May 31, 2010; Literature

Since Skeeter got his Kindle he has been doing a lot of reading. But here's the thing: books still cost money, even electronic books, and he is poor, but he has found this website where he can download classics in Kindle format for nothing. So he has been reading the classics. Some of them are books he already read but "wanted to make sure I understood them the first time around" like "Madame Bovary." Others are books he read in abridged form when he was a kid like "Tom Sawyer" and "Huckleberry Finn"; the latter, he assures me, was much abridged when he was a child because there was no use of the n-word in his version and you hardly new Jim was a slave at all. He did note, this go-round, that Tom Sawyer, in the Huck Finn book, turned out to be a bit of a sociopath the way he tortured Jim—making him believe he was still a slave when he wasn't.

The upshot of all this, with summer here and all our programs in reruns, is that when he gets back from the clinic, swallows down his pain-killer and curls up with me on the La-Z-Boy, we no longer watch TV. He, instead, reads the classics.

Occasionally I ask him to read passages to me as I snooze. It's an odd, big world out there, in those books. I hated "The Jungle" because it was about people working in slaughterhouses and there seemed to be a lot of pity for the people but very little for the animals being slaughtered. I despised "Babbitt" because—let's face it—who cares about a Realtor and his affairs if they're not going to get into the fucking details (and by this, I mean the details of the fucking though—God knows!—I can't imagine a Realtor is any more interesting when he's fucking than when he's trying to sell you a house).

But it hasn't all been dull. He was giggling his ass off, one afternoon, and said, "You'd like this." So I ordered him to read from "Tom Jones"—some old book—and it was very interesting. The scene was some fight between two women in a little village and before you know it they were ripping off each other's tops and the writer described, in detail, how they slapped each other's tits and one of the women had really nice, ample tits. Like any red-blooded male I do love my cat fights, especially when you don't have to imagine them stripping each other 'cause the author gives you all you need.

Now he's reading "Anne of Green Gables." It's a Canadian classic (which probably means no one knows anything about it). Skeet explained to me that he had never actually read it; that it was read to him when he was in sixth grade by the teacher, a Mr. Fasano, who was great at accents and voices and had made hearing "Anne" a real delight (as he had also made "The Secret Garden" a joy—another book Skeet went back to on his Kindle).

I asked him to read from it and didn't quite get the attraction. I mean, the kid—Anne, the orphan—is cute and funny and all, but not hilarious-funny, more cute-funny which is not really all that funny. As Skeet read he stopped and said, "Want to hear something weird?" "Desperately," I said. "When Mr. Fasano read it to us, I didn't get, 'til the end of the book, that Anne's adoptive parents, Matthew and Marilla, were not married."

"Hunh? But that couldn't have been allowed, back then!" I said.

"No, no, no—they're brother and sister!"

"Well, that's just sick," I said.

"Well, no, not really. They're old siblings who live together," Skeet said. But by this time, I was re-writing "Anne of Green Gables."

Chapter 10

Anne Has a Sleep-Over

Marilla had said yes and Anne was so excited that she could hardly sleep the night before her pyjama party with her bosom friend, Diana Barry. All day, on the day, Anne and Marilla made cakes and ice tea and Matthew watched on with a big smile, though Marilla would toss him a glance from time to time as if to say, "Don't humour Anne too much; she's already all too thrilled for my tastes." Matthew would try not to smile, chastened, but it was a hard job.

Finally the night came and Anne and Diana were in Anne's room in the east gable telling each other romantic tales of knights and ladies of yore, staring out into the late sky and letting the views give scope to their imaginations. Suddenly, far away, they heard an odd noise and Anne said, "Diana! we must, must, must explore and find out the source of this noise. What if it should be a dragon!"

Diana, enjoying the game with a little thrill of girlish excitement (and a little bit of real fear too) said, "Yes! For if it is a dragon, we would have to call on a knight to save us!"

Very quietly the two girls tip-toed down the hallway. The noise was coming from Marilla's room and when they cracked open the door they could just make out the shapes of Marilla and Matthew. However, he was on top of her and she was grinning like some animal even Anne could not imagine.

"Just what my mother thought," Diana whispered, "the beast with two backs. It's why my mother didn't want me coming over here and we had to beg and beg and beg her."

"But it's all right," Anne whispered back, "maybe they're trying to make me a little brother or sister."

Diana moved closer to Anne, "Yeah, well, that would be one odd-looking child—Marilla and Matthew being brother and sister themselves."

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!" Anne roared. Matthew and Marilla were so busy doing what they were doing that they did not hear Anne. Diana dragged Anne back to the east gable. By this time the little red-head was shaking like a leaf and she looked like she had thousands more freckles. "I thought they were husband and wife!" she trilled.

"So do a lot of people," Diana said. "That's what makes Green Gables sort of a freak show. Tourists point it out and say, 'Is that where the couple lives and no one really knows their relationship?'"

"Well fuck me," Anne said and stared out the window.

"Go to bed, Anne. You must be tired. I am." The two girls curled up and as they were falling asleep Anne murmured, "Well, at least I'm not the biggest mutant on the Island—despite my red hair."

"Oh, no!" said Diana. "Not at all. One day I'll tell you about Mrs. Rachel Lynde's Quilting Circle."

"Hunh?" said Anne.

"Let's just say there's a reason the quilts they put up at the fair smell funny."

