February 27, 2010; My Porn

Skeeter was typing away at the computer except he was typing like mad—faster than I had ever seen him type. Boo-boo was away for the afternoon at work and we weren't cuddling, so I felt I had a license to find out what was going on.

"Whatcherdoin'?" I asked

"Writing. Shut up."

"What are you writing?"

"Shut up."

"I'm booooooooooooored. What are you writing?!!!"

He sighed angrily, turned in his chair and gave me that look he normally saves for Boo-boo when he has the nerve to interrupt him. "If you must fucking know everything, I'm writing porn."

"For who?"

"For me," he said and went back to it.

"Ha!" I said. "Why?"

The sigh was angrier this time and he didn't turn to me. "Because it loosens up my writing, it helps me work out sexual questions, and it allows me to go to places and with people I can't in real life."

"Like celebrities?"

He stared at me like I was a retard. "No. It works better if it's about people you know."

"Hm," I said. "Well, go ahead. You seem to have a head of steam going...so to speak."

He went back to his writing and I was immediately struck by three thoughts: what were his sexual issues; that it was a good idea; and that I'd have to open that file later to see who he was writing about.

In my porn, I'd be footloose and fancy-free. In my porn, I'd have my balls. Hell...

MY PORN

Skeeter let me go out by myself for my late-night ramble. "Scratch when you want back in," he said and closed the door.

The night smelled good; full of possibilities. I toddled along the street, pissing on this tree, sniffing that one, taking my own sweet time. Along the way I ran into Ginger and she said, "What are you doing out?" "Hmph...wouldn't you like to know, you little tease," I said. She sniffed and walked on with her mistress. Benjie was also out and he snerfed under his breath: "Go get 'em, Tiger!" "I will!" I assured him.

I decided to have a snack and went to the alley behind my place. Sure enough, the garbage men had been their usual sloppy selves and had left bits and pieces of food strewn all over the place. I was gnawing on a pork chop bone when, off in the distance, just visible under a car, I saw those eyes.

Eyes bright and piercing. Hypnotizing. Eyes which drew me, drew me, drew me.

I slowly went to them and as slowly as I advanced, she pulled herself from under the car, stretching every one of her muscles taut and lithe and perfect. The last thing to come out was that long, long, perfectly long tail.

Suddenly the air was full of her—her scent, her eyes, her beauty—and I could no more resist going to her than I could resist a chicken bone lying on the sidewalk.

"I thought you'd never come!" she said in a voice that mingled disinterest and urgency.

"I thought you wouldn't wait!" I said.

I moved towards her. Her face, first, my nose tracing down her long sleek body, my nose going to her tail—first to its tip and then back, again, to the base. She breathed deeply, as did I, smelling each other as we breathed. Our breath becoming just our scent. Nothing else. Nothing else.

"This is wrong," she purred.

"But oh-so-right!" I said in a desperate whisper, praying she would not leave.

"If anyone found out—" she said and stopped.

"We'd be destroyed!" I said.

And then we were as one. As I mounted her, her head flung back in ecstasy and she took my ears and then my nose in her sharp teeth. Her rough tongue whipped about my face as we moved together—one beast, one thing. I grabbed her whiskers in my teeth as I held her tight and we thrashed about in the alley, trying to be quiet but still making far too much noise. Hers were the yowls of a cat crazed with lust and mine were the yodels of a small dog who was seeing heaven.

When we were done we lazed: lying across each other's bodies. "This is wrong," Cleo said again. "No one would understand."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "As long as we do."

Hm.

Looking over it now, I realize it's less like porn and more like those books that have Fabio on the cover.

Maybe I'm not a writer. But I sure as hell have a hard-on.

February 24, 2010; The Therapist

It was not snowing outside today. It was not raining. It was slushing. Great gobs of soggy snow were falling from the sky and clinging to fur, skin, clothing, and getting into Skeeter's glasses as he walked me this morning. By the end of the walk we were both thoroughly sodden but he had to go back out into it for his nurse's appointment at the clinic.

