September 30, 2010; Lazy Days

It is the change of seasons and my body, with its short hair and little fat, is not responding kindly. The temperature goes from Ice Age to tropical and I don't know whether I'm coming or going. So I sleep.

Yesterday, I was snoozing in Skeeter's bed as he read a book (or whatever you now call reading something on a Kindle) and all of a sudden, just outside the open window, two squirrels were going mental. Skeeter looked up and watched for a bit and noticed I was not even lifting my head. "Hey!" he said, "squirrels playing!"

"They're fucking, you dumb twat," I rumbled.

"Whoa! Nice mood," he said.

"I'm feeling lazy. Leave me alone."

He drew me up to his face and into a hard cuddle. I grunted in pleasure from the warmth. "What is it, little dude?"

"You want to watch squirrels fuck...fine! You want to fuck...fine! I just want to hibernate."

"Is that jealousy I hear there?" he twitted. I gnawed on his knuckle in response, shooting millions of bacteria into his blood stream. Then he said something horrifying: "Next week, Boo is travelling with the school, so you and I are alone for three days, including two mornings. I need you to cut me some slack."

I bounded up on the bed! "CUT YOU SOME SLACK?!?!? YOU WALK ME EARLY IN THE EVENING AND EXPECT ME TO GO THROUGH TWELVE HOURS 'TIL LATE IN THE MORNING WITHOUT PISSING!!! I HARDLY GET ANY ATTENTION!!! MY WHOLE ROUTINE IS THROWN OUT OF WHACK!!! CUT YOU SOME SLACK?!?!? WHAT...THE...FUCK?!?!"

"Funny how your lazy spell passes fast when you think your life might get a little uncomfortable—"

"—you're on notice, fuckwad...get your messy, all-over-the-place act together or there will be blood."

"Just remember what happened last year when he was gone for two weeks: you ran me ragged and I ended up in the fucking hospital."

I did remember and suddenly gnawing on his knuckle did not seem like such a brilliant idea. He had gotten sick and I had been hauled off to a strange place for two days. I need my little routine. I need my little place. I need my smells around me. And I needed Boo and/or Skeet (preferably both). Of course I would never tell them that. That kind of knowledge in the wrong hands is far too dangerous.

September 27, 2010; Confab

Well, there you go. Skeeter had done the nasty with a man-trollop. Worse, Boo-Boo had lent him the money to do it. What kind of fucking nuthouse was I living in? All my beliefs about humans and their taboos and the way they operate amongst themselves had been thrown out the window.

Here were these queeros—already a lifestyle I was barely coming to grips with—going just that one step further into some weird world and—worse again!—acting like everything was normal. I mean, Skeet told Boo all about the encounter—in such lurid, vivid colour that I had to leave the room—and Boo had nothing more to say besides, "I'm glad for you; I'd never have the guts to do it." Guts? It doesn't take more guts, it seems to me, than the ones which make the dong whip about and salute!

The next day, on our walk, Skeet and I ran into Babs, the old hen and, of course, Ginger and Benjie. While the humans blathered I exploded: "This one had a pro yesterday?"

"A pro...?" said the dense little Benjie.

"WHAT!?!?!?" Ginger shrieked. "Oh, this is juicy!"

"Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?" Benjie blithered in his little darkness.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Benjie! Get with the fucking program! Fucking! Money exchanged!" Ginger barked.

"Oooooooooooooooh!" Benjie yodeled.

Meanwhile, after Ginger's scream, the humans had stopped talking and were just watching us yammer away in Dog Speak. The dear old hen said, "Isn't that adorable! It looks like they're having a fine old gossip!" Babs laughed, Skeet did not. He said, in a voice that was dangerous and with words clearly aimed as a warning to me, "I hope my little imp isn't saying anything he might later regret." I got the tone. I admired his self-control, evident in the word "imp" which he used in lieu of "fucking little cocksucking motherfucker" simply in deference to the old lady. But I also knew the control wouldn't hold on forever.

So I tried to retreat from the subject I had introduced to my friends, but Ginger would have none of it. "What did he look like? Was he sleazy? A junky? What?!?!?"

"Was he hot?" Benjie asked.

"Oh my God, you are such a homo!" Ginger snapped at Benjie who now ignored that kind of remark.