And with that the two little girls fell into a peaceful slumber.

May 28, 2010; Events aplenty

It's been pulverizingly hot the last few days and this means a few things: everyone feels like crap; when I go for my walks it's really slow because the city is full of shirtless men and men in shorts and the Boys (should it require iteration) are queer; I sleep a lot and don't do a lot of exercise.

All of these things came together the other day when I was out with Skeeter. We were at the end of the block where we normally cross to come up the block again. We were waiting at the light when Skeet went: "Hamana hamana hamana!" This noise, for the uninitiated, means he has spotted a particularly hot/semi-naked guy. And sure enough, there, at the outdoor café on the corner, sat a young man with his shirt open who had the kind of chest I know Skeet dreams of: hard, lean and hairy. (Now, if you'll excuse me, I would like to spit out the little bit of barf that just came into my mouth.)

So Skeet, using me as he is wont to do, said, "Stall." What this means is that I try to position us near the sexual object in question and take lots of time to sniff, etc., so Skeet can stare at the guy. "I'm really getting tired of being your beard," I muttered.

But then something truly happy occurred. When we crossed the street to the café who should I see hidden behind one of the decorative flower boxes but Cleo! "Hey!" I barked and dragged Skeet over. In an even happier circumstance this placed him just ahead of hairy hunk. "Hey Cleo," Skeet said and she mewed and, then to me he said: "Take all the time you want to catch up." The pig.

Cleo, unlike the last time, was happy to see me. "I've gotten used to street life," she said. "There sure are a lot of slow squirrels and birds around here so I'm never hungry." Though this was not the kind of "good" news I wanted to hear, I realized her life had changed and I had better get used to the idea because. I approached her and said, "Come over and put some of that stank on me." She giggled and said, "How street and how sweet and how ick." Then we nuzzled a bit. We didn't realize we had drawn an audience and several people at the café went: Awwwwwww. This broke Skeeter out of his chest-worshipping reverie and he smiled at everyone. Cleo and I felt a little self-conscious but probably not as self conscious as Skeeter who had to explain to the audience that he was looking away from us because he was "trying to give the two their privacy." I noted several in the café (including hairy hunk) watched Skeeter like he was a madman and potentially dangerous.

Back to us...

I started to prance with joy at seeing my beloved and she smacked me in the nose. Then she said, "Do that again." I was confused and said, "Jump around like a fool and make you nervous?" "Yes," she said so I did and she purred, "You've been working out! What happened to my pudgy little Jack Russell? Where did those leg muscles come from?" I crowed a little (in Dog Speak that's like a yawn with a little whinny at the end).

"Well, that's a story," I said to her and told it.

Two weeks ago the Boys were watching—you guessed it—"The Dog Whisperer" and the nasty little Mexican showed how you could exercise your dog by getting him to run beside a bicycle while you rode it. Boo-Boo's eyes lit up and he said, "I'm going to try that!" and on the next sunny day he did. At first I bucked and resisted like I was rabid but it boils down to two choices, finally: running with the bike; getting dragged like a cadaver behind it. So I ran. I hate it hate it hate it hate it. We do it every morning now and, on top of that, the two assholes have cut my meals again and my body has no choice but to tone up and fat down.

"I like it," Cleo purred again and once again we nuzzled and once again the crowd at the café went: Awwwwww. What I hadn't noticed was that hairy hunk had gone and Skeet was now bored and impatient. But he can be decent, sometimes, and as much as he wanted to leave, he also knew we, on the ground, were joyful.

It was Cleo who finally broke up the party saying, "I'm hungry. Time to hunt." This wasn't your sleek little lap cat anymore. Skeeter leaned down to us and said to Cleo, "If you need anything, you know where we are, sweetheart." Cleo acknowledged the kindness by rubbing her head into his hand and then, without another word, she was off, dashing into an alley to get herself some lunch.

It's sort of sad but it's sort of not 'cause it's sort of real.

May 25, 2010; Urofascism

In this city there are laws about dogs.

Dogs have to have licenses (no one enforces this). Dogs have to be leashed (no one enforces this). Owners have to pick up after their dogs...EVERYONE ENFORCES THIS.

Let me tell you about my 'hood. It used to be a working class district 'til all the poor people were sent to Siberia by yuppies, faggot couples, little families and the B&B trade. What that means is that it was once a nice little urban village where men doffed their fedoras to each other, where women talked to each other from their balconies and where kids played hockey in the treesy alleys. Now it's a village Nazi Germany where your neighbours know every fucking thing about your life, spread it around, judge the "facts" and make decisions about whether or not they will nod to you on the way to work in the morning or ignore you like you were a crack whore living in their dumpster.

A lot of everyone's impressions of you is how you deal with your dog and whether or not the person who is spreading this news is liked by the rest of the commune or not. For instance, their is this college professor who lives in a ground floor apartment just a little down from our place. He hates dogs. He, of course, created a little garden which is like dog-bait—we all like to piss there! This means he hates us even more. But here's something you should know: about two years ago, while walking Cosmo, Skeeter saw a young street ruffian at the perfesser's door. He was coming out and, right there at the door, money was exchanged. As Skeet had had a lot of trouble with this man because of Cosmo's explosive need to piss the minute he got out and the fact the Cos had liberally hosed down this guy's garden many a time, Skeet thought he would fight back in a way the entire neighbourhood understood: he started (very subtly) to spread the word that the prof was hiring whores. Suddenly everything the prof said about dogs peeing or shitting, or his garden or the price of barley was ignored by all the rest of the street.

