June 30, 2010; Sing a Song of Boo-Boo

A Song for my Favourite

Boo-Boo, you sweetie,

You never have tapped me,

Or even pulled hard on my leash on a walk.

You give me to eaty,

Sure, we run 'til you've sapped me,

But face it, you're really a sheep in my flock.

Today you're fifty and one!

You're life's not at middle,

In truth you're near done;

But you bike and you whittle

And to me the big riddle

Is how the fat guy gives you fun!

(Okay you don't "whittle",

It's better than "diddle"

When it comes to a rhyme.

As a poet, you know it,

I don't turn on a dime.)

Let's accept that he's sickly

And can be uber-prickly

And can't keep his dick in his zipper.

And you—you're a nice guy,

So cool you're an ice-guy,

While he's nearly Skeeter The Ripper.

Be this all as it may,

Today still is your day!

I raise a Jack's paw in solemn salute!

Put away all the work

And turn off the big jerk!

And try to ignore that now you're a Coot.

June 27, 2010; In The Alley

It's funny how things work out.

First, now that Skeeter has grown some balls about his doctors, there is a certain kind of peace in the house so that when we go for walks he now actually sees things and enjoys things and breathes and is a little bit alive. He whistles! fercrissakes,

It was during one of these nice little walks, on a perfect evening, that I was hit by lightening. It was a normal walk—chatting to the neighbour-dogs while Skeeter chatted with the neighbours; pissing, snacking, shitting...life was uncomplicated.

Then we passed a first floor apartment where the balcony was at Skeeter's eye level. On the balcony was a baby who was sitting on a blanket and was playing with toys and waving at the passersby. Something maternal woke up in Skeet and he went, "Aw" and said "Hello!" in one of those excruciating baby voices humans trot out for such occasions. The baby laughed and Skeet giggled and I thought, "Here we go. The fuckwad will be making adoption plans with Boo in two seconds and where the fuck will that leave me!" But then...

Hearing the noise, curious and trotting out the balcony door came a dog. A bitch. She was a whippet. Now for those of you of the non-canine persuasion, a whippet, to us, is a target for mockery. Let's face it: they're stupid looking—all legs and nose and skinny as rakes and, for some odd reason, always shaking like leaves. But this whippet...Oh! she was fine, my friends. And when she saw me, she leaned down to the bottom of the balcony rail and stuck her nose through to look at me and then...and then...she said, "What do we have here?" And she said it in the sexiest, dirtiest, hottest little voice you have ever heard—stinking of elegance mixed with horniness.

I was smitten.

I rose up on my hind legs and we kissed and then we kissed again and then she pushed her head forward through the railing and I hopped and hopped and hopped and we kissed and kissed and kissed again.

And, fuck, if we weren't making a spectacle of ourselves because everyone in the neighbourhood was watching and passersby were not passing by and even bikers were taking in the show. But neither she nor I could stop. Even Skeeter, now, had put away his ovaries and was laughing his arse off and the baby was giggling. Then there were two human adults on the balcony too and they said, "She's normally not nice with other dogs."

We didn't say a word. Both of us were just whining in delight at the kisses and neither of us cared about anyone. Soon, though, Skeeter got tired and said, "Time to go in, Bub," and started dragging me away. As he did that, I yodeled and my lovely yodeled back and with that she embedded herself in my brain for my night- and day-dreams forever.

I was a pile of nerves when we got back into the apartment. I could barely control myself as Skeet did the ritual wiping of my paws and said, "Do you like her because she's nice or do you like her because she appears to be a slut." I bit his hand—and not a nip—and said, "That's the dog I love, Mofo! Watch what you say!"

"Yes, well," he said as he flicked my nose for the bite, "that's all very nice. But may I say one word? Cleo."

I think I belched 'cause my stomach fell to my knees and all of a sudden my life went from perfect to roiling hell. By the time we got upstairs, Skeeter had forgotten that he wanted to get pregnant and was, instead, telling Boo about the show I gave the 'hood. I was very quiet the rest of the evening. That night, I hardly slept, tortured by twin visions of Cleo and the whippet, one who needed me so much and the other who was there, available, and, moreover, my species.

I was a mess the next morning. Thankfully, Boo woke up late and couldn't take me for a run (which would have been a drag—figuratively and literally—in the state I was in); but when it was time for Skeeter to walk me later he was a bastard about it and took me straight to the alley. "Now deal with this," he hissed when we saw Cleo in the distance, sitting on a garbage can.