"Could you both simmer down? You're going to get me in trouble!" The humans had continued chatting, but Skeet was watching me and I could feel the heat of rage radiating from him and the stink of revenge was in the air. Ginger smelled it too and quietened and Benjie snerfed a laugh. "Thank you," I said, and added quickly, "He was very good-looking and very, very nice and polite. He wasn't sleazy. He had weird ear-piercings and tatoos and a strange haircut, but if you saw him on the street you would only notice he was tall and healthy-looking."

"Well, that's dull," Ginger said.

"So are your guys breaking up?" Benjie asked.

"No, everything is normal!" I said.

"Well, that's queers for you. They have their own set of rules, don't they?" she said.

"They certainly seem to. I'm still a little lost, frankly."

"I really, really like Skeeter and Boo. I think they're cool," Benjie said, looking up at Skeet. Skeeter noticed and leaned down and scratched the twittery little dog. Ben practically jizzed on the sidewalk he was so happy from the attention.

The people were done and we all went our separate ways. Boo said to me, "I'm not ashamed of what I did but if things get out through some weird cat/dog network I will string you up by your dick and beat you with a stick like a pinata."

"I'm so scared, John," I said. He laughed, seemed cooled down but I was nevertheless so, so happy that my dog and cat associates did not talk to people. The image in my head of me shitting candies while hanging from the ceiling seemed rather too real.

September 24, 2010; "Joe"

So there was "Joe."

It was 3 p.m. on the dot and there he was: "Joe," the man Skeeter had hired for...well, whatever Skeeter wanted him to do, I suppose.

The man was young, but not a boy. He was tall, but not a giant. His clothes were loose but they did not hide the fact that he was built like a Greek statue. He had a huge smile that wasn't the kind you buy. And, Lordie!—forgive me a moment of queeritude—he was a fucking hunk. In another time and place, I'd've done him! After he came in and there were the awkward hellos between tradesman and customer, he kneeled down to me and just went to town. He tickled and poked and scratched and petted and turned me into a big pile of jelly. Before you know it I was a slut; dancing and bouncing up and down and just entertaining his motherfucking pants off, figuratively. And that meant I was getting in the way as Skeeter wanted to do that literally. So out I went...the bum's rush to the balcony, like Skeeter used to do when I was getting in the way when the nurses came to take care of him.

So there I was on the balcony while Skeeter and this "Joe" did unimaginable things in the bedroom. Let's just say that Skeet sounded...ick...happy. Then I remembered that I used to be able to watch Skeet and the nurse through the window.

No.

No.

Don't do it.

Stop!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And there I was, looking in.

OH! MY EYES! MY EYES! OEDIPUS! OEDIPUS!

I didn't even catch them doing much of anything, really...it was more like...ick...afterglow. But, Jesus, Skeet looked about 20 years younger. I stopped looking but soon Skeet was opening the balcony door to let me back in the apartment and inviting me to say goodbye. Again, I was utterly seduced and did the song and dance and noticed, despite my confirmed straightness, that this guy was beautiful.

Then he was gone.

Skeeter and I curled up in the La-Z-Boy and he just stared out.

"Was it worth it?" I asked, rhetorically.

There was a long pause and then he said, very quietly, "It's not about sex or love, you know."

"So, what is it about?"

His expression of utter contentment clouded and he didn't speak for another long time. "You have no idea how wonderful it was, for just a few moments, not to feel ugly."

"But you paid for that," I said very quietly because, as weird as this all was, I didn't want to squash the little twerp in his moment of glory.

"Well, little guy, here's the thing: a male body cannot lie."

"I see...and ick." Then something occured to me. "Does Boo-Boo make you feel ugly?"

"Good God, no!"

"Then who?"

"The mirror, little man, the mirror."

You know something? Humans are mightily fucked up. In my world, the ugliest, fattest, droolingest mongrel mutt can look into the mirror and see a gorgeous being because he is, after all, a dog!

September 21, 2010; Rumblings

I have decided to keep my continued correspondance with my sister to myself (unless there is a really interesting exchange) because I don't like personal stuff. It's boring. When somebody tells you they want to tell you something personal, you can be sure it has nothing to do with you and that you are free to let your mind wander. It's like when they say, "I had an interesting dream—" cut them off immediately by saying, "—if it doesn't feature you sucking my cock, move on to something else...or suck my cock."