However, the prof is not—by far—the only problem! The city has a beautification program and has asked citizens to adopt the trees on each street and to water them and take care of them. Some of the fucks here see that as a way to have their own little gardens without actually living in a space which allows for one. They put flowers and plants around the trees they are tending and, worse!, little fences around these gardens! So, tell me!, where the fuck is a dog supposed to piss?!

If I piss on the sidewalk some fucking nosey parker raises a stink about stepping in dog piss in sandals or flip-flops and tracking it into their place. If I piss on someone's mini-lawn it's a five-act opera with overture and ballet! And if I piss on the mini-gardens around the trees...well, all hell breaks loose! So basically I gallop about, and get yanked about by Skeeter or Boo-Boo, 'til we've found some hidden little place off the beaten path where I can empty my bladder. Since when did a dog pissing become something shameful?! I ask you!

Oh, and then there's shit. God forbid you don't pick up after your dog because on this street, when the temperature gets up above 55, everyone is on their balcony spying, spying, spying. There's even one lady who videotapes owners who don't pick up and shows the tape around until the owner is identified. In one case, a guy with a pitbull was caught this way and instead of being confronted in a neighbourly sort of way, he woke up one morning to find his wrought-iron fence festooned with baggies of other dogs' shit.

So, please, imagine living in this fascist state when you're sick (as I have been several times and as Cosmo was, apparently, often). I mean you need to go. But what happens is that one of the Boys, seeing that look in your eyes and realizing no baggie will pick up what you're going to deliver, gets you on the leash and out the door as fast as possible and then runs you down the street to the alley where your screaming, cramping bowel can finally explode. (I heard that Cosmo wouldn't tolerate this little sprint, and found an elegant solution by shitting as he ran.)

Ginger, Benjie, the walking throw rug up the street and I have talked this over and are looking for a way to rebel. For one thing, we don't think it's fair that trees we anoint all year are suddenly verboten. What's made it worse is that there are some of these fucking dink gardeners who don't like a dog pissing there even during the off season as they will have to deal with the soil under the tree when it comes time to plant their pansies. Ginger suggested that, as I am talking to Skeeter now, I tell him dog owners need to lead the charge against the tree people.

Here's the thing...I suspect Skeet has already begun the battle. Everyone on this street has a secret. And the other thing is: No one on this street has a secret. A bitchy lady planting flowers under a tree today can be the one everyone is saying should be kept away from small children tomorrow.

All is fair in the piss wars.

May 22, 2010; Straights 'n' Gays

We were, as usual, curled up on the La-Z-Boy, it was hot, he was reading, I was bored so I said, "I had a weird dream last night."

"Good for you," he said, not moving his head from his book. Not even looking at me, the fucker!

"Don't you want to hear about it?"

"No."

"Jeeeeeeeez."

"Take it from a writer, pal, two things no one ever wants to hear about: dreams and sex."

"I'm not buying that," I said. "I thought that all you people talk about is sex!"

"Us people?" he said menacingly.

"Oh fercrissakes you're thin-skinned! Not queers! People! People! Straight! Gay! People!"

"Well, a lot might talk about it, but the others listen only by politesse."

I said, "So if it's a sex dream, I guess you really don't want to hear about."

"You got that right."

"Hm."

"Look, when we're young we talk about it all the time. We don't listen, but we sure like to talk. I used to date this couple—"

"—Excuse me? This isn't going to be one of those sordid gay threesome things because I really don't want to hear about that!"

"No, no, no," he said and explained: "They were a couple, they were friends, and we always went out together. She was my friend more than him, but he was real eye-candy so I didn't mind so much. But then their relationship started to get rocky and I was put in the middle. She was very good and discrete about it. He, however, would come over and whine and whine and whine and it was always something to do with sex. Worse: straight sex. The worst time started when he said, 'I thought she liked getting eaten out.'"

"Yee-ikes!" I said.

"Straights think gays like to share this way, though I don't know why. I never told him about my sex life which, in those days, was pretty colourful—"

"—you mean raunchy—"

"—well, yes." And he paused and his feeble, aged mind harked back to the days when he catted about. But finally he broke out of the spell and went on with his story. "So...He started like that but then it only got worse. It was like a train-wreck. 'I think I'm pretty good. I have a good tongue. All the girls I've been with have told me I have a good tongue! And until last night I thought she (his girlfriend and my friend) did too. She always squirmed and squealed when I did my thing. I have this thing; this little buzzing thing I do...' Then he stuck out his apparently talented though, I noticed, fat little tongue and started spitting around my living room. Like a vibrator with eyes!"

"Just how desperate were you for friends, back then?" I asked and really wanted to know the answer though he took it to be rhetorical.

"I passed him a Kleenex and feigned appreciation of the spine-melting effect that buzzing must have on any woman. But he went on: 'So last time I'm doing it when she yelled, "Would you stop that buzzing shit! It doesn't turn me on and you get my thighs all wet!"'"

I had to get off his lap because I started to scream with laughter and, like some little old lady, thought I might pee myself. "True story," he said, "I kid you not." But he was laughing too. "I think that was the last time a straight sex story was interesting to me and it was for all the wrong reasons."