But like I said: It's funny how things work out.

She jumped off the can when she saw me and came over to me and we nuzzled but it was not like before. Then she said, "I have to tell you something." I said nothing. She sat. I sat. Skeeter leaned against a fence smoking, allowing me a lot of leash so that Cleo and I could have some privacy.

Then Cleo began,"I'm with Slicer now." Slicer, you'll remember, is that big, feral motherfucker who roams the alley behind our place like he owns it (which he does). I said nothing and she went on, feeling guilty. "I love you so much, my little white boy, but he can protect me and show me how to survive the winter out here and...and..."

"He loves you," I said, part-question and part-statement. How could any cat...how could anyone not love Cleo.

"Yes," she said and lowered her head. "And I think I love him too because he makes me feel safe."

"Didn't I?" I whispered.

"Oh my dear dear dearheart! You loved me as you could. But Slicer is an animal and you're a house dog."

Never have those two words—"house" and "dog"—together or apart, sounded so obscene. So pathetic. She kissed me again and, not too far away, I heard a guttural, dangerous murmur of jealousy that was neither cat nor human: it was Slicer disapproving of all the little kisses. "Hey! You! Simmer down!" Cleo howled back at him and Slicer gurgled a sad, apologetic little, "Okay." Already he had changed her and clearly she had changed him.

"I'm happy for you," I said.

"I know," she said. "And I'm happy for you too."

"Hunh?"

"Puh-leeeeeeeeze!" she said, laughing, "don't think I haven't heard!"

I did what dogs do because they can't blush. I tried to hide my head between my front legs and that only made her laugh more. Then I said, "Can we be friends?"

"We will always be friends," she said. Then she growled something and Slicer came out from his hiding place and approached us. Lordie, he looked big. Even Skeeter backed away a little. But I held my ground. Slicer sat down beside Cleo and I had to admit: they made a beautiful couple. Slicer, apparently a cat of few words, nodded at me and I realized that I was safe and, better, that he would treat Cleo well. I nodded at him. Then I nuzzled Cleo again, turned and walked out of the alley beside Skeeter who, also, didn't glance back.

I told him everything as he did my paws. He laughed and said, "You have got a horseshoe up your ass, you know that!"

I said nothing, but that night slept far better than I had the night before.

June 24, 2010; Mr. S. Goes to The Doctor

I knew something very bad had gone down when Skeeter and Boo-Boo came back from the hospital. Skeeter looked like he'd been put through the ringer and Boo just looked pissed. I picked up little bits and pieces but could not put the whole story together so when Boo went off to work, later, I said, "Sooooooo?"

"You wouldn't have believed it," Skeet began.

"Tell."

I hopped up on his knees and curled up in a position that was just right for listening, but also not face to face so, if his story got really dull, I could nap a little without him being able to tell. He began. "You know how stressed out I was when I left?" It was rhetorical. When Skeet goes off on a tear, there's no getting a word in edgewise. You can go "un-hunh" or "oh" or just nod from time to time and that satisfies him that you're listening. "Anyway, by the time I got to the hospital I was in a hideous state. I wanted to throw up. I felt faint and hot. Boo went off to the cafeteria because this promised to take a while and he really can't help much once I'm there. So I go up to the new surgeon's office and when I get to his waiting room..."

He paused for dramatic effect. He had acting training and it shows. It also shows why he never had a career in acting. "The place was like a charity hospital in Victorian London. Packed. I mean packed. It was eleven o'clock and there were already so many people in there that some were sitting on the floor—"

"—this does not bode well," I said, "when a surgeon is booking so many people like that and is too fucking cheap to provide enough chairs—"

"—no, it is not a good sign—"

"—and add to that that it's a plastic surgeon's waiting room. That's a whole lot o' ugly jammed into a small place—"

"—yeah, well. I could tell some were there for nips and tucks and the like, but there were some who were like me...it didn't show what they were there for."

"Oh, puh-leeeeeeze. The same way you looked at them they were looking at you and they were thinking: rhinoplasty."

"Shaddup!"

"I mean, have you looked in the mirror? a: which side of your family gave you that huge hooked beak and b: poor them!"

"May I go on?"

"Proceed." I said and shut up, but I could now imagine that Victorian charity hospital and now it was populated with all those grotesques you see in drawings for Dickens novels.

