August 31, 2010; The Dark Queen

Humans are blithering idiots and I live with their king! All hail, Skeeter, King of the Tards, the Doofi and all of the Ignorami.

To begin...

Since I have been here, Skeeter has had health problems. This that and the other thing has always been there, like a great miasma, floating throughout the apartment, his relationships with everyone and, especially, his ties to me. He may be a king, you see, but I was born emperor and he owes me my due. The problem? He had made another his liege and this false empress misused his trust and fealty for years. She paid virtually no attention to him but he, nevertheless, submitted to all her decisions about his health which meant he had offered her highness his very life. And worse, like all true Doofi, he had done this virtually without question.

When his doctor decided, through a platoon of intermediaries (an assistant, an assistant to the assistant, receptionists and various nurses) that he was to "try" a treatment, it was tried. And some of these were fucking doozies! I know! I was there and heard the screaming especially, once, when liquid acid was dripped into open wounds and this without a pain-killer (for the empress had decreed over-the-counter painkillers would do).

The source of his problems—an infection—was known but not the source of that infection and twice her Royal Highness was asked by a nurse to investigate, by a scan, if there might not be an easily identifiable something that might, easily, be taken out and perhaps cure the problem. But no...the Empress refused and Skeeter, Lord of The Ultra-Maroons, bowed before her even then. She sent him to a plastic surgeon. The plastic surgeon, like the Empress, also treated Skeeter like shit and with utter disrespect.

Finally Skeeter rebelled and like all rebels was slapped down by the queen and all was dark and despair.

Until today. He went to a plastic surgeon not ruled by the Dark Empress. He was told, by the queen and her peons, that nothing would be different with another surgeon. He would wait for hours in a waiting room despite having an appointment and it would end up the same way. In fact, he probably wouldn't even get to see the new surgeon because the Queen—Empress of Cunts and Fuckknucles—refused to sign the consultation papers needed in this land to change doctors.

He went for a noon meeting and by 12:45 he was home and Boo-Boo and I knew all was lost.

But no...within five minutes of his arrival at the new surgeon's office, Skeet had seen a resident, been questioned, and minutes later saw the surgeon. The surgeon said what everyone knew: you don't treat an infection of unknown origin with surgery. He immediately ordered a scan and that was that.

I don't know exactly how Skeeter feels but I'll tell you how I feel: for the misery the Dark Empress caused in this household and how long it went and how close I came to losing my slave (even having to intervene, for fuckssake), I command that she be exiled...

Exiled to a land which befits her: one of bitter, menopausal crones whose faces are so lifted by their beloved plastic surgeons that they can no longer show joy without their ears flying off. In this land she will be made to wander until she has performed acts of compassion and learns to empathize with her subjects and where she does not perform acts of cruel professional log-rolling, sending her subjects off to people as cold and heartless as she simply because she wishes to wash her hands of a difficult case.

As for King Skeeter, I command that he, and those as jelly-spined as him, stop sucking the cocks and eating the shit of they who call themselves doctors and, instead, enter into alliances with these so-called healers and participate in their own cures.

They must, instead, suck the cocks and eat the shit of their true masters. All hail Léo, the One and Only, King of all the Dogs and all animals less noble. (Including, of course, the lowly and stupid humans.)

August 27, 2010; Relatives

I didn't know how successful I was going to be, but word was getting out that I was looking for my sister, Ceecee. I had twatted about it and I had done my thing on Facebook. But I didn't know, until yesterday, that it was also spreading through the dog and cat community.

I ran into Cleo, with her mangey, psychotic boyfriend, Slicer, and they told me that they had heard through the alley grapevine that I was looking for my sister and they were spreading the word. Part of that word was: If you see a white Jack Russell female with one brown ear, don't kill her—get the news back to Slicer. Apparently, Slicer was very important in the alley world (much like Jeffrey Dahmer was important in the one-night-stand world, I'm sure).