I went to drink some water but had to stop because every time I tried to sip, the image of the naked chick telling the naked guy about her wet thighs came back and I would choke on the water. Finally I got a relative grip but I was still chuckling as I hopped onto his lap. "What happened then?"

"Well, I was trying desperately not to laugh—"

"—I guess!—"

"—Then I asked him why, instead of resorting to 'tricks' he didn't just make love to her. He said, 'Well, it's that, after a period of time, heterosexual people bring in little tricks to keep love-making from becoming bland.' He was patronizing me. Heterosexual people are not a mystery to gays. We don't needs Margaret Mead to explain heterosexual people to us. We hear about heterosexual people day in and day out. So I said, 'Excuse me...but if you're resorting to tricks already, three months after your first fuck, how long will it be before you're making snuff films!' He didn't get it. He resented me for saying it and, needless to say, it wasn't a month before the friendship was over and I went on with my life. She stayed my friend—my best friend—for a long time but he disappeared." He said this wistfully (thinking about the girl's friendship? the guy's hunkdom?). "Since then," he concluded, "I've made it clear to all my friends that I have a very limited attention-span for sex stories. Sure, if sex is the root of a problem I'll listen and help, but telling about sex (or dreams, you) bores me to tears. Even from gays 'cause we all experience sex (and dreams, you) differently."

"But doggy sex dreams? You're not the least but curious?"

"Oh, Lord! No!"

"Well, it was just chit-chat anyway," I said because, after that story, it was.

The image of the chick yelling at the guy came back to me over and over all day and the next and I kept snerfing with laughter each time. Gotta say: those people are hi-larious!

May 19, 2010; Barking Mad

Things are not happy in Boystown. Skeeter, last week, was told that one of his wounds had healed. Turns out it was just closed, not healed, and yesterday a nurse reopened it (Yeee-ikes!!!). He came home from the clinic walking funny...or I should say: funnier. So it looks like he won't be able to avoid another surgery and he's a pyschological and physical mess. He even barfed at the clinic because of the heat and/or stress and/or fatigue.

The fatigue part is a bit my fault and a lot Boo-Boo's. Skeeter pays me a lot of attention and now, that we're talking, there has been a lot of yammering between us. But Boo—such a basketcase from work that he doesn't know if he's coming or going—pretty much ignores me all the time. He thinks he makes up for it by letting me sleep in his bed but I don't think he's aware of a couple of things: I let him sleep in my bed; we sleep—we don't play, we don't anything, really, that might amuse me.

Well, I got pretty tired of this, Saturday, and insisted on my due. It was morning and Skeeter was still asleep and Boo, right after the first walk, was at his computer. His walks are becoming pretty perfunctory, let me tell you, and now, back home, I wanted play! But he was tappity-tappity-tap-tap-tap on that fucking lap-top. So I started to snerf, then jump, then bark. He said, "Stop it!" and went back to work. So I ran about a bit, grabbing things—shoes, my bone, pillows—and throwing them around. Then I rushed him and barked again. He hissed: "Stop it!"

Well fuuuuuuuuuuuck you!

So I just went mad, barking my motherfucking ass off. Suddenly, from the back of the apartment, came a roar. "LEO!!!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" I had awakened the beast. Yes, well, now it was time to shut up. Indeed it was.

But Boo's unfortunate behaviour persisted. Aside from ten or fifteen minutes of rough-housing a day, there was pretty much just the walks and he was using these for coffee, worry and iPhoning. Hey! I'm a Jack Russell! I'm here and I want your adoration! NOW! So on Monday morning, knowing that Skeeter had been to bed late and was sleeping like the dead, I started to get in Boo's face again. I don't know if it was a lesson from the Dog Whisperer or some damn thing, but this time I could not get a fucking rise out of him. I was frozen out. So I did what any self-respecting dog would do: I started to shriek.

Apparently I am not aware of my decibel level but before Boo reacted the roar emanated from the back again and this time it was louder, uglier and more dangerous because it wasn't words, just a noise, and this suggested the roarer might now come at me. Skeet stumbled out of his bedroom. His eyes were bleary, his housecoat barely on (ick) and he was reeking of rage. Thankfully, he was too fucking tired to kill me or (judging from the direction of his lunatic glaring) Boo. Later, though, with Boo gone to work he grabbed me by the scruff, planted me on his knees and bellowed, "What the fuck!!"

"He's ignoring me!" I howled and did not at all like the whiney, needy tone of my voice.

"He's up to his ears in work!"

"Hey, when you both took me in you knew what you were getting into. So what's this shit with him!"

"Maybe you should talk to him," Skeet said.

"Are you nuts!? Have you seen the state he's in? If I started talking to him his head would explode!"

"Mine didn't."

"You were half-crazy to begin with. You were already talking to me like I was going to talk back. That's nuts," I said.

"Yes, then it was nuts."

"And who knows?" I said, "maybe it's even nuttier now that you think I'm answering you—"

"—think?"

I let a nervous silence pass and then snickered, "I'm fucking with you," I said, paused and added, "or am I?"

"Okay, I'll talk to him. It would certainly do him some good to play with you more or take you for longer walks."

"Oh, he'll have some song and dance about work and the lack of time."