I knew things were not good. He had been sighing deeply every time he had to shake a clump of snow off his glasses and as we walked he wasn't talking at all when he usually has one or two things to say to me—if only in the disciplinary sense. But I must say that I was behaving because I felt I had to. You simply do not kick a man when he's down. Or even a Mook.

When he got back from his nursing appointment he was even wetter and he made himself a sandwich and sat in front of the TV, ostensibly to watch the Olympics, but was clearly not watching anything at all. Then it was time for our afternoon walk and he just looked miserable. Like a wet dog without the ha-ha.

Finally he took his pain-killer, made himself a coffee, changed into dry clothes and we sat down for our cuddle and antiques shows. But he wasn't watching them either.

Soon I could stand it no longer, not so much because he seemed to be suffering but because he was getting on my nerves. (It's hard to sleep when you have some big goomer sighing like a melodrama diva beside you.) I knew I might regret it, but I said it anyway: "You want to talk."

"No."

"Sure?"

"There's nothing you can do and talking about it doesn't help much."

"Is it the weather?"

"Well, that doesn't help."

"What is it? Come on! I'm listening."

There was a long, long silence and then he said, "Do you ever get the feeling you're in a really deep hole and as you start to dig yourself out, the walls of the hole suddenly give and you find that it actually seems to have become deeper—"

"—well, isn't that physically impossible; if the sides come down, then the hole should actually be more shallow...wider, but more shallow—"

"—be that as it may!" he said and went on, "That's how I feel. Rudderless—"

"—rudderless and in a hole—"

"—whatever—"

"—well, you're mixing analogies. If you're on a boat you're not in a hole—"

"JESUS!"

"Just saying," I said. "I mean, right off it's clear that your writing career, such as it was, is going to stay stagnant if you write like you talk."

"Well, you're being a big help!" he bellowed.

"Well, maybe if your thoughts were less scattered...if you tried to form one clear thought everything would start to make sense. It seems to me that for someone who thinks he is smart that being in a hole that is actually getting more shallow and despairing about it but then trying to get out of that hole with a boat is just the be-all and the end-all of messy thinking."

"Hm..."

And there was a long silence. He said Hm a few more times and finally said, "Yes. Messy thinking—"

"—and lack of action—"

"—what?"

"Well," I went on, "you keep talking about what you're going to do and that's it: talking."

"But—"

"—yeah, yeah, yeah, big hole, no rudder. I get it. But to be perfectly brutal: how about doing something."

"Hm."

"Now shut up," I said, "they're evaluating Clarice Cliff. You like your Clarice Cliff, don't you?"

He laughed and gave me a peck on the nose. Riding a wave of kindness, I let him.

February 21, 2010; A Cuddle and Convo

In the afternoon, after Mook A takes me for my walk, he takes a pain killer, pours himself a coffee and then gets in the La-Z Boy with me to read and to watch our antique shows on BBC. He can do both because, as with all things BBC, the pace of the shows is leisurely and they're not particularly visual so you can tune in and out.

The other day I asked him, "So how are things between you two?"

"Better and it's still none of your business."

"I just want to know who gets me if Mommy and Daddy get a divorce."

"Shaddup."

There was a pleasant silence and then he said, "Would you like me to read to you?" This sounded like fun and I said, "What from?" "The latest Dan Brown." "The 'Da Vinci Code' guy? Cool!"

He read me ten or fifteen pages and then I said, "You can stop reading now."

"Why?"

"'Cause it's crap," I said. He laughed and said, "Yes it is. Would you like me to read to you from 'Of Human Bondage'? That's crap too, though." I said no and we went back to our pleasant silence. When the antiques shows were over he flipped the TV over to that goomer Rick Sanchez on CNN. He was talking about the rise of the right in the US and A went tsk-tsk-tsk.

"How do you like your Obama now, big feller?" I said.

"He is disappointing. I can't understand why he doesn't hear the left and the middle screaming and do what he promised every one he would do."

"Because it's not that kind of country," I said.

"I don't understand."

"Take health care. What makes you think that in a country which is profoundly capitalist citizens will see it as their responsibility to take care of each other."