Also, as I walked along the streets with Skeeter or Boo-Boo, I would run into strange dogs and before I had a chance to beat them up they'd say, "Hey, Little Dude, heard about your Sis. I've got my nose in an arse for you!" This is the Dog Speak equivalent of, "I'll keep an eye out!" as dog's get much of their information from jamming noses in strange arses first, asking questions later. Though I was getting help, I was also a little frustrated by this invasion of my privacy. I mean, I'm a fighting dog. I'm supposed to beat up (or at least snarl) at the big dogs not bow my head and go, "Er...thanks, Dude."

It turns out that Bejie was the source of it all; he had read my last blog and had spread the word. When I ran into him and Ginger (and of course the old lady who was Benjie's and Babs who was Ginger's), we all sat down to have a good old fashion chin wag.

"You're lucky," Ginger said. "I ran away from my family. I was raised at one of those so-called accredited kennels and it was like an orgy. I mean, my mother was also my grandmother, my brother was my father and my uncle, my grandfather was also my uncle. This does not make for good dogs. I had one little brother—a bouncing, adorable, drooling puppy who never stopped drooling. I ran away because one of my uncles-slash-brothers was starting to stick his nose up my cootch even before my first heat."

"I love your stories, Ginger," Benjie said. "They're so Norman Rockwell."

"Well eat shit and die, Butt-Fuck!" she growled. "What was your puppyhood like?"

"Oh I was a wanted puppy!" he said. "My old lady had an old bitch who had a litter and all of the puppies went to her daughters and she kept me. And when my Ma died, I just stayed on. She loved us all, the old lady did, and played with us and even when we were separated she arranged for us to visit each other from time to time at her daughters' houses."

"Well ain't that just the sweetest thing in the fucking world," Ginger said. "No wonder you're queer!"

"Knock it of," I said, finally. I liked the pretty pictures Benjie painted. I wished I had had a puppyhood like that instead of at the puppy mill.

"Anyway," Ginger went on, almost as if she was making amends for her lousy mood, "the news is going like wildfire. When Babs and I went to visit her friend ten blocks away, even her dog had heard about Ceecee. I don't know it it'll work..." her voice trembled a little and she sighed and then bucked up again, "but I hope you find her."

"Thank you," I whispered. And then off I went, dragged along by Skeeter. The two dogs did not bark me a goodbye. They just looked at each other and kissed. They were friends. Weird friends.

Family, I guess.

August 24, 2010; A Letter to Ceecee

Dear Ceecee

I don't know if you will ever read this—I send it out there hoping that where you are now has a computer or that someone who knows you has a computer and will read this and get in touch with you. I just hope, even though it's not likely you'll ever see this because, let's face it, bitches are not very smart and especially dumb when it comes to technological things but—who knows?—maybe you're nearly as smart as me because you seemed smart when I knew you.

Anyhoo...

It has been two years since we were were born in that horrible puppy mill, two years since we were taken away from our mother, two years since our siblings—Ay-ay, Beebee, and Ee-Ee, died from cold and murder and left just you and me: JR-14-22-09-C and JR-14-22-09-D (for Jack Russell from sire 14, dame 22, ninth litter for the dame, puppies C—3rd—and D—4th). Do you remember any of this? Do you remember the pet shop we were taken to? Do you remember the time we spent in the cage, just cuddling up to each other, and then the time when I was sold and our goodbye? I hope you don't because these are not good things.

But I hope you remember me. I hope you remember me because, lately, I've been remembering you and thinking of you a lot. The reason I think of you is because one of the people I live with now, Skeeter, is on Facebook and suddenly, out of the blue, a nephew of his contacted him through Facebook and through that nephew Skeeter has contacted several other members of his family he hasn't seen or talked to in decades. All of a sudden, Skeeter has people in his life who are blood. And that made me think of you, Ceecee, my sister.