"Listen," Skeet said, "You know the way you manipulate me—"

"—I never!—"

"—puh-leeze. Anyway, that's the way I deal with Boo."

"You just have to know what buttons to push," I said.

"Indeed."

"One more thing," I said, "if you die on the operating table, do you think he'll be able to take care of me alone?"

"Not a chance. You'll starve to death."

I was being sarcastic. But was he?

May 16, 2010; Here comes the judge!

Me, him, CNN: never a good combination.

It was after his appointment at the clinic, his subsequent pain-killer and my afternoon walk; Skeeter and I were curled up on the La-Z-Boy watching TV when I said, "I'm glad to see your Obama has grown a pair and nominated that fat little dyke to the Supreme Court."

He sighed deeply and said, "That's offensive—and wrong!—in so many ways."

"Do try and penetrate my darkness," I sniped.

"First, as much as I like him, he's not my anything. Secondly, he's been pretty surly and, well, virile of late—what with BP and health care—"

"—that piece of middle-of-the-road shit!—"

"—whatever! And, though I would like it if she was a lesbian—" he hit the word hard "—apparently she's not—"

"—oh! puh-leeeeeeeeeeeze!" I howled with laughter.

"Well, that's what they say."

"Look, I'm not for queers as judges, but even less so for liars as judges."

"Hm," he said and I could tell he was trying to decide if he wanted to open this can of worms because when it came to political discussion he was not just a pinko but also a retard. I tend to believe a lot of the left's marginals are politically retarded—the gays, the coloureds, the broads—because their sense of victimhood is so key to their identity that they see everything that way; absolute, black and white, we suffered ergo you are wrong.

Hell! I'll never deny their suffering (that fat little dyke has a long row to hoe, let me tell you, being fat, little and a dyke), but I do deny that suffering replaces soundness when it comes to winning an argument. (And in case you're wondering, this also applies to destitute ex-Wall Street stock brokers and white trailer trash who want to sue McDonald's cause they're morbidly obese or because the coffee was too fucking hot.)

Skeeter sallied with: "I'll never win an argument with someone who thinks lesbianism is immoral—"

"That's not what I think!" I said. "Lesbians make me as hot as the next guy, it's when you have someone who is joining the court as a member of a group instead of as a wise person."

"Hm," he said again and I stared up at him thinking: "Wow, he's dumb." He went on, "I almost agree with you but as the court is now made up of Blacks and Hispanics and women a GLBT might be nice—"

"Ah yes, the sandwich!" I said.

"Hunh?"

"The Gay Lettuce, Bacon and Tomato gang."

He laughed and then said, "You know what really bothers me? If she's not one, that's fine, but that they're denying it so vehemently is not. They're denying it like it's an insult. Instead of saying, 'She isn't' the tone they're taking is, 'Don't be stupid! How dare you! She had all sorts of men in Harvard!'"

"So instead of being a dyke she was a slut," I snerfed. "A little fat slut...there's an appealing image."

"You're a pig," he said.

"We all are."

Later, during the evening walk, I ran into Benjie and the nice old lady, "I'm sorry about Cleo," Benj said.

"Now how the fuck do you know about that!" I asked. "I've told no one!"

"I read your blog."

"What!"

"The old biddy has a computer she uses for photos and e-mails to her daughters and grand-children. She doesn't know I climb onto it to read your blog and surf porn."

"Some sick stuff out there, isn't there, bro?" I said.

"Thank God," he said and snerfed.

Yes, we are all pigs. And none are bigger pigs than the senators who will be vetting the fat little dyke. It should make for great TV.

May 13, 2010; Food Wars

Over the next days I saw Cleo all over the place, but mostly far away or in a tree and she wouldn't talk to me. The Boys even talked over the possibility of adopting her, but I couldn't even broach the subject with Cleo.

So, as a result, there came the supper where I was no longer in the mood. "This shit again," I mumbled.

"Excuse me?" Skeeter said.

"This shit you call food. Well, sorry, I'm not eating it."

"Wanna bet?"

"Yeah. Take this shit away." And I moved back from the metal bowl full of "health" kibble doused in store-bought low-salt chicken broth. (The broth was to give it flavour; a hold-over from the last time I wouldn't eat and wasn't talking to him yet.)

"Well, I'm just going to put it in the fridge for tomorrow."

"Well, I won't eat it tomorrow either."

"Suit yourself. It'll be there, waiting for the next day."

"Watch your fucking shoes if I get peckish," I said. He didn't know how to answer.

The next day I wasn't too hungry. Here's the thing: I'm a lazy dog, for a JRT, and I sleep much and walk little. But there are other ways of getting food too and during the morning walk I breakfasted on some pizza on the sidewalk. Morning is a good time for al fresco nibbles because it's Boo-Boo who walks me and he's busy drinking coffee and trying to cure his zombiehood. The pizza was all I needed.

When supper came, Skeet put down the food again. It was no more appetizing and even a little less so because it was cold, congealed into a grayish slop and Skeet had added water to make break it up and make "gravy." I sniffed disdainfully and said, "You're a funny old fat man, aren't you?"

"Can it with the fat comments. It's a hernia."

"Yeah, like every fat fuck in the world says it's thyroid."

"Eat shit," he said.

"Not tonight." I pushed the bowl with my nose and said, "Take me out, I need a dump."