"I suppose you're right. I like Americans, but they disappoint me too."

"What makes you think we're any better here?" I said.

"Well...health care—"

"—big whoop! Look at yourself. You're being relatively well tended to by the health system but your medical allowance is—what?—700 bucks?"

"704," he corrected me lamely.

"So that's rent, some groceries and nothing, nothing, nothing else. If you didn't have Boo-Boo helping you out, you'd be fucked. You'd be starving. How is that any more just than the US?"

There was a long silence and then he said, "Boo-Boo?"

"That's what I call him."

"And what do you call me?"

I didn't say Mook A as I hadn't said Mook B or ever, ever, ever talked about this blog so I said the first thing that came into my head, "Skeeter."

"Skeeter?"

"That's what that straight guy calls you. Works for me."

There was another long, cozy, warm silence which he broke with, "Can all dogs talk?"

"Mommy, why is the sky blue?" I said.

He laughed and said, "Never, ever, call me Mommy."

"More like Granny I think." He laughed. "Or Auntie."

"Skeeter will do just fine."

This time the silence held and I fell into a deep, deep sleep.

February 18, 2010; Trouble in Paradise

It had been in the air all night. The Mooks were watching TV without watching TV. I know what this means. They had something serious to talk about. And then Mook A said, "We have something serious to talk about." (I told you!)

Then it got a little weird because Mook A kept glancing at me and I knew what he wanted but I also knew that I wasn't going to do it: leave the room. I was cuddled with Mook B and finally he just glared at me. B asked, "Is it something about the dog?" "NO!" A said a little too loudly and I realized that if I did not go away that he would find some nasty punishment for me later—something very subtle but very evil.

So I sighed, stretched and got off the couch like everything was perfectly normal and I toddled off to the kitchen to my little mat. Neither of the Mooks could see me but I could hear a little bit of what they would say.

It was one of those "relationship" conversations like normal people have (or, I should say, that straight women initiate and straight men listen to). I didn't know queers did that—I thought they talked about shoes or Madonna and then fucked some more. But the Mooks are not your normal queers, I've learned. For one thing, this Friday is their 17th anniversary and apparently, for queers, that's a lot. (To put it in perspective: it's longer than the life of your average dog!). It seems the Mooks have gotten this far because they have a lot of these talks. I know this because when A said, "We have something serious to talk about," B sighed deeply. (Like normal men sigh when their female partners say the same thing which answers the question of who is the man and who is the women in this couple.)

What I heard of the talk involved A's ongoing health problems, B's stress, money and—needless to say—sex. I blanked out the rest because, thanks much, I don't want to hear about what they do or do not do in bed. After a bit of silence I toddled back into the living room and jumped up on the couch with B because he looked the most miserable though A wasn't exactly glowing with joy. It was clear some heavy shit had gone down. However A said, "Look, I know this wasn't fun but aren't you happy we talked—got it out in the air and dealt with it. Obviously we've both been thinking about it for a long time."

Now I was mad with curiousity but it was clear the discussion was over but it was also clear it had something to do with a huge change in the nature of their couplehood. This is going to take some detective work. They still kissed before they went to bed and they did say the usual I love yous so there's not much different there. Since, they have been the Mooks I know and the ground hasn't shifted and, more importantly, no one is packing.

So my life, at least, goes on as before which is how it should be.

During a subsequent walk, when I was sure we were alone, I asked A, "What was that all about?" "As it has nothing to do with you you needn't concern yourself." "Well," I said, "I'm here if you want to talk." "You just want the gorey details," he said. I didn't say anything more because, no matter what happened, it was too touchy a situation to make snarky remarks about.

Meanwhile, I ran into Cleo the cat during this afternoon's walk and I was much, much cooler with her this time. I did not shriek or dance or lunge at her. She rewarded me with a little kiss and purred, "How are you, Handsome?" Well, that did get under my skin (by way of my dick) and I started to tremble and whimper. She rewarded that with a smack on my nose and walked away. A pulled me along and said, "Brilliant, Romeo."

"Well, neither of our sex lives is popping, are they?" I couldn't resist saying.