(Oh! What is Facebook? I hear you asking. Well, it's a computer thing where a bunch of narcissists put up their pictures and tell other narcissists—who very rarely care about anything not on their own page—what they think and what they are doing. Sometimes it's something really profound like, "I like Carvel Ice Cream cakes!" and other times they'll put up an article from a newspaper or magazine they have read that is really, really important like "The stars of True Blood are MARRIED!!!!!!!!!" What you have to understand, dear Ceece, is that humans are assholes but they are quite delighted with their assholery and Facebook is their way of expressing that delight! Sort of like an electronic gay pride parade without all the sodomy.)

Anyhoo...

I don't know what your new people are like. When I came here, to Skeeter and Boo-Boo, they checked the paper every day to make sure no one was looking for me (as I was a stray when I was picked up by the SPCA), but they didn't find anything about me. They did find that someone was looking for a white Jack Russell with a brown ear (like mine) but a female and I thought immediately that you had also hit the streets. If that was you, I hope someone good took you in. I hope they are being kind to you.

On my side, well...

I live with two knob jockeys who are actually decent enough—they are too old to perform their unnatural acts around me; they have settled down into a nice Old Nellie routine that can be pleasant and lazy. They don't get too hysterical when I pee in the house, so I know they will never get rid of me. They also never hit me, though one of them picks me up by the scruff of my neck, when he thinks I've been bad, and tosses me onto my own bed. That's the extent of it. I talk to one of them and he can be quite a cunt and he's very vulgar, I find. For a while I was getting a little tubby, because of all the idleness, but then Boo-Boo started to exercise with me and I am again the tight, svelte little doggie you knew at the pet shop. So you would recognize me.

But mostly, I would so recognize you, sweet Ceecee. I remember how sweet your puppy breath smelled when you licked inside my ears to comfort me when the pet shop closed and everything was dark. I remember how you used to let me nuzzle up to your neck when it was so, so cold in the puppy mill. I remember how you would say to me, "Sleep, little one, sleep; we'll be fine, we'll be out of here someday, we'll be warm and well-fed. Sleep little brother, sleep." And I would sleep even though the air was so icy and the fear in that place was a thick odor on every wintry gust.

I don't know if you will ever read this. I don't know if I will ever hear from you and ever see you again. But now, our second birthdays just passed, I think of you and want to tell you that you are in my heart. You are my family.

You are home.

Much, much love

Dee (aka: Léo)

PS: Here's a story that explains my relationship with The Boys, as I call them: yesterday I peed on the foot-rest of Skeeter's La-Z-Boy and he got so mad that he said, "If you ever lift your leg in this house again, I'm going to rip it off and you'll be one of those pathetic three-legged dogs." He'll never do that because, in his heart of hearts, he loves me and he also knows that even a three-legged dog could rip his balls off when he was asleep.

August 21, 2010; The Dilemma of The Enigmatic Mr. Boo

Mr. Boo was a tall-ish, spindly fellow with salt and pepper hair and a long, long face. His nose hooked out like a beak. He dressed well—perhaps a little too well as he could not pass a mirror without appraising what he saw there. He was what was known, back then, as a confirmed bachelor; a man happy in his freedom who did not have the shackles of wedlock. However, he did share his home and expenses with a mysterious "roommate" but of him little is known.

Mr. Boo worked hard and at many things. He had a love/hate relationship with his work putting in concentrated hours at it even as he claimed not to enjoy much of it, particularly. He made a decent salary—enough to feed his dog and pay his rent and occasionally travel and, of course, buy clothes and many, many pairs of shoes. He had money in savings. But of his life—the life of the heart—very little is known because he did not share this with his friends or family. He simply remained happy in his confirmed bachelor way.

He was an enigma. He had a sense of humour that seemed to come from a place (or person) other than himself but those around him knew that there was no such person. He also, in the last two decades or so, had taken to expressing himself differently: more swearing, people noted, and more English was peppered throughout his conversation. No one knew what the source of this was and assumed Mr. Boo watched a lot of anglo television, particularly HBO.

One day, the head of the department of the establishment where Mr. Boo worked told him that one of the project managers was tired of his job and was stepping down and would Mr. Boo consider a promotion to this post. As the previous manager was still working at the establishment and had stepped down (and not been demoted) he would be delighted to help Mr. Boo with the transition—with learning the ropes, as it were. Mr. Boo knew that the post would pay only a little more and would require many, many hours more work so he accepted it enthusiastically. (This paradox being part of the enigma that is Mr. Boo.)