Personal stuff is only interesting if it's a secret being revealed, the more sordid the better and I think I have a doozy. I think Skeeter is going to do something nasty, if you know what I mean and I think you do. The question, and I had no compunction about asking it was, "Why?"

"Hunh?" he said as he continued to surf about the web on his iPad.

"Why are you looking at info on male escorts?"

He immediatly flipped off the machine, put it on a table far away from the chair (like that would make the information go away) and said, in a squirrelly, guilt-ridden voice, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"What's with the Craigslist and the other sites—what's happening here?"

"I don't see how something of this nature is any of your business—"

"—if it puts my household in jeopardy it IS my fucking business."

He sighed deeply and it looked like he needed to talk but was in a tug of war with all sorts of middle-class bourgeois sensitivities about appropriateness. Humans are so fucked up about sex it's not even funny. What makes these two so weird—Boo-Boo and Skeeter, I mean—is that they're queer and this place, from all I have learned, should be a big whorehouse with toyboys coming in on conveyor belts. But things here are very tame. However, there WAS something here and it was something I wanted to know.

He sighed again and said, "It's this appliance business. It's that and my still out-of-control libido and andropause, probably—"

"—but what about Boo?"

"I can't. I can barely face this myself—I'm not sure I, myself, could handle sex with...someone who has what I have...I can't force him to deal with it if I can't—"

"—and so the whores..." Another sigh from him. "Um...how do you know the whores would be able to handle it?" There was another long pause. "You've asked around..." Still spluttering, me. He nodded. "Have you hire—?" I spluttered some more. His look said it all. Oh, Jesus! This was reallllllllly weird. "And Boo? Does he know?"

"He thinks it's something I've got to get out of my system." I just stared 'til he felt he had to speak again. "He's aging more gracefully than I am, I think." Loooooooooooong pause again. I continued to stare. Again: "Also, no one I know knows what this...thing...does to me and to my head and he would never presume to talk me out of something when his head is not in the same place...when he can't even imagine that place."

"Yes, he's a good guy," I said. "Have you thought that—before you see a wh—you might consider seeing a therapist?"

"Too late for that—"

"—WHAT!—"

—Tomorrow. His name is Joe—"

"—his whore name or his real name?"

"Shut-up."

"This can only end in tears," I muttered.

"Not necessarily. It might do me some good...help me deal with this. Who knows?"

Well that was a fact, all right: Who the fuck knows?

September 18, 2010; For My Sister

Hey there Buttercup! (I just farted I'm laughing so hard at that name)

You tell me that you live with two old biddies! Well, so do I!! The difference is that your biddies are sisters and so don't have sex (probably) while mine did have sex once, I think, though I don't like to let the images occupy too much space in my head.

Strangest thing, though: I was curled up snoozing next to Skeeter, the other day, as he ticked about on his iPad while watching TV (he's got the attention span of a fucking fruitfly in heat). Anyhoo...I woke up a little and noticed that he was on Craigslist. He was surfing about on the erotic services section and it looked like he was shopping. I said, "What's your price range?" He looked guilty but covered remarkably well with: "Craigslist says it closed down its sex trade services but it looks like that was just in the States." There's something here and you can be sure I'll be following up.

But enough about all these things which you can read in the blog anytime. I am just glad to hear from you and to hear about you? Are you "fixed" too? Do you have a boyfriend? Do the two old ladies let you run? I'm not allowed to run, not even in the dog park 'cause Skeeter says I'm too psycho, fucking dipshit. I yank-run...going to the end of my extendible leash and pulling for all I'm worth. This usually only serves to get me yanked back but on really good days I can yank at just the right moment and Skeeter ('cause it's always Skeeter) slips on the ice and falls flat on his face or ass. I'm hoping to do it in such a way, this winter, that he will either break his nose or, at the very least, burst that fucking bag he has strapped on.

I know this sounds mean, but you have to understand that the dynamic here are different from your place. I'm not with two old aunties who love me to pieces as I love them. I am with two homo halfwits who insist, despite all evidence, that they are smarter than I am and that they are in power. You see, your old ladies know you are the Queen of the House and you get all the respect and adoration you deserve. Here we have two queens who refuse to acknowledge their fealty to their king; it's a constant struggle with food, urine and violence—physical and verbal—used in the fray. For instance we "play-fight" but I use my teeth; they call it nipping but when they're scratched and bleeding and my mouth germs are working their way into their bloodstream toward a massive antibiotic-resistant infection, we'll see what they think of "nipping." They offer me a chip but I have to sing for it and if I don't then they shriek in me ear 'til I do. I pee on the bed, they have to do a washing anyway, but I end up snubbed and unloved for hours more than seems necessary. And on and on it goes.

What's worse is that Boo-Boo is such a stress case that he's not even nice to me. Yesterday he was "working" (I use the quotation marks because I know that he can take a job others would do in ten minutes and for which they're paid royally, and spin it into a labour of Hercules and is paid, finally, less than a Chinaman making iPads). He was "working" and the other one was still asleep and I was bored. So I started to jump on him, which he usually loves, but this time he just pushed me away. Well, no one pushes me away, dammit! So I started barking and running about and jabbing him and chewing his shoes and damned if he didn't yell at me to stop it, pick me up and throw me onto my bed! Do you believe it! I bet your Sisters would have bent over, played with you and given you a cracker as good housemates are supposed to.

Anyhoo, dearheart. Stay well, take care and keep writing. I haven't made any decisions about talking to Boo yet, but if he keeps cruelly mistreating me like this, I'm clamming up forever.

As you know I'm not a sentimental type so I'll just say take care and...well, take care.

Leo

September 15, 2010; Letter from Abroad

This came to me.

My beloved Dee

May I call you Dee because that is how I remember you and want to think of you; as my sweet, little brother—the runt of the litter who became strong and healthy because he was such a little hard-head. That's how you were, sweet Dee, and that's how I read how you still are (and what a mouth you have, you rapscallion!).

And you must call me, and think of me, as your beloved Ceecee, even though here, with my sweet little family, I am called Buttercup (or Cuppy). I laugh as I can almost see you flinch with horror at such a name and I know just how silly it is. But then the people I live with—two very, very old sisters—are rather silly too, and it's still amazing to me that they managed to stop dithering long enough to even find a name for me, however silly. But I love them both dearly.

I am very lucky to be able to write to you and it is all serendipitous! My silly ladies, who are called Milly (for Milicent) and Winnie (for Winnifred) moved in together in their widowhood. Their children (they have five between them) are scattered all over the place and all of them worried for the two dears. So one weekend one of their sons (a very nice man who is "that way" if you know what I mean and I think you do) came and installed a fine computer with all the bells and whistles. The ladies turn it on every morning, turn it off every night, and dust it in between. That's all. So there it was, unused; a very expensive piece of bricabrac indeed. So here I am.

How did I learn you were looking for me? Two ways. First, a very strange cat named Mordred, who lives with the old duffer next door, struck up a conversation with me and mentioned a Jack Russell he had heard about, a thousand miles away, who was looking for his sister. He had heard about this dog through the cat grapevine, which is a very potent thing! Then I read a Tweet from one of my friends saying that she heard about a blog written by a vulgar little mutt. And there you were, telling the world about your life.

I have read everything and love you and miss you more than ever. I am so proud of you. I suspect I will never see you again, as we are so far apart, but isn't it nice that we are in the same world and know the other is alive and well? That's so much more than many, many other sisters and brothers in the canine kingdom.

There is no way I will begin to speak to my Sisters, as you speak to your Skeeter, for if I began to speak and they, more importantly, thought I understood what they said they would dither me to death. There is so much prattle in this home—a spoon left on the counter can be discussed for hours!—and I desperately do not want to join in. When the two hens begin to dither, I find my pillow in a nice quiet corner near a radiator, and snooze. When we all come together is in front of the TV where, quite unbelieveably, they quieten down and watch police procedurals. We have an almost steady diet of CSIs and Law and Orders. The bloodier the show, the more they seem to like it! They don't gasp or anything when the people on the show fiddle about with cadavers. At the end of the program one of the Sisters, if the show has been particularly gorey, always says, "Now wasn't that delicious!" It sometimes make me wonder if they are grieving widows or Black Widows.

That's all for now, Dear Heart. Do get back to me. I love you and love you and kisses all over and isn't life grand!

Ceecee

PS: Don't let the fucks and twats get to you!

PPS: xxxxxxxxxxxxxooooooooooooxxxxxxxxxxx

I hate fucking sentiment but my little doggie heart could burst.

September 12, 2010; Secrets and Payments

It's nice that Pastor Fuckknuckle decided not to burn the Qu'rans like he said he would. Mind, it probably wouldn't have made a difference one way or another...some people burn the American flag and scream in the streets simply because it's a long-established tradition; bred in the bone, so to speak.

Meanwhile, during the morning walk the day after I shot my mouth off to Boo, Skeeter said, "So when are you going to tell him?"

"Why do I have to tell him?"

"Look, it was bad enough when we were both lying to him—I'm not going to have him questioning his sanity. With all the fucking stress in his life now, his mental health is hanging by a thread."

"Let me think about it."

"Don't think to long. Of course, if you're as profoundly stupid as you were last night, this might all take care of itself."

I thanked him for his remark by squatting and having a shit on the sidewalk at the exact moment a little family was coming out of the adjacent house. Mommy shuddered and Junior shrieked, "That's gross!" As Skeeter bent over to pick it up, I ran about him, tangling him in the leash as he tried to bag my offering, and then did a little dance for the audience.

Big mistake.

Later, after the afternoon walk, I was feeling the first mild autumn chill and thought I'd curl up next to Skeeter while he fiddled with his iPad (surfed porn, posted imbecilities on his Facebook page, Tweeted details of his life not a single person in the world gives a flying fuck about). The curl-up is especially great as the winter approaches. Skeeter's unbelievable mass gives off heat like a foundry and being squeezed next to him is better than crack—I just joyously haze out. He was tapping away on his gadget and I was slipping in and out of consciousness, utterly blissed-out when he said, "I wonder what your little friends would think if they saw you."

"Hunh? Shut up, I'm snoozing," I mumbled.

"I wonder what Slicer or one of those other animals you're always trying to beat up—the ones you act so tough with—what they would think if they saw your curled up here next to me, purring like a pampered pussy."

"—you wouldn't—"

"—Oh! I so would, Mr. Shits-on-the-sidewalk-just-to-humiliate-Skeeter!—"

—I swear to all you believe is holy I will never do that again!—"

"DOING IT ONCE WHEN YOU KNEW HOW I HATE IT IS ALREADY ONCE TOO OFTEN, YOU FUCKING LITTLE COCKSUCKER! I SHOULD HAVE KICKED YOUR FAT WHITE ASS UP AND DOWN THE STREET!"

"I swear! I swear! I'm so sorry!"

"You know how much I already hate picking up after you and especially when there are people around—"

"—Listen to me—" Oh! dear readers, I was peddling like I have never peddled before. "—I will find a way to make up for it. I swear. You never say a word about our thing here and I'll do something extra special for you."

He was intrigued. "We'll see." But I had no idea what I would do.

On our walk this morning we saw Shutup, the lab I have a lot of fun abusing, and my dick withdrew into my body I was so scared what Skeeter might say. "Pleasepleasepleaseplease," I prayed to him as we approached the other dog who mewed with fear of me. Skeeter hummed ominously, but then we just walked past the idiot dog. I thanked Skeeter over and over again for having kept his mouth shut. He said, "I better get payback pretty fucking soon, Buster."

And then all became clear to me. We were coming back to the apartment when I saw Babette sitting out on her porch while one of her owners sat beside her reading his newspaper. Two things: this particular guy loves me to pieces; Skeeter has got a full-metal boner for him. "Watch this," I murmured to Skeeter.

Ignoring Babette I went tearing over to the guy and just started jumping all over him. He fell back from the step he was sitting on and just hugged me and held me and I licked his face all over. He was wearing shorts and his muscular, hairy legs (just like Skeeter likes them) went flying all over the place. He was laughing his fool head off, and calling me "Sweetie!" and "You cute little thing!" as I just went to town. Babette barked, "What the hell are you doing?!" but I didn't stop until the guy was a sweaty mess, his shirt half-open and -off, exposing the kind of chest Skeeter dreams about.

Skeeter pulled on the leash—oh-so-half-heartedly—and I went back to him. "I'm sorry," he said to the young man. The guy, still laughing, said, "I am crazy about your dog!" Then he stuck out his hand and said, "I'm Claude." Skeeter shook his hand and may have said his own name. I can't be sure he actually said words because his voice was flutey and all over the place as his body wobbled about and a blush rose from his balls up to the roots of his hair.

We walked home, his legs barely