"So I go to the receptionist—line up for her, rather. And when I get to check in and give her my referral papers I ask, 'How backlogged are we?' And she says, 'At least an hour and a half'—"

"—Jesus! Even veterinarians don't have those waits!"

"Oh, if I could get a doctor to be as efficient as a vet is, I'd be a fucking happy man...especially when I was at the end of it all." There was a morose little pause before he went on. "Anyhoo. In hospital parlance 'At least an hour and a half' means two or even two and a half hours and Boo had to get to work. So I told the receptionist I was going for a coffee (she gave me a sour look like that was not normal) and I went down to Boo in the cafeteria. On the way down, however, I was thinking.

"I had my first, of the last series of surgeries, three years ago and it was with a very nice surgeon who was utterly disorganized. When you got to his waiting room his receptionist would always say he was running very late and add 'You know how he is' because he was a nice guy who talked to each of patients despite the fact they were scheduled one on top of another. I thought this wasn't a problem until I was doing my post-surgical followups with him. I was in pain, I was weak, I was woozy and I would have to wait in his waiting room for one, two hours and it was pure and utter torture. As I thought of that, I thought of doing this with a shithead surgeon after a surgery that was far more serious and decided: no.

"So I met Boo and we talked and I phoned the referring surgeon (who wasn't in) and left a message that I was going to need another doctor and then I went back up to that fucking waiting room and cancelled my appointment and the stupid twat at the desk didn't even ask me why."

He sighed. The story was over but we both knew the shit-storm was just beginning. Yesterday, we had an earthquake here. As the house shimmied Skeet joked grimly about his referring surgeon, "That must be from her head exploding."

There's one thing I don't get: why is a patient treated like a subordinate? Fuck, if this was me, I'd chew their fucking hands off! Try to do delicate surgery after that, Mofos!

So on it goes. The one ray of sunshine (or not, we'll see) is that Skeeter got his new iPad and spent the night e-mailing and Tweeting what had happened. Also, while he was surfing the net, he discovered a web site where you can rate your doctors. I saw him smile and knew, as he tapped away on his toy, that he was having some fun.

June 21, 2010; Biding Time

Skeeter is just a walking pile of meat covered in exposed nerves, right now. Two things: he is waiting for the iPad Boo gave him for his birthday to arrive but, most stressifying, tomorrow morning he goes to see the plastic surgeon who will decide a good deal of his future. Meanwhile, Boo is absorbing all the tension by trying to disperse it and that is not helping because the way he does this—narrating everything he does ("Oh, look! We haven't prepared the recycling, yet; I think I will do that right now!" "I wonder what I feel like snacking on; I think I'll have peanut butter toast with banana, just like you!")—is tap-tap-tapping on Skeet's exposed nerves. Right now, all Skeet wants to do is turn on the TV and forget about real life; live the lives of the vampires in "True Blood" or those plucky New Orleanians in "Treme." He does not want to hear about recycling or snacks. But the odd thing is, Skeet knows that Boo is just as stressed as he is so there is a kind of crackling, edge-of-your-seat peace in the house.

Of course, I'm doing my bit by being adorable and not peeing on the beds and curling up to one or the other when things get particularly gloomy. (Note to other dogs: depressed humans are like Pillsbury concoctions—warm and crispy on the outside, and pasty and gluey when you burrow in.)

But the other thing is that our lives are a bit like those Shakespearean tragedies, the ones where the king is nuts and everything around the king turns nuts too, even nature. A couple days ago, for instance, thieves stole a truck out of hotel parking and since then there has been a man hunt 'cause in the truck there were two camels and a tiger (named Jonas). Then there is the story of the right-wing nutjob Catholic cardinal, here, who is about to get a promotion into the Vatican even after he said women who've been raped shouldn't have abortions.

Closer to home, I was walking with Skeeter in the alley and we came across two kids, nine or ten, boy and girl, playing and, of course, they both wanted to pet me. Skeet muttered, "Try to be cool, okay!" and I winced and let the clumsy little oafs pet me as only clumsy oafs can: rubbing the fur the wrong way and pinching me and patting my head too hard. "What kind of dog is it, Mister?" said the little boy. Skeet answered. "I love your dog," said the kid and then, "can I come with you and play with him?" "Bye-Bye!" Skeeter almost shouted and, to me: "Let's get the fuck out of her and fast." "You don't have to tell me twice," I said. Kids, as we all know, are all sorts of trouble but this kid was another layer of trouble topped with a creamy swirl of you're-going-to-prison-Homo.