What was good, at the start, is that he had a pleasant if not friendly relationship with the previous manager, a Mr. Deutsch. What was bad, at the start, was that Mr. Deutsch, too, was a confirmed bachelor but of an altogether more predatory sort. And what was worse (and beyond Mr. Boo's comprehension, though he had been warned of the possibility by his trusted roommate) was that Mr. Deutsch might very well have his eye on Mr. Boo and not in an entirely innocent and helpful way.

So off went the very naïve Mr. Boo to his first "working lunch" with Mr. Deutsch. Mr. Boo, being recognizant of Mr. Deutsch's helpfulness, had allowed the latter to chose the restaurant for the lunch. When Mr. Boo arrived he noticed that the place was rather small and entirely too dark for any kind of work (no matter how high Mr. Boo ratcheted the brightness on his laptop monitor). When Mr. Boo recounted his lunch to his room-mate, the co-renter scoffed and said, "I think something quite funny is going to happen and you, dear boy, are not in the least capable of handling it." Meanwhile, Mr. Boo's dog, a smart little being in his own right, was thinking that this was exactly true but also thinking, "Mr. Boo is such a hapless and guileless little moron and he is about to be eaten alive."

But Mr. Boo believed nothing like this and scheduled another lunch with Mr. Deutsch and this time they did work. As they worked, though, Mr. Boo noticed that Mr. Deutsch was dressed rather—how can one put it?—seductively (his shirt rather too unbuttoned, his pants rather too tight) and smelled rather of rose-water. Mr. Boo was forced to appraise Mr. Deutsch and had only two thoughts about the situation which now, indeed, seemed to be presenting itself: Ick; how do I continue to solicit this person's help without also placing my innocence in dire peril?

He returned to his roommate and recounted his lunch. The roommate responded, rather unhelpfully, by laughing his mother-fucking ass off. The little dog had to leave the room as he was now yodeling with merriment.

Mr. Boo now clearly had a dilemma and the two who were apprised of it thought that it was going to be one fucking hi-larious year!

August 18, 2010; Life Goes On...and shit

If Skeeter didn't take the big nap this morning he is clearly better.

He got up to go to the bathroom (ie: empty his bag) before he would go back to bed and read for a bit over his first coffee and cigarettes. Boo was still here, rushing around to get ready for work (a process that takes about a year) and I was toodling about waiting for things to settle down (ie: waiting to get into Skeet's bed for my mid-morning drowse). On his way to the bathroom, Skeet nearly tripped over one of my toys and leaned over to pick it up and then—plop!—there was his bag. Right there on the floor. It had come loose from his body and there it was. And I looked at it. And Skeet looked at it. And Boo looked at it and fled to work in record time. And then, quite calmly, Skeet dealt with the mess and said to me, "Well, that's never happened before! Imagine if it had been in public! There you go!" Then he said rather cheerily, I thought, "One more hideous thing for me to worry about! Yay!"

And then, after he tidied and came back to bed with his coffee and cigarettes, he played with his iPad—Facebooking and Tweeting and whatever the fuck else he does on that thing (porn figures in there somewhere, no doubt). I watched him carefully. He didn't seem too fucked up. In fact, it was rather scary that he was not moaning or weeping or cursing his life. But he wasn't. So, thank you, magic pill.

Meanwhile, it's Doctors' Hospital in the apartment. Boo has finally seen a specialist for his limp which, as it turns out, is some old man thing that can be taken care of with those special shoes that look like the ones lesbians wear. Skeet, at last—at last!—has an appointment with a plastic surgeon at the hospital near here and this surgeon did not make him wait for six weeks or ask him to fax forms. (Of course, this expediency could also mean that when Skeet comes out of surgery he'll have a nice new pair of breasts...on his knees.)

