. The little one is a Heinz 57. Our people are a family of six in the suburbs.)
Poked

Dear Poked
A Heinz 57 and a family of six...lots of sluts in that household. Here's what you do (after you give me your home address): wait until Christmas and as your people are sitting down for a fine, big, fance dinner (this works better if grandparents are invited), go into the dining room (scooting a trail of scent for your boy all the way). Then lie down on your back in full view of all, spread your legs, and let Sonny go to town. Before New Year's Day he'll have another home or a little less meat between his own legs.

So you see? The profound wisdom is everywhere. No wonder I am now in the élite.

I take my own breath away.

December 3, 2010; My Cyber Life

Oh-oh!

Skeeter has a new project and, as if he didn't spend enough time there, the whole damn thing is done over the internet. Though he is, for the first time in a long time, outlandishly happy it means I really have to work hard to get access to the computer. Hey! I have my own goddam blog and I have fan mail to answer. But he and Boo-Boo can never know about these things as I suspect they'd be mightily pissed off if they read how I write about them.

My things are private. Skeeter's...not so much. I love that he thinks I'm such a goomer that I can't fiddle with his iPad and computer; can't look at the history on his browser to see what kind of lefty, neo-commie crap he looks at, what kind of lurid porn which delights him, what electronic toys he dreams of having. He doesn't know how much of an open book he is.

My life online, though, is all mine and his new project is keeping me away from it and this is a pain in the arse because the world out there is interesting. I have my dog pals (you'd be amazed how much time dogs spend online while their people are at work), I have my Twitter account where me and my friends exchange tips on taming our people even as we drive them mad.

And now I am getting a lot of news from my sister Ceecee.

"Dear Dee," she wrote recently. "My life has certainly become odd. With Milly gone there was much talk of Winnie going into a home and not being able to take me with her. But she was having none of that and told her children and Milly's in no uncertain terms she was staying put. But she decided to placate them a bit and did something very brave: she got herself a roommate—a perfect stranger!

"Ruth is a strange bird. She swears like a crack-whore, never denies herself a tipple and smokes what I think is weed but which she assures Winnie is just an exotic Turkish cigarette. I'm fairly sure it is an illegal substance because she becomes very calm after puffing for a little and then gets very hungry. Millie makes a fine show of Puritanism, but it is a show as she titters madly at the swearing and has begun to drink along with Ruth while the two of them play gin, rather ruthlessly (excuse the pun). In a very short while they have become close friends.

"And I...

"Well I have become friends with Ruth's parrot. His name is Joey and he shrieks inanities in Human to keep the old ladies amused but talks to me in Dog Speak. Joey has a very thick accent so we have to go back and forth—me in my awful Bird, him in his broken Dog. But he is wickedly funny and reminds me so much of you! He calls the ladies his Beloved Old Twats and makes jokes about their bathroom habits (which, as they become older, is rather an obssession with them as well). Really, Dearheart, much like you! Imagine that!"

So Ceecee is happy and has gotten through her awful time in one piece. But I have to admit that it makes me a little jealous that she has a friend, and moreso because it's a bird.

Now, with the arrival of a real winter (as opposed to all that slop that was falling from the sky in November), everyone here is preparing for the cold and Christmas. Coccooning. And so I have to creep out of Boo's bed late at night to do my online stuff. It was a pain 'til I realized there is a whole world of doggie night-owls out there doing the same thing.

And we have a blast!

November 29, 2010; Travels

I was sitting on my little raised bed (an ottoman) and I was strangely hypnotized by Skeeter's game, World of Warcraft. I couldn't hear anything as he was wearing his headset but his computer screen was a lightshow of explosions and little cartoon people fighting and killing and flying about and riding on what looked like fucking rhinos.

Later, I was in the La-Z-Boy with him as he tapped away on his iPad; doing his Facebook thing and Twitter thing and all sorts of things in a strange world in the air. Finally I had to say something. "You spend a lot of time elsewhere."

"Yes," he said, pretty much ignoring me and tapping away.

"Why?"

"'Cause."

"WHY!" I barked.

He gave me that impatient noise he gives Boo-Boo when he's reading and Boo wants to talk job, but he added the impatient face and the hysterically impatient sigh and finally stopped tapping away. "What the fuck do you want to know?"

"Why?"

"Because it helps me to escape this wretched world and even deal with it."

"Isn't that what travel is for?"

"Yes, and I did that before I was forced to go to a clinic three times a week, and besides, from what I read and hear, even if I could travel I'm not sure I'd want to."

"Why?"

"Stories about these new security measures in airports. One guy was patted down so hard his appliance came away and he had to board the fucking plane in a pair of piss-wet pants. He's come out publically and I admire him so much for that. And there's a guy in the network I'm part of online who had another agent who insisted he take off his appliance and he did and the agent actually barfed. The guy told this in a funny way but both stories just make me enraged!"