He was quiet after that.

February 15, 2010; The Nose

Happy Saint fucking Valentine's Day. The Mooks gave each other chocolate and I got to watch them eat it.

Mook A continues to yadda yadda but he has become more discrete. The effect this has, though, is that we look and sound like a couple of radicals getting ready to blow up a landmark. However, if anyone was listening—with a device, say—they would hear one of our mind-numbing conversations about things no one but the two of us understand.

There was one that started off with a casual remark. Mine. I was curled up with A and we were watching Antiques Roadshow. He had just come back from his nursing appointment and I said, "You smell medical." He then set about explaining to me what the nurses at the clinic do to him three times a week. "Hey sport!" I said "Too much information."

I thought he would clam up especially since the experts on the show were looking at a set of Clarice Cliff plates. Mook A is a fool for those sissy, over-painted, pseudo-Nouveau gew-gaws. But his heart wasn't in the show (in fact, since I started talking to him his heart isn't into any show or book or anything). "Can we talk for a little?" he asked. I sighed deeply because I saw I didn't have much of a choice especially if I wanted to stay curled up, toasty and warm, in my favourite chair. I said nothing so he went on: "About smells. What else do you smell on me?"

"Desperation," I said.

"Now come on," he said, not falling for it. "Really, what do you smell and how does it make you feel?"

"I told you if we started talking about feelings I'd clam up forever."

"No, I just want to know if smells—mine and the environment and your own, even, make you react or feel differently about a situation."

Now as conversations go, it wasn't the dullest one I have ever had; that would be the one where I met Benjie on the street and he was actually bragging about the handmade coat he was wearing and wanted to go on and on about where the yarn came from and what all the pictures on the coat meant.

So to shut up A, I bit. "Well, I do smell the medical stuff on you and that makes me a little nauseous 'cause it reminds me of that day..." He knew what I meant; the day I had been fixed as they oh!-so-euphemistically call it. I went on, "But the thing that tells me the most about a person is the smell of their sweat. I mean, it always tells me what they've eaten (like Straight Guy is a vegetarian and I can smell that in his sweat) but it also tells me about their state of mind."

"Really?"

"Sweat is almost always about anxiety. It's only exercise sweat that is clean and sweet and smells it. But even with exercise sweat you can sense the insecurity of certain people if they are running, say, because they think they are fat or if, as they're running, they feel stupid in the jogging outfit they chose or think that it's too tight."

"You get all that from a whiff of sweat," he said and I nodded. "But you say sweat is always about anxiety. What about sex sweat?"

"That's the worst. You have never smelled such high anxiety in your life, my friend. That's why dogs might stay to watch the beginning of a fucking but will leave pretty soon after it starts; the smell just gets too intense and unpleasant."

"But what about people who just fuck and enjoy it and have fun!"

"Well, there are people like that but that doesn't mean that the person they're fucking is enjoying it and having as much fun. Sometimes the other person is just pretending. I think you call it 'faking'."

"But how do you know so much about sex if you've only been exposed to one or two households?"

"Oh fuck," I sighed, "a dog can smell fuck-sweat when he's walking on the street. It comes from every window of every house and apartment whether it's opened or closed. The smell is just that strong!"

"Hm."

"And it's all about sweat. Even when people think they're dry, they're not. Their balls and cooters are sweating up a storm. Everything I need to know in the here and now of a person is right there in the sweat. If I know them a bit longer, I can peel their psyche like a grape at a Roman orgy!"

"So we have no secrets," he said, perturbed.

"None. I know everything there is to know about you, the other one, your relationship, the people you have the hots for; and, in passing, you really should try to control your obsession for—"

"—okay, that's enough!—"

"—and I have to ask you, what the hell is going on between you and that tall guy down the street; that flirty-flirty, blushing thing you do—"

"—THAT'S ENOUGH!"

I was having fun now and I snerfed a little laugh. He, however, was not amusing himself which, of course, amused me even more. "I can also tell, every every every time, when you have a boner!"

"SHUT UP!"