The heat comes and goes and we all learn to suffer with it but I have mastered a new trick for getting walks in the heat over with as quickly as possible and it was working beautifully 'til Skeet noticed it last night. "Hey!" he shouted and yanked back on the leash. I just looked at him, knowing what he had found but feigning ignorance. "Is that yours?" he said, pointing to a little turd about ten yards away. "No!" I protested. He bellowed, "I think it's yours! I think you are now shitting as you walk!" "No!" I said with a little less confidence, realizing I had not timed this as well as I usually do. Usually I hold back, shit as I walk, then dash in front of him. There is no tautness on the leash so he has no idea. "What the fuck are you!" he roared. "Are you a fucking horse! Are we going to have to put a fucking diaper on you!"

The image of me in a diaper became crystal clear; I remember mocking a bitch, once, because her owner had put a pad on her when she was bleeding and I could hear my own mocking words coming back at me but from the mouths of Ginger, Twiggy and Babbette.

Skeeter stopped talking until we got back into the apartment and he was cleaning my feet. "Why do you do things like that? Jesus!"

"I do it to get the walk over faster because it's hot out there. And I do it to spread the word."

"Excuse me?"

"A dog's scent is his brand. We scent with piss and shit. If someone steps in either, they spread your presence—your rep, if you will—to other neighbourhoods, even to other cities if you're lucky."

Skeeter sighed deeply, then said, "Well, you listen to me, Half-Pint: you're going to stop doing shit like that. Got it? In this neighbourhood, we pick up. If we don't pick up, word gets out and soon you and I are being treated like pariahs. So do it right or, so help me God, it won't be just diapers; I'll put you in Harry Potter pyjamas and a sleeping cap too!"

"You wouldn't," I said weakly.

"Look me in the eyes."

I did.

He would.

August 15, 2010; Into the Woods

So off we went to the country, Boo-Boo and me. Three wondrous days!!!

I didn't have to worry about Skeeter offing himself because he figured out he had systematically forgotten to take his anti-depressants. Why? Because they made him nauseous on an empty stomach and instead of taking them the moment he awoke and the moment he came back from the clinic, he would eat something first and subsequently forget to take them at all. How did he find this out? By noticing, at the end of the month, that there was still a week's worth of pills left. Just goes to show you how fragile humans are and how important routines are. And what a fucking numbnuts and perhaps the world would be better off without him.

Anyhoo...

Boo-Boo. Country.

So off we went on a 90 minute car ride. I hate cars. Cars take you to the vet. Cars take you to other people's houses where strange kids poke you in the eye and you can't even bite them for it. And worse: rented cars have a smell. With the Febreze there are still undertone—very unsubtle to a dog's nose—of baby shit, child puke and cum. Cars, simply, make me barf. But Boo thought he'd solve that problem by sitting me in the front next to him. However, conscious of safety, he put me on the leash and tied the leash to the seat. Nice. This meant if we crashed I wouldn't become a projectile; instead I would have my neck snapped like a twig in October. The worst thing that might happen to poor Boo is if my head was ripped clean off and bumped him in the arm. The other effect of the leash was that I could not see outside. So I wasn't barfy, I was pissed off.

Things got no better when we got there. I was kept inside the chalet or leashed and the whole place smelled of rodents: mice, squirrels, beavers, porcupines. Rodent with a soupçon of skunk. And I couldn't hunt. I could just pace. Which I did.

Until the second day when the fucking chalet became overrun with humans. Boo received his parents and his sister and brother-in-law and talk about getting in my face. The old lady is nice enough though she smells of cat. But the brother-in-law wanted to play with me. So I made him run, figuring, "He's over 50—maybe he'll have a cardiac and leave me alone." The whole time the guests were there, Boo watched me like a hawk in case they offered me food and I took it, God forbid!

I did puke on the ride back...waited until we got on a bridge into the city to do it. I didn't need to puke; I just figured Boo had it coming for dragging me out to Hell's half-acre.