"Have you noticed you're like that a lot these days?"

"That's where WoW—"

"—World of Warcraft—"

"—helps. I can be in another place and when the anger of the real world gets to me, I can kill shit."

"Yee-ikes...kill shit."

"Well, that's how I feel sometimes, little one. But I do miss travel. I miss that sweet, sunny April day in front of the statue of Peter Pan in London, watching people exploring the bronze with their hands..."

And his voice petered off and he stared out into his darkness. "Snap out of it!" I bellowed. "You sound like fucking Mimi in La Bohème with her fucking spring flowers except you ain't going to fucking die of consumption in Act III. You aren't in fucking Haiti dying of cholera. You're not even your fucking blind girlfriend with diabetes. Get a grip!"

He stared at me then said, "You're right."

"When are you going to learn I am always right."

"And I will travel again someday," he said.

"Yes."

"And leave your little white butt in a kennel and be away from your mean fucking temperament for a bit."

"WHAT?!?! KENNEL?!?!"

He gave me a peck on the head and said, "I am impressed by your knowledge of opera."

"Just don't start with the fucking Wagner. And what's this with the kennel. No fucking kennel. I want to stay with Cate."

"Oh, my little idiot, everyone loves you, no one wants you."

"But you need me," I said.

"Oh sure I do," he said with more than a whiff of sarcasm.

November 26, 2010; The Lesson

We came home in silence, Skeeter cleaned off my feet in silence, and he settled into his L-Z-Boy—without me—in silence. I took a chance and hopped up onto his lap and into my little place, wedged between his tonnage and the chair.

"You've got some fucking nerve," he muttered, quietly but clearly enraged.

"So you're talking to me now."

"Don't push it. I'm telling you, Leo, I could rip your fucking head off. If there hadn't been so many witnesses, I'd've grabbed you by the tail and thrown you into traffic."

"You're a violent, violent man."

"And you're one mean little dog."

"Mean! What did I do?"

"OH, YOU CAN SELL THAT FALSE PIETY SOMEWHERE ELSE!" he bellowed.

"Look, is it my fault that dog was so stupid?"

"That fucking animal, stupid or not, was busy and I know—I JUST KNOW!—you set out to distract it."

"All I said was, 'How're you doing?'"

"OH MY FUCKING STARS AND GARTERS!! YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE...FUCKING...LIAR!!!"

He was right, of course. The minute I saw that caniche royal/special Olympian cross I knew I could have some fun. I saw him coming and he was concentrating so hard on what he was doing, his ears so attuned to his surroundings, his eyes seeing a mile ahead; I knew that anything I did or said would send him into a lather. "Hey, suckface! Are you tied to that one forever or can you stop being a bumboy and get rid of him in traffic?"

"Leave me alone!" the CR whimpered, guiding along with all the focus, now, of a horny fruitfly.

Because yes, dear readers, the big, galumphing idiot was a guide dog in training and was leading a blind dude about with the trainer of both of them not too far behind. But I have very strict beliefs about working animals—as in, we shouldn't be. Skeet could sense trouble but as he does not talk Dog Speak he was just yanking me away instead of verbally intervening. But I didn't need contact with the other dog to fluster him. I just had to say, "That's it! That's it! Slave away for the Man, Princess."

Now the stunned pooch was looking at me instead of ahead and—boom!—the blind feller tripped on the curb and fell flat on his face. Nothing was hurt except the useless guide dog's dignity but Skeeter nevertheless apologized profusely and carted me home. I could hear the stupid son of a bitch (literal use here) squealing at me, "Look what you did! You made me fuck up! They're going to can me for sure, you bastard!"

"Stop being a pussy!" I hurled back and snerfed with satisfaction.

But Skeeter was mad. The silence on the La-Z-Boy was clinging. "Look," I began.

"If you try to justify what you did, I can't help what I might do—"

"Oh! Simmer down—"

"—they invested thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours into that dog and you fucked everything up in a minute."

I've learned, with Skeeter, you have to take the upper hand and fast. "Now look, clearly that dog was not prepared for street training and probably was not meant to be a working dog—"

"—you're an insufferable little shit, you know—"

"—and you can be very unkind to me!" And I made a sound he had never heard from me—a little, gentle and profoundly poignant sniff of sadness. It stopped him in his tracks. But here's the thing: I know Skeeter and, unfortuneately, he's starting to know me. For instance, he knows he can rough-house with me—hard!—and I would die before crying out with pain or yelling, "Uncle." So it didn't take him long to figure out my little sniff of grief was a sham.

He stared at me. Would he kill me this time? There was a stare-down. Then I just curled a bit and closed my eyes, pretending to sleep.

He let out a long, deep sigh that probably prevented him from pitching a massive cardiac.