The third day I was a little hungry. But here was a new problem: the night before fuckwad Cesar Milan had been on, dealing with a massive Newf who was a picky eater. Cesar found out that the hound only got 45 minutes of walking a week. Though I get an hour a day, it's lazy Boo-Boo/Skeeter-talk-to-the-neighbours-smoke-buy-junk-food walking. Not exactly the little Mexican riding a bike with me running beside him. After the Cesar show, Skeeter was more determined than ever to get me to eat what he put in front of me, when he put it in front of me. But like I said, there are other strategies.

The weak link in this home is Boo-Boo. In the dog alpha-system, Skeeter and I do battle for alpha spot while Boo-Boo wanders around aimlessly in another alphabet entirely. It's one reason I don't talk to him; to Boo I'm a dog or even a doggie—a baby...vulnerable, protectable. I knew he would protect me from Skeet and, sure enough, while the cruel cunt was at the clinic, Boo started popping me a bunch from a pile of crackers he was shoving into his face as he worked at the computer.

Skeeter came home, catching us both unawares and lost his mind. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!!!???" he roared at Boo who jumped, knocked some crackers to the floor and I moved in for the kill. "LEO! EAT THAT AND I'LL KICK YOUR LITTLE WHITE ARSE OFF!" I knew he meant it and slunk back to the kitchen.

"Stop screaming," Boo yelled.

"How many did you give him?" Skeet roared.

"One," Boo said very, very quietly.

"Fuck! We are in a battle of wills with that little bastard and you are letting him win!"

"Maybe he's sick," Boo said.

"HE'S NOT SICK!" Skeeter shrieked and came into the kitchen. He picked me up and hissed in my ear: "You...are...not...going...to...win." My mouth went dry, my heart was pounding and my dick shriveled. He had never been physically violent with me but his life was crap right now and if he was going to snap, I wanted to be sure I was splashed with his or Boo's blood, not my own. I said nothing. It would have been madness.

So...the slop came out again. I mumbled, very politely, "I'll eat, but could I have some fresh, please?" I felt like Oliver and I nearly retched on that word I never say: please.

"Fine," he said. But he went a little farther, narrating the whole while. "I'm throwing this away and I'm even going to make some fresh broth!" (The broth was usually made in advance and kept in a Ziploc in the fridge.) "It'll be nice and warm and—oh!—it smells so good!" I hated him more because he was talking to me like I was a Special Olympian. When it was done he set it down with a flourish and said, "Dinner is served!"

I went over to it. Sniffed. Said: "I'm not hungry."

Skeet's eyes rolled back in his head and he stopped breathing. I thought: This is it—he's dead.

But for good measure I added, "Boo lied. I must have eaten about 20 crackers and I...am...stuffed!"

As he recovered and threw on his coat and got out the leash for the evening walk he whispered, "I'll kill him in his sleep."

It's not about winning, you see; it's about the other side losing.

May 10, 2010; Weather and Heights

Saturday it was raining—cold, shit-rain—all day so there was little or no chance of meeting up with Cleo. Sunday it snowed! Do you mother-fucking believe it! It fucking snowed! I mean, at the beginning of the April it was fucking 80 degrees and yesterday it fucking snowed! I blame humans for this.

But that, sadly, is not the point.

Last night I was out with Skeeter for my last walk of the day and who should I see zipping behind a building (during the wet snow) but Cleo! I called her over and she tried to pretend I hadn't seen her and then tried to pretend that she hadn't heard me and so I kept on yelling. But it was Skeeter's very gentle, "Cleo, come here sweetheart," which stopped her dead in her tracks and slowly, so very slowly, she came over to us both.

I was not my usual hysterical self because she looked woebegone from the wet snow and the cold. Then I noticed something. I mumbled up to Skeet, "Do you see that?" He sighed deeply and, it seemed, very sadly and said yes and he squatted down as Cleo approached us both very cautiously. "Where's your collar, honey?" I said to her.

"I don't have one."

"But you did have one," I said. And she mewed quietly. "I don't understand."

"She's been turned out," said Skeeter. "Sometimes when people move away, they go to an apartment that doesn't accept animals so they just take the collars off their cats and dogs and let them loose in the alleys and then move away, leaving them to fend for themselves."

"Wha...?" I didn't get it at all.

Then Cleo said, "Yes, he's right."

"BUT THAT'S FUCKING BARBARIC!" I shrieked in Dog-Speak.

Skeeter said, very, very quietly, "Ask her if that's what's happened."

She understood and mewed a yes to me. She was so weak and wet and hungry that I didn't know what to say.

My whole life was exploding right here and now. Nothing was making sense. I wasn't supposed to be a cute dog—something out of those wretched Family Circus cartoons (that idiot Barfy, I think he's called)—and I wasn't supposed to me a nice, movie dog like Tramp. But here I was living something straight out of a fucking Brontë novel or, worse, one of those winter scenes in Dickens that everyone cries at but which are just gross and human and downright bathetic.

"Come home with us," I said to her.

"I can't! No! I'm an alley cat now! I've been one for ten days! Since my family moved away! And I've been eating all sorts of crap in the alley and drinking puddle water and I'm not fit for anyone's home. No!"

"But this can't be. You're too...good for this."

"Yeah, well, they didn't think so," she said. "I hate humans. I hate all of them. I hope I get hit by a fucking car and this will all be over."

"Don't talk like that! It's stupid! Now just come with us!"