Later, sitting on the balcony, I said, "The world is weird."

"Yes," Skeet said. "The oil slick, Toronto in a state of siege for the G-8, the heat..." His voice petered out.

"And what about those frogs, eh?"

"Don't call them that," Skeeter said. "When I was a kid and whenever we would use that word, my dad would clip us on the head—"

"—yes, well he was a frog, wasn't he?"

"Half-frog...er...half-French Canadian. Anyway, we're not the same here as they are in France, and certainly not the same as a soccer star."

"Still, it is weird that it would get out to all the press that the star said of his boss: 'Go and get ass-fucked, dirty son of a whore.'"

Skeeter laughed for the first time in days and said, "Doesn't have the same poetry as it does in French." Then he went on, "Do you think it will all turn out normal? That the oil well will stop gushing, and the kids in the alley will act normal, and the World Cup will be a big happy party like it's been every other time?"

I snerfed a bit and then said, slowly, "I think, after you see the surgeon and know what the future holds, everything will assume it's place again. Weird things will just be funny weird things and the news will just be the news and all of this won't be happening to you and Boo and me."

He sighed deeply and said, "I hope so."

I sighed as well but didn't say, "I hope so too."

June 18, 2010; Stupid People and Dumb Animals

For two weeks we had been avoiding the obvious. For two weeks, whenever it came up in conversation between the Boys or was on TV, we had said nothing. But finally, as he stared at his computer screen (doing nothing) and I sat on the ottoman next to him (doing nothing...not even sleeping), I said, "It's just a sad thing."

"That it is," he muttered and turned from his screen to look at me.

The story: about two weeks ago, near here, a mother left her 21-day-old baby in its baby-carrier, on the floor. She then went out to have a smoke forgetting that there were huskies in the house. Need I continue? It was on all the front pages and discussed in horrified tones by newscasters who couldn't hide their delight that they had something so deliciously awful to report. The upshot is that the mother (17-years-old by the way) was charged with manslaughter. It's all such stupid, human, stuff. But I was kind with Skeeter and said, "Look, huskies are not the brain trust of the dog world."

Not knowing what else to say, he offered lamely, "What about the Iditarod?"

"Well, think of that as the Special Olympics for dogs. Basically, any dog that gladly drags around humans is clearly a halfwit. Have you ever tried to talk to one of those guys?"

"No, you?"

"They're sexy so, of course, yes. But their eyes—lovely as they are—are vacant and they drool when they talk. They also pronounce 'huskie' 'huckie.'"

"Problem with sibilants?"

"Problem with syllables. Let's just say this: you don't leave a baby on the floor near them. As a matter of fact, you don't do that near any dog who's slightly slow. Babies always smell like one thing: food. Shit, vomit and urine is an odor combination that, to us, is almost snatchlike...or, in your case, dicklike."

"Shut-up," he said but I could tell he was thinking about this and that the whole business bothered him. He was even looking at me differently and my relationship to kids on the street (and, let this be said again, I do not like kids though I tolerate them).

"Stupid people, dumb animals," I said, "tragic all around. I'll tell you this, frankly: the story breaks my heart."

"Mine too," Skeeter said. "A reminder life can be shit."

"Indeed. But also another proof that when it comes to life—the concept, the energy, the sacredness of it, if you will—people are profoundly self-centred. You only have to watch the news. Jesus! Birds are flying, noisy rodents, as far as I'm concerned, but those fucking pictures from the Gulf of Mexico! Oh...My...God!"

"You're preaching to the choir," he said.

"Why do people all want cars?" I asked.

"'Cause, mostly, they're fat and lazy."

"Whoa, Saint Skeeter! How about that birthday present Boo bought you!"

"The iPad?"

"Yeah. Aren't there nameless, faceless, little yellow people killing themselves over the work conditions at the factory where they make them?"

"Er...touché."

"Humans," I concluded, "are basically assholes. Accept that and we can move on."

"Well, not all of us. What about that Mounty in Alberta who saved the newborn porcupine—"

"—after he killed the mother with his car."

"Touché," he said.

"Indeed."