I giggled my fucking ass off and he, of course, shut up at last just in time for an appraisal, on the show, of some Spode. Mook A has a pile of Spode which I hope to inherit after he dies...or after I kill him.

February 12, 2010; A New Year

And so a new year with the Mooks begins and in the last days, since I first talked to Mook A, it has been talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk.

Not from me...from him. Yes, I had to shut him up a couple of times because he was in danger of exposing our secret. He'd try to get me to say something while Mook A was just in the next room or in the can and we all know that the walls in this fucking dump are paper thin and that you can't fart or lick yourself without the sound echoing through the whole place. A also tried to chat when were out on our walks. What happened, instead, was that he would talk to himself and began to look like the village lunatic, with people veering away onto the other sidewalk to avoid walking near us. It is normal to see people talking to their dogs and A did do that before—"Stop yanking or I'll rip your fucking head off!"—but that was normal (if a little sadistic). It's not normal to be walking with your dog and saying, "What do things look like in your world, or do you live in a world that is made up entirely—and perceived as—smells?" I would sometimes just snarl back, "Will you shut your fucking cake hole before we get caught," but stopped doing that too because it was just too dangerous. People—

except those in the know (and there are precious few of those)—cannot handle the truth; dogs, quite simply (in their little universes), do not talk.

We did run into Ginger and her one-legged mistress and I told Ginger that I was talking to the Mook now. She was very surprised and said, "I would never do it because if you don't communicate they treat you like a baby—with love and treats; the minute they think you're not their baby, they shit all over you." I'd heard that and wondered if I had made a mistake coming out to the Mook.

On that subject, I did get him to shut up—and quite easily—one night when he asked me if I hated him for having me castrated. "Let me answer your question with a question," I said: "do you hate the fact that you are still as horny as ever but that now you're just an old queer and damaged goods into the bargain?" I know...it was particularly cruel but it served. He muttered a very weak, "How would you like me to cage you, little fucking cretin," and then he shut up and let me finish watching Bargain Hunt.

We did have one good talk and it was about food—an obsession we both share—and on how best eat to a cracker; he gobbles his down and I like to lick the salt off first. I know it isn't exactly the Algonquin Round Table but it was interesting that there was something we could discuss.

Meanwhile, in the rest of the world, I really fucked up with Cleo, the cat down the street with whom I had done a nose-to-nose. I started to have sweaty fever-dreams about her after that encounter and could not wait to see her again. Then, yesterday, there she was bigger than life and twice as sexy, sitting between two parked cars, staring at the traffic. I saw her before I scented her—and she smelled divine (fish with an ever-so-subtle top note of used diapers)— and I went ballistic. I was pulling toward her, dancing on my hind legs, whimpering and trilling with joy. I think I was a bit OTT because she just looked at me with utter disdain, hissed and whacked me in the nose before toddling off to the other side of the street, her tail in the air, her little arsehole torturing me.

"You see," said the fuckwad, A, "you scared her off."

I permitted myself to say, "What the fuck would you know about pussy. For that matter what the fuck would you know about dick—"

That set him off, and he began blabbing on and on about what he did know about dick. It was considerably more then I wanted to hear and, for that matter, considerably more than the lady who was walking her infant in a carriage wanted to hear as well.

It shouldn't be long before the idiot ends up in a cage himself.

February 9, 2010; Revelation

So it's been a year and I had made the decision.

But I kept putting it off and putting it off. Sure, there seemed to be ample opportunity but it required me and Mook A to be alone and that doesn't happen very often.

I couldn't do it during a walk because you never know what might come around the corner. I couldn't do it while Mook B is simply occupied in the next room, because he might come in at any time. But, as I said, it would have been easy if I had just let A and his constant yammering about politics or social issues or Christ knows what lead the way. But he doesn't often talk to himself or to me directly (as he did when B was on vacation).