When I got into the apartment Skeeter was glad to see me and I was glad to see my own bed. During our walk later on Skeet asked how it had gone, really. "Well let's just say that for a trip that was supposed to get him destressed before the school year starts, it was rather stressing. He watched me. I felt watched. There was no TV. You do the math."

Eva Gabor was right: Give me Park Avenue.

August 12, 2010; The Intervention, Part III

"What a dump!" Kitoune said, and jumped up on the bed followed by Buddy. These were the two dogs Skeeter had before Cosmo and when Skeet saw them he groaned and finally—finally!—sat up and starting paying attention. I mean, he didn't have much choice. Kitoune and Buddy were small (she a terrier ratter mix and he a collie pomeranian blend) but they took up space as did Cosmo (a Dalmatian) and me.

What followed is a lot of talky talky, so it is probably best if I write it in theatre dialogue style. K=Kitoune, B=Buddy, C=Cosmo, L=Leo (me) and S=Skeeter, the suicidal we were all assembled to save.

K: Jesus H. Christ, don't these two losers make money yet? Can't they afford a fucking cleaning lady! I mean look at the dust!

C: Weren't you an alley dog when they found you?

K: Listen Spotty-Arse: just because I had to live on the streets doesn't mean I'm not a fucking lady. Fag me. (And like a little gentleman, Cosmo put a cigarette to her lips, leaned over with his lit one and touched it to hers. She inhaled deeply, stretched out on the bed and sighed) So, Fuckwad, what's the problem exactly?

S: Are you talking to me?

K: I don't see any other losers in the room.

S: Well, that is the problem: I feel like a los—

K: Oh! What the fuck else is new! When you were earning your living from writing you were always worried it would go away and that's why you got sick. And it did go away from time to time and you didn't die. And it came back. So what now? Jesus! (she said to no one in particular) The whining from these fucking humans...

S: (Turning to me) This isn't helping.

C: I suggested masturbation.

K: There's the ticket! Or go get laid—

L: (hissing)—the appliance—

K: (Going on anyway)—Christ, when he was living alone his fucking apartment was like a fucking park in the Gay Village after 3 a.m. There was so many men going in and out we'd just sit in the corner and marvel. The place always smelled like arse. I mean he was a real pig, wasn't he, Buddy dear?

B: What?

K: Yes, that's our Buddy. So blond and pretty but dumber than a sack of hammers.

C: Yes, Kit sweetheart, but this is not an option. So do you have any concrete proposals?

K: Yes, concrete...that might help. You sink a lot faster.

(Groans of horror and disgust from all)

K: Well what do you want!? Pity? Is that what you're looking for?

S: It wouldn't hurt.

K: Well, I'm sorry, then. Sorry that you're an aging, tubby queer who has body issues.

S: (Groans)

K: But get over yourself! Who doesn't! Consider the sinfully thin and lovely young women who stare in the mirror and see a hog! Or the people who see their first gray hair and flip out—

All: Yes, yes, yes, that's good, she's right. (etc.)

K: And you have the Boo-Boo who, for some fucking reason seems to love you. And this sweet little dog who cares enough to assemble all of us. Snap out of it! (There was a moment's silence. Kitoune inhaled deeply on her cigarette and had a stare-down with Skeeter. Then:) Now let's go onto something else...let's all have a good gossip.

S: Why isn't Sin here? (Note: Sin—as in black as—was Skeeter's first dog)

K: That old cunt! Jesus, she must be fucking somewhere. You know how she was.

C: I don't.

K: Nine fucking litters Sin had. They would let her out the back door whenever she wanted out and she would scratch on the door when she wanted back in. She was invariably pregnant and turned out squads of puppies at regular intervals. The old whore is probably someplace getting stuffed right at this minute.

And that was that for the Intervention. We all just started talking. Even Skeeter. Old times. And it was a cacophony of Dog-Speak and English, of accents—Kitoune's street, Cosmo's Dalmatian and Buddy's 'tard—and there was silliness of all sorts, with the smell of that divine opium floating around us all.

But then...