June 15, 2010; Skeeter's Little World

Once in a while Skeeter will make weird noises. No, he doesn't have Tourette's and, no, I am not talking about the noises from that thing under his shirt (though, Lord knows, that makes it only little opera of sounds and squeaks). No, I am talking about something that is a throw-back to the days when we weren't talking. He would make a strange noise and I would cock my head—as dogs are wont to do—and he would go hysterical with laughter and keep making all sorts of other weird noises until I did it again. It was tedious.

But yesterday, he was looking right at me and made a noise—out of the blue!—that scared me so bad I jumped in the air and nearly shit myself. As he was laughing his useless arse off and I was trying to catch my breath I shrieked, "What the fuck was that!?!"

Still chuckling he said, "That, my friend, is a noise that strikes terror into the hearts of every noob WoWhead! It's a murloc!"

"Again...What the fuck was that!?!"

And with that I opened a door that should have stayed shut forever. I actually invited him to talk about his obsession, the video game "World of Warcraft."

To translate what he had already said: a WoWhead is someone who plays World of Warcraft. (WoW...get it?) A noob is someone new to the game—a newbie—and, apparently, a murloc is a monster you fight in the early stages of the game; one who comes running at you and makes a sound like, "Mrblgrblmrblgrb!" At the beginning of the game, the murloc almost always kills you and the sound he makes is, apparently, a sound that haunts the hardcore player well into the night.

Oh!—dear reader—it gets worse! Skeeter actually insisted on showing me how the game is played. I said, "Hold your horses, nerd-butt! Life's too short."

"Come oooooooooooon—" yes, he did say it like that "—nobody ever wants to see!"

"Oh fuck," I moaned, hopping onto the the ottoman beside his computer. "You owe me big. Ten cookies—"

"—three—"

"—seven—"

"—four—"

"—done!" I said, rather proud of myself because I had never had more than two at one time. "And I want them up front," I added, figuring that if I was eating during his whole dreary demonstration it might be survivable. As I munched, he started.

He got into the game and showed me that he played several different characters, but the one he wanted to show me was a level 80, Dranei shaman who, in her first Forge of Souls run, yesterday, did the top dps and that was even after the healer died and she had to take over keeping the tank up.

It was at about this moment that I fell asleep. When I woke up I noticed two things: that the motherfucker had taken back all the cookies he gave me and that he was deep into his game, headphones on and all. I looked at his computer screen and it was full of crazy-ass action. There were explosions and hideous looking creatures running all over the place and some other, less-hideous creatures running all over the place. An epileptic, watching all this, would have seized in a second but I dozed off again.

Then...

"MRBLGRBLRBLGRBR!"

The cocksucking cuntface had found a fucking murloc in the game, taken out the head phones for the computer, cranked the volume up to max, and let me have it. While I was still panting in terror and checking my asshole to see if anything had actually come out Skeeter roared: "IT'LL BE A COLD MOTHER-FUCKING DAY IN THE BURNING STEPPES BEFORE YOU EVER SEE ANOTHER BRIBE-COOKIE FROM ME, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

And, or course, later, all night, in the dark, in the cracks and whistles of the house: "mrblgrblmrblgrb...mrblgrblmrblgrb...mrblgrblmrblgrb...mrblgrblmrblgrb..."

June 12, 2010; TV Things that drive me fucking crazy!

- After seeing a happy family, running in fields and playing with the dog and—oh look!—there's granny reading a book and smiling benevolently...you find out it's for a senility drug and she isn't smiling benevolently she's blissed out on pills and then they read the side-effects of the pills at fuck-nutz speed and some of these effects are way-deadly and harmless little grandma is lucky she isn't under the ground...yet!

- Conditions of sale in car ads. Get a DVR. Pause 'em. I've done it. Read the conditions of sale (those blurry lines at the bottom of the screen). Go blind.

- Film promos with "rave" reviews from critics no on has ever heard of (lots of dot-coms here) and that's if you can read who the critic is. What this really means? "The 'A-Team' is a huge hunk of steaming, maggot-infested feces."

- The cast lists at the beginning of shows where all you can think about is who had the best agent like: how much fucking negotiation did it take for the actor to be listed last with an "and" before his name.

- Hot chicks disappearing from shows I watch. Like who is the queer fucktard who canned all those assistant DAs on "Law and Order" (especially the blond dyke!!!).

- Gay guys in series who aren't realistic. F'r'instance why didn't Jack on "Will & Grace" ever whine about his anal warts? My Boys bitch about their health constantly and they aren't even fucking anymore!

- Simlarly, chicks on TV who are just homos in dresses like the "Sex and the City" broads or anyone in a reality show; "America's Nest Top Model"?—she's really a girly-boy...trust me.

- Comebacks that are just sad. Like Leno.

- Larry King. That's it. Larry King.

- Rick Sanchez who thinks one thing is "a list."

- Infomercials where the audience looks like they were brought in on a short bus; drooling over some gadget which, next month, will be featured in garage sales around the world.

- In passing: how does that ugly, talentless Belushi guy keep getting work?

- Sports where the men are prettier than women...like soccer. Mind you, the women in sports all look like ugly men, so I guess in comparison all those frog strikers are lovely. (And what's with Kaka...has anyone told him?)

- When a sex scandal breaks and they say, "and details we can't discuss on a news show." Excuse me, but wasn't it on a news show that the whole world heard that Bill had jammed a Cuban in Monica's twat?

June 9, 2010; A Song for Skeeter

Sing a Song of Skeeter

Skeeter, oh!, Skeeter

Where are you going?

Fifty-three years today,

And still thinking of blowing!

You've big goofy ears

And a face that's all craggy,

You never drink beers

But your boobs are still saggy.

But despite the old body

And the mind that is flakey

Each queer that ain't gaudy

Makes your dick wakey-wakey.

So I pause to salute!

You: old, paunchy fellow!

Be wise, you old coot,

And try to stay mellow.

For today is your day

And you want to make trouble

But with your carcass this way

You could pop like a bubble!

So cheer just a little

Keep your eye on the goal:

Take me out for a piddle

And fill up my bowl.

I recited this to Skeeter himself and he said, "Thank you," in a choked voice. "Here come the water-works," I mumbled but he just pulled me tight to him until I farted.

June 6, 2010; The Abandonati

Skeet and I were taking our afternoon walk. It was glorious outside—perfect temp, tons of sunlight and there had been a hard rain which meant all those fucking wasp nests had been destroyed...I hate wasps. It was also one of those neighbourhood days where everyone you know seems to be outside as well. Babs and Ginger, the old biddy and Benjie, the floor mat up the street was sitting on his verandah with the two young men Skeet always slows down to look at (and who may be lovers or brothers or one of those weird configurations you read about in horror novels). The upshot was I was doing so much arse-sniffing and chatting that Skeet got tired of the stop and start and toddled us into an alley where there were far fewer 'hood-dogs getting in the way.

There, of course, we ran into Cleo. ("I decided to come down this alley," Skeet said, "because I know she lives here." I guess he can be nice, sometimes.) Cleo was not looking any the worse for wear. In fact, she looked rather magnificent. She had worked off all that apartment pudge which I used to like but which, gone, revealed a svelte, cat body where the tail was more than an appendage and what was under it was more that just a pair of orifii. My little kitty was turning into one hot mama.

And her smell! Glorious! Cat and garbage and street and trees and grass and a whiff of carrion on her breath. As we nuzzled hello I said, "You, sweet sexy thang, are now queen of the alley cats." She mewed appreciatively. Skeet sat down on a turned over garbage can so that he could smoke and we could chat. "So you're adapting," I said.

"The only bad nights are the rainy ones," Cleo said, "but we all get together under a balcony and cuddle and it's not too bad. Not looking forward to winter, though."

"Ask her about the screamer," Skeet said.

Cleo understood and said to me in Cat, "Sad story; that's Cordelia—"

"—yeej! Just the name tells me it's a sad story!—"

"—yeah; another case were the fucking owners spend more time choosing a name than taking care of the fucking pet. Again, two incredibly retarded people; she was fucking his best friend and he was fucking her best friend and her best friend was a guy. You don't get more stupid than that. When they broke up they took separate apartments and did not even discuss Cordelia's place in them." She hissed, gagged and hawked up something as if to punctuate the statement. Skeet looked at her concerned but all those alley noises just made her sexier to me—like a particularly hornifying biker chick. "Anyway," she went on, "she's new to the Abandonati—"

"—Abandonati?—"

"—That's what we call ourselves. The cats who get tossed when the masters move on. And Cordelia is one of us and she can't handle it at all."

"I know. We hear her all night, wailing away. And it's worse on rainy nights."

"Yup. She's pretty much a lost cause. No one can do anything for her and some people are trying but she always runs away from them; her heart is broken and she's a little mad from it. One day she'll just get hit by a car and it'll be just as well."

I sighed, turned to Skeet and repeated the story to him. He looked truly upset by it and said, "Some people are just fuckers—"

In Cat, Cleo immediately rejoined, "—you said a mouthful, Buddy." Then she went back to me and added, "There is one other thing you should know, sweetie. I'm out here now, and it's survival of the yadda yadda yadda etc. So we look out for each other and that means a lot of us don't like humans and most of us hate dogs. I've told them about you so you're relatively safe except around Slicer."

"There's a name," I said.

"And it doesn't tell half the story of how vicious he is—"

"—I can't imagine with a name like that he could be anything but vicious—"

She sighed and I felt a little stung because it was the sigh of someone who is trying to deal with the profoundly stupid. "No," she said as gently as her new street persona would allow, "his name before is a deep, dark, secret. He chose Slicer. And he'll kill you and him," she said tilting her head to Skeet, "and all of us if he's having a bad day. But he also gets us food and protects us in his own bizarre way. He's like the kingpin. So if you see him, don't fuck with him."

"I've seen him," I said. "Big, gray, matted hair—"

"—yup. That's Slicer."

"He nearly killed me." She tittered and it was a glorious, beautiful, cat sound. Then she said, "Now on your way. Don't worry about me."

"I worry about winter," I said, nuzzling her goodbye.

"Life goes on," she said, "or not."

That night, as I was in bed, curled up to Boo-Boo, I heard Cordelia shrieking away in the alley and I thought that, yes, sometimes it is better to be get hit by a car but, mostly, I wished the two cunts who had left her behind would be the ones under the wheels.

June 3, 2010; A Visitor Returns

I could smell the cigarette before I saw him.

"Snoopy!" he said, trying to get a rise out of me. The cigarette, like last time, was dangling from his lip.

"Hello, Cosmo," I said as I took my mid-night sip of water. "You're back."

"I'm going to be a semi-regular in the little series that is your life. Better get used to it."

"So I'm going to have to put up with that highbrow Dalmatian banter."

He snerfed, "I guess for any dog smaller than a weasel it would be highbrow." He sat down before continuing. "I've been sniffing around. The Boys are in trouble?"

"You called them the Boys too?"

"Nah, but I read your blog and it fits."

"Well," I said sitting near him, "First: when Boo-Boo isn't working he's talking about work—"

"—why do you think I never talked to him, even though I was closer to Boo than Skeeter; can you imagine all that yammering when you're trying to sleep! I don't know how you put up with Skeet's prattle."

"Well, he reads a lot and plays that idiot game—"

"—still doing the World of Warcraft thing—"

"—yes. And he likes his TV."

"He does," Cosmo said, yawned and puffed. I noticed the cigarette never got smaller. "So what's the prob, Snoop Dog?"

"You know how hard it is to train these people," I said. "The way they're both going I'm worried one of them is going to keel over. It's already going to be a pain in the ass with Skeet off to another operation and Boo talking about disappearing on his bike for a week. I don't know about you but I don't like to be ignored and when there's only one of them here, the chances are huge I'll spend a lot of time licking my dick."

At this, Cosmo spread his legs and said, "Check it out!" He had a nice pair of danglers. "You get them back in the hereafter."

"Niiiiiiiiice." Then I said, "So what do I do?"

"Well, Snoop, there really is nothing you can do. Things die and, let's face it, these two are on the fast track—they eat mountains of crap, they both smoke like chimneys, Boo has always worked too hard and Skeet too, when he was working, and then they wonder why they feel like shit all the time. But here's the thing, little feller: humans, no matter what, live way past their expiration date and chances are good they'll outlive you. Look at me! I was healthy as a horse!"

"Small comfort: I should relax because I'll die before them."

"Yup."

"Before you go—"

"—very subtle way of getting rid of me—"

"—well," I went on nevertheless, "I just wanted to know about the smoking."

"As I said, they smoke like chimneys and when I was there, and between baths, my white fur would turn a nice nicotine-yellow. I got into licking my fur and before you know it, I was hooked. Now I can smoke all I want and don't even have the cough."

"Well, that's something the Boys can look forward to, anyway."

Cosmo laughed strangely, "Oh, little man, there are precious few humans where I am." And with that, he was gone.

The ethereal cigarette smoke lingered in the air. When it was gone, I went back to Boo's bed and curled up in the crook of his leg. The apartment was very quiet until, very far in the distance, a dog howled: "G'night Snoopy!"