But I did, at last, get my chance. B was away teaching and we were on the La-Z-Boy, curled up for an afternoon of reading and watching the tube (A, a notorious multi-tasker, was doing both). It was CNN and they were covering both the Rahm Emanuel controversy (him calling certain liberals retarded—which they are) and the Tea Party Convention and Sarah Palin reading off her hand. Now the two things come together quite well because, as you know, Palin has a child who has Down Syndrome. But here's the thing: that kid is not a retard. That kid is mentally challenged. Now Palin, though, she's a retard! (If you listen to her really closely, you'll notice no two thoughts ever follow one another—she thinks like an adolescent boy: shooting a wad whenever an idea comes to mind.)

Anyhoo...

A was going on and on about Palin this and retard that and I saw my chance.

"If she's such a dolt, why is the left so scared of her?" I asked.

A just went on and on, "I don't know! I don't know! Why does anyone take her seriously!"

And then...

And then...

He stopped.

"Wha..." he whispered.

"You heard me," I said.

He looked down at me and I licked his nose which is what I do when I want to provoke him into play because my breath (he says) smells like shit.

"Leo?" he said.

"Yes?" I said.

"I think I'm losing my mind," he said and I snerfed a laugh and said, "Too late."

He grabbed the phone and I didn't know who he was going to call—B, his shrink, 911—but I barked and said, "If you tell anyone else about this you'll be like that guy in the cartoon with the dancing and singing frog: I'll clam up the minute you say something and you'll be heading for an extended stay at the Ha Ha Hotel."

"But...but...but..."

"But nothing. This is something most dogs can do but don't. But I'm bored. I decided to go ahead and here we are and deal with it."

"But what about?—"

"The other one. Maybe some day, but not now. It's hard enough dealing with you."

"Am I crazy?" he muttered.

"Well, you're on mega-doses of anti-depressants, you were thinking about killing yourself two weeks ago and now you're talking to your dog. You tell me?"

"How did you know about?—"

"I heard you on the phone to your shrink."

"You heard that."

"I hear everything."

"Hm."

"Yes, well. Simmer down and let's just watch TV, okay?"

He didn't answer, just kept saying "hm" over and over again. Finally it got annoying and I said, "Are you going to get a grip?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't know."

"Well please do, and switch the channel; Flog It! is on."

So we watched the show and I could feel his pulse slowing down and wondered how all this would turn out and if I had made a mistake or not. There was a long silence and then something occurred to me.

"I know you're gay, you know."

"Everyone does," he said.

"Well, this doesn't mean you can fuck me."

He laughed.

But it was a strange laugh.

February 6, 2010; Animal Rights

The Mooks eat meat. I eat meat. The difference would be that violent carnivorism is supposed to be in my blood and not supposed to be in the blood of humans. Sad thing, though—somehow it is in the blood of the Mooks and, indeed, of all humans and it's not just expressed by the fact that many of you eat meat.

Humans are bizarre. Animal rights people contend that if people had to slaughter their own meat or worked in a meat-packing plant everyone would be a vegetarian. I don't think so. Humans have a way of becoming inured to suffering—wars, floods, earthquakes and human reactions to these things (ie: waning interest) tell us that. However, there's no doubt that slaughter is a dirty job few people want which is why humans pay others to do it. A dirty job, though, is just a dirty job. Do people feel sorry for the plumber who drags a ball of shit, hair and used condoms out of their toilet? No, they give him $75 an hour and forget about it. How is his job different from the man in the slaughter house? Sure the guy killing cows gets paid less but the fact is that in the eyes of most meat-eaters, he's the one who pulls the ball of shit, hair and used condoms from the toilet and—thank you very much—please don't show us what you do! We'll just go on eating our meat in peace...and shitting in our toilets too.

Animals (ie: dogs etc.) are fairly pragmatic about the killing of animals for food. At least the animals, in most cases (ignore the idiot autumn hunters) get eaten. What confuses us (animals I mean) is the killing of humans. I don't mean war or murder, I mean like capital punishment. It's pretty fucking cold-blooded (even snakes think so). The blood, moreover, is on the hands of all humanity if it is permitted anywhere. It's the plumber thing though, isn't it?: we feel tidy because we get others to do it.