Then the door of the bedroom opened wide and there was Boo-Boo, half asleep. He stared for a second. Then, in the next second (and with a little whoosh) Buddy, Cosmo and Kitoune all disappeared. It was just me and Skeeter now, staring up at Boo and trying not to look guilty.

"Wha...?" he said.

Skeeter got up and said gently, "Go back to bed. You're sleep-walking." He took poor, confused (perhaps terrified) Boo back to his own bed.

Then Skeeter came back and got into bed and pulled me into a cuddle. Then he was giggling and then laughing. And then laughing like mad. Through tears of hilarity he sputtered, "Did you see the look on his face when he came in the room!"

I snerfed and then started giggling too. Soon, tired, Skeeter fell asleep and—thank God, 'cause I was exhausted—he was smiling.

August 9, 2010; The Intervention, Part II

When I pushed open the door with Cosmo behind me, Skeeter, still lying in a ball on the bed, said, "Go away!"

"Not very congenial is he?" Cosmo said.

Without turning Skeeter said, "Oh! What fresh hell is this?"

The two of us, Cosmo and I, jumped onto the bed or, rather, I jumped and Cosmo dragged himself up, still wearied from his eternal sleep and, most likely, the celestial opium. "What's up, skipper," he said into Skeeter's ear when he was up near it. Skeeter very slowly turned around and looked at the old Dalmatian with no small amount of confusion. "Wha...?" "Yes, well," Cosmo said," here I am and I want to know what you are planning to do so we all can make our own plans."

"Now I know I'm nuts. Go away. Both of you." And Skeeter turned away.

"Hm," Cosmo said.

"Hm," I echoed. We all had a little lie down and snoozed for a bit because the bed, with its three occupants, became cosy-warm and no dog can keep his eyes open or at full attention when things are cosy-warm.

Then Cosmo muttered, "Why doesn't he just masturbate. That always cheers me up!"

"He's 53 years old, for Christ's sake!" I snapped at him.

"Oh. Right. Hm. There was a time when he'd beat his meat like it owed him money."

"Really?" I liked hearing about the times before I came to the apartment.

"Oh, yes!" Cosmo continued. "He was the J.O. king! Had a porn collection so vast the Library of Congress would have been jealous."

"I'm right here, you know!" Skeeter said and finally turned toward the two of us.

"It's one of the many things the other one tolerates with him," Cosmo said.

"I do not know how the fuck this is supposed to help me!" Skeeter hissed.

"Oh, shush!" said Cosmo. "Go back into mourning for your life—"

"—Chekhov?—" I said of the allusion.

"—Masha, I think—"

"—Which one; 'Three Sisters' or 'Seagull'?" I asked.

"—Both...who knows...it's Chekhov," he said.

Finally Skeeter sat up. "Is the fucking seminar over? Can I go back to sleep?"

"You weren't sleeping," Cosmo remarked.

"Well can I be left alone!"

"No!" I said. "Relax. We're not leaving." Then I turned back to Cosmo, "Actually you may have something. Loss of libido? Some old people get profoundly depressed."

"Hm," Cosmo said.

"Fuck!" Skeeter finally raged. "I have not lost my libido! That's fine! That's the problem in fact! That and the appliance."

There was a long silence. "Hm," Cosmo said. "Hm," I said. Skeeter just stared at us and his eyes rolled madly like now he was contemplating hurting us rather than himself and I suppose that was a good thing.

But then Cosmo said, "We need reinforcements."

"Oh, fuck," Skeeter groaned and fell back on the bed.

Cosmo made a strange sound—that one you all know, between a whistle and a whine—and there was an odd, gentle whooshing, like wind coming through the window.

At first I thought nothing more had happened but then I heard, coming from the floor at the end of the bed (and so out of sight), a rough, life-scarred voice saying, "What a dump!"

August 6, 2010; The Intervention, Part I

As I said the last time, Skeeter was a mess. Lot's of pacing and bitching about doctors and nurses and never being better. I thought it was same old, same old. Then, my friends, last Monday it got decidedly worse.