Suddenly she was gone. She just tore off and I tried to go after her and was shrieking her name and yelling, "Come back! Come back!" But Skeeter was pulling back on the leash. "LET GO OF ME, YOU FUCKER! LET ME GO AFTER HER!"

But he didn't. He slowly pulled me back to him and then kneeled down on the wet pavement near me and petted me gently. "There's nothing we can do. We can try. But I don't think she wants our help."

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

And then there was quiet. "Her heart is broken, I think," he said finally. "I can't imagine how a cat feels when its been getting food and shelter and heat and affection and suddenly its just turned out like that. But it happens all the time, Leo, and there's nothing we can do about it."

We slowly walked back to the apartment. "She's right. I hate humans."

He sighed deeply and said, "I hate them too, sometimes. I don't understand anyone who can do that. But it happens all the time," he said again except this time it was just a sad, soft echo of what it had been before. "We'll do what we can for her," he said, "if we see her again—"

"—if?—" I said in a panic.

"—when..."

This morning, with the warmer temperature, I looked for her all over the place. I think Skeeter did too. But we didn't see her. Instead we saw garbage bags ripped open in the alleys and trash strewn everywhere.

Skeeter and I said not a thing as we went back, walking in the sun, to the warmth of our home.

May 7, 2010; Some Enchanted Afternoon

We were just toddling along, yesterday afternoon, enjoying a little sun after the rain-storm when suddenly...THERE SHE WAS! I yanked Skeeter for a half-block and went up to the step she was on outside her building (or what I think is her building, because you never know with her.)

"Oh God!" I said, trying not to weep, "I thought you were roadkill!"

"Simmer down, little fellow," she said and tapped my nose with her paw which, for Cleo, passes for affection.

Skeeter was holding the leash tight so I snarled, "Hey! Dicksmack! Could you give me a little slack here?!"

"You're acting weird," he said, "I don't know what you'll do!"

"You are acting bizarre, sweetie," Cleo purred in Cat.

To her: "I'm in love!" To him: "I'll be calm"

"You better be," he said, glancing about to assure himself no one was watching. "One thing," he said, "if you want favours from me, you might consider omitting 'Dicksmack' from the exchanges."

"Do you have any idea how queer you sound right now?" I snarled.

"Fuck you," he said but finally let a little more leash out of the gadget and I could rub shoulders with my beloved.

"Where have you been?" I whispered, my words a garble of Dog-Speak and the few phrases I knew in Cat. (I can understand Cat perfectly, but it takes a nimbler tongue than this Jack Russell's to get around those diphthongs.)

"They went on vacation. I've been in a kennel," she said simply.

"THE BASTARDS!" I shouted and immediately the loose leash was whipped back into the machine. I turned to Skeeter, "KNOCK IT OFF OR I'M GOING TO RIP YOUR BALLS OFF!"

"Listen, you little peckerwood," he hissed, "stop acting like...well...you! I'll do about anything you want but can't you see you're making her nervous!"

"He's right," Cleo whispered.

"But why?" I said when the leash was loosened and I could sit on the step at her feet.

"There's talk," she began. "Mortimer, the cat next door, is spreading it around that you and I...well...you know." She turned away and the sun shone on her coat just so and her look was so sad and distant my breath stopped.

"I'll go slow. We'll act like friends. You'll see. It'll be fine," I said, with a whiff of desperation.

"We'll see," she said so enigmatically I fell a little of myself die.

"We sat in silence for a long time. She finally looked over and said, "He can sit down too, you know," and pointed at Skeeter with her nose. He was looking away and I was touched by how the big dink was accommodating us—like the Nurse in "Romeo and Juliet". "Sit!" I said and he did, but as far down the steps away from us as he could get.

"I love you," I said finally.

"Oh don't be a tit!" she said and swatted me. I laughed instead of going on talking but she had hurt me and I don't mean with the swat. There was no easy way for us. None.

So we sat quietly, occasionally rubbing up against each other though, if you had watched, you would have seen nothing. Skeeter was looking more and more tired and I knew I would have to wrap this up because, for some odd reason, he wasn't.

"What's his story?" Cleo said.

"He's queer. He's been sick. For a long time."

"Is he alone?"

"No, but he feels alone, I think."

She thought for a moment and sighed gently. "Well, honey, bottom line: at three o'clock in the morning we're all alone." I remembered something I read somewhere: "There is in true beauty something which vulgar souls cannot admire." That was Cleo.

Finally she got up, I did, Skeeter did. I toddled down the stairs and looked back at her and she stretched for me. It was so erotic I nearly passed out. Skeeter and I went on our way without a word.

Later that night, as we were watching TV, there was a terrible sound outside: a clunk and the scream of an animal. I rushed to the window to discover that Bonheur, the black lab mix across the street, had been hit by a car or a bike or something. He wasn't badly hurt and, to be frank, this is the kind of thing he does which is why the rest of the neighbourhood doesn't call him Bonheur (Joy in French) but Boner; not because he gives us one but because he's as smart as one.

Then I though about what Cosmo said about passing on: Poof! And I thought about Cleo.

Nothing is ever certain.

May 4, 2010; The Visitor

It was just a matter of time, I figured, so I was not surprised to see him in the kitchen when I went for my 3 a.m. sip of water. He was sitting in the corner, big as life, and—strangely—had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked only slightly the worse for wear which meant he was still a magnificent specimen.

"So, how you been?" I asked.

"Dead. You?"

"Alive. Anything I can help you with?"

"Nah. Just sniffing around the old stomping grounds. Surprised to see not much has changed except the smells are different...a little more, er, acid, shall we say. Aren't you a little old to be doing that kind of thing?"

"It's become a bit of a trademark. You must have had one when you were here?"

"Mine was pretty much just getting in their faces. You'd be amazed how easy that is for someone as tall as I am."

The tall comment smarted. I had always felt just a little inferior to even the memory of Cosmo, but now, here, with his ghost standing in front of me, I felt all the littler.

He spoke tiredly: "Let me tell you something about life: Poof! It's gone! I was eating dust bunnies one day, the next I couldn't get up the stairs and the third it was the shot and the big sleep. So celebrate, little guy."

Again with the "little" and I wondered if I should put the big goomer in his place. "I celebrate! My whole life is just one big fucking party! Everyone loves me—"

He snerfed; a big masculine sound that sounded so much richer than what I was capable of—in fact, his snerf made mine sound a little like Benjie's. Then he talked in this wonderful, rumbly, ghostly-with-a-little-bit-of-cigarette voice. "Listen, Toto—"

"—it's Leo!—"

"—whatever, You're like the second wife: you might get some nice used jewels and dresses but the love of the family is interrèd with her bones."

"Well," I responded, "kudos on the Shakespeare paraphrase—"

"—thank you—"

"—But here's one for you too: 'I like long life better than dog's arse.' You lived 11 years, right?" He nodded. "Chances are good I'll go to 16 or 17. Moreover, I may bury one of these two myself—"

"—probably the fat one—"

"—probably the fat one. So the likelihood is that in that long life of mine I will find a hundred ways to out-cute you and—guess what!?—replace you. Already they have only one picture on the wall of you and you look like a goof. Skeeter has taken hundreds of me and hours of video and I have replaced you in the hearts of all the neighbours...except the retarded on—"

"—who called me Cosmos—"

"—yes, that one."

There was a silence and he finally sighed and it was the sound of the dead and tired. I felt sorry for having lit into him. He puffed a little on his cigarette and then said, "So everyone in the neighbourhood loves you?"

"Yup!"

"Wow."

"Un-hunh," I said but was less cocky 'cause there was something in that "Wow" I didn't like.

He snerfed, and repeated, "They all love you. Jeez. How sad." He let that hang in the air for a bit and then went on. "So you're like—what?—the class clown? No dignity at all? Jumping about and making everyone laugh? I didn't know dogs like that existed anymore—"

"—dogs like what?—"

"—Oh, you know: village circus dogs. I suppose they give you a treat every time you do a little dance? Do you wear a little tutu?"

"IT'S NOTHING LIKE THAT!" I roared.

"Hm," he said. "I feel sorry for you. Don't you feel a little sorry for yourself, Toto?"

My head exploded at this and I hissed in his face, "IT'S FUCKING LEO, GET IT! AND IT'S NOT LIKE THAT! I AM THE FUCKING KING OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD! I OWN THE TOWN! GOT IT! GOT IT!"

He looked me straight in the face and then licked me on the nose. "That's all right, little one. Calm down. I'm yanking your chain." I sat down and we stared at each other a moment. The cigarette was still there, but it wasn't getting shorter despite all the smoke. It much be some kind of celestial thing.

"Let me tell you the truth," he said. "They love you to pieces. But they couldn't love you so much if they hadn't loved me first and they still love me and miss me."

"I know," I muttered. "They call me Cosmo sometimes."

"Well, they called me Buddy sometimes too. He was the one before. We don't go away, in their lives. We're like a smell. It clings. From what I've seen you're doing an okay job here. Though I gotta say, my singing was better."

I snerfed a laugh and the two of us decided to lie down. We were both looking out the window, at the stars. "They still never wash these," he said. "Not that I've seen," I said. "Just as well," he muttered, "feels like home."

We both fell asleep. I woke up later and he was gone and I toddled back to Boo-Boo's bed. Just before I fell asleep, far, far off, I heard a big dog howl.

Cosmo was singing in the trees. Life never ends.

May 1, 2010; Pomes

Limerick

There once was a man from the city

Who cringed at the sight of a titty.

He'd walk with his Jack

Checking out every sack

While whistling a gay little ditty.

Song

A cat is a cat and a dog is a dog

And a bunny is funny to babies;

But a dog with a cat is abnormal, they say,

And a bunny's less funny with rabies.

So cats pop their kitties and doggies their pups

And no one seems keen for a dottie;

But please listen to me as I sing of my love:

A black and white feline, my hotty.

Please let me my sweet and go on with your lives

And remember that love's always glorious.

Allow me my puss without all the fuss

And romance shall rise up victorious!

There are people you call "fister"

And some play at naked Twister,

Then why?—oh why!—can't I just have my cat?

If my master has his mister

And a hillbilly his sister,

Then why?—oh why!—can't I have my puss twat?

Haikus

A small, cluttered home;

Two men, a dog, and a mess

They all call their lives.

Oh! Piss in the bed!

Tragedy at morning's light!

Must we shoot the dog?

They once were "queer boys,"

Now, of course, they're "gay" and

Jughead gives blowjobs.