So animal rights? Give me a break, when people quite guilelessly kill other people and call it justice. There's more justice, it seems to me, in the killing and eating of another being. So here's what humans really need to do first: instead of sending Great Aunt May and Pervy Uncle Dill to the slaughter house before they eat their next veal chop, how about each time they bellow about the righteousness of capital punishment you give them the needle and say, "Here! You stick it in his arm!"

It's a thought. It a confusing thought because humans, again and again, confuse me.

That's why I have decided to go ahead with my plan for Mook A and to do it in the next few days, before the first anniversary of my being here.

I'll tell you how it goes.

February 3, 2010; The Cat and The Lady

On hard cases "the look" doesn't work

I had the oddest of couple of days with my whole values system thrown up in the air. Now I don't know where I stand anymore and it's freaking me out, Man!

First, there was the visitor.

She is a friend of Mook B's and the fact that she is a she should have made her visit a cinch. She'd like me! Automatic! Look at Cate, and Sis and the squadron of nurses who have walked through my little enclave! It was always love at first sight. But this one, this visitor, was a hard case. First, she smelled like cat. Right away I knew that I had to adapt my way of approaching her; cat people are not normal. So basically, to get her attention I sat next to her and once or twice put my paws on her lap. I did not do the Big Bird (that's Dogspeak for: snuffle up her guss), so, really, she had nothing to complain about.

But damned if she didn't complain! I mean, she didn't pitch hysterics like some people do (there are actually people on the street who will cross to the other side if they see me coming toward them on the sidewalk!). No, she was just cold as ice and—the bitch!—ordered me to go lie down. Well, fuuuuuuuuuuuuck you! I thought and then started to go at her in earnest. Finally Mook B picked me up and carried me over to to Mook A, who was hiding in the living room, and I curled up with him during the rest of the woman's stay. A tried to commiserate but he doesn't understand: when you have tricks to get around people and they don't work, it's a bad, bad thing.

The other encounter was as strange, if not stranger. I was toddling along on my walk with Mook A, two days ago, and we came across one of the many, many street cats. However, this cat is one I know and I know her because she's not a hissing, spitting loon like many of the others tend to be. She pretty much goes on her way and let's me go on mine.

But this time she was curled up on top of a wall taking in a bit of sun and as I passed by she said, "Hey you!" I froze. Cats and dogs speak the same language but in very different dialects. We can understand each other, we just don't bother trying. I didn't know what to do or say so I just looked at her and snerfed, "Yes?" Mook A was walking me and stopped walking. He likes to see what will happen between me and other animals...don't ask me why. She went on, "You're a pretty little thing." If dogs could blush, I'd be blushing. It's one thing to be told—over and over and over again—by humans and other dogs that you're cute—you get used to it. But when a cat is telling you this, it's a big motherfucking surprise. What's worse, is she was a fine looking specimen too: black and white with a huge sleek face like out of a commercial. "Come on over," she said.

Now this is the thing: I can handle heights, but I'm no Cirque du Soleil faggot, walking about on tight-ropes and all. But she was irresistible. So I hopped up onto the wall (which was on the side of a basement stairwell which meant the farther you go, the bigger the drop), and putting one foot very carefully in front of the other, I went over to see her. "What's your name?" she said. "The call me Leo." She rolled her eyes a little (I think that's cat-laughter) and said, "I'm Cleo." I snerfed a laugh. Then we said nothing. Here's the thing, though: she moved her nose toward mine...slowly...slowly...and before I knew it we were rubbing noses. She hummed, "You smell like fish." "So do you." (Note: this passes for a compliment in the animal world.) Then she said, "See you around." And that was that...

...except for the little matter of getting back to the sidewalk which required me walking backward, one step at a time, while trying not to look down at the six foot drop. When I got back to A he was insane with happiness and was bellowing, "I'm so proud of you! And look! Look! You've made a new friend! And boy, you can use all the friends you can get." At this Cleo made a strange little mocking sound and, again, if I could have blushed I would have.

Back at home A described my encounter to B in vivid detail like it was the news of a the decade.

I, on the other hand, pretended to have a nap but was really imagining the thousand ways I could get to know Cleo...in the biblical sense.

Hey! Pussy is pussy!