It was late, late at night and I had gone for a sip of water, as is my wont (and which is necessary should I decide to piss in the bed before Boo-Boo gets around to walking me), when I noticed a smell in the house.

Let me make a few things clear about dogs and smells. First, yes, we do love the smell of garbage and shit and, indeed, anything organic which touches something deep, deep inside of us: something amniotic, maybe. But we also notice a lot of other smells that animals—including you—give off that have very little to do with the organism and much more to do with...jeez, I don't think anyone has every actually had to verbalize this before...well, let's call it spirit. We know when you are in love. We know when you are excited/happy and excited/scared because you are spritzing smells all over the house that get into our nose and change the way we act.

But here, late Monday night, there was another smell. It's a hideous smell that is impossible to describe accurately. There are hints of sadness, undertones of fatalism (try and describe that smell!), and a lot of confusion and that is a smell I can describe only by what it does to the animal that smells it: it sets off little electric charges in the brain; confusion tries to be contagious and sometimes is. But when the smell of confusion is mixed with all those other odors it means only one thing: despair.

The hair on my back prickled automatically. This was not good. This was not good at all. It was coming from Skeeter's bedroom. I went to his door and listened. I could hear his breath. He was awake. I whispered, "Let me in."

"No," he said quietly.

This time I hissed, "Let me in NOW!" He said nothing and he did not let me in. The good thing about this old slum is that everything in the house is crooked and nothing really fits...like doors. So it only took a couple of pushes with my head and paws to get into Skeeter's bedroom.

"Get out," he mumbled. "Leave me alone. I have things to think about."

I ignored him, hopped on the bed and noticed he was curled in a fetal ball. I went right up to his face, my nose almost touching his, and said, "I know what you're thinking about."

"Good for you," he said and added, rather nastily I thought, "Your breath stinks." He turned away and adjusted his fetal ball position at the other side of the bed.

"Why?" I said quietly.

"Because I'm useless. Because this doctor shit will never end. Because I'm not a good friend to my friends or a good mate to my mate. Because I already owe thousands of dollars and may never be able to pay it back and it's only going to get worse. Because I don't feel well...ever. Because I'm talking to my fucking dog. Becausebecausebecause..." His voice drifted off.

I stared at him and began to worry. I am ill-equipped for this kind of thing—this milk-of-human-kindness stuff. I shuddered. The consequences of what he was thinking were enormous. For one thing Boo would go into a tailspin and I might not get fed for days! Second, it took both of them to give me the attention that I required; one person is simply not up to the task and with Boo aging very fast, there was little or no likelihood he would ever find a replacement for Skeet. I'd have to run away! I'd have to live on the streets! I'd have no bed to pee in!

"Snap out of it!" I hissed at him angrily but knew that this would not be enough. Instead he let out a long, low sigh of a sound and the smell I talked about became stronger. Almost overpowering. That's when I noticed the array of pills on the bedside table: the tranqs and painkillers and anti-depressants and I could see, rather too clearly, how this might all play out.

I jumped off the bed and went to the kitchen and hissed again, "Hey!"

Nothing.

"Hey! Get in here!"

Still nothing.

"Goddamnit," I growled in Dog Speak, "get your spotted ass in here."

And there he was, splayed out under the kitchen table. He had a cigarette dangling out of his mouth, as usual, and that celestial smell of opium-but-not-opium came with him. He hardly moved when he said, "Hey little dude, you are harshing my buzz!"

"Wake up. We have a big problem!"

"'We?'" Cosmo said, as he pulled his huge body to a sitting position, looking particularly stupid in the doing because his eyes were rolling about and his head was whacking the bottom of the table.

"Yes, 'we.'" I nipped his legs and he slowly rose to follow me. "We have to do an intervention."

"Oh! Drugs?" Cosmo said and he followed me into the bedroom, weaving about all the way.

"Something like that," I said and wondered if this would work.

August 2, 2010: Quick!

This has got to be quick. Skeeter is pacing the house constantly. There's a lot of stress in this place. I haven't figured out exactly why but you know it has to do with doctors and nurses and health and whatnot.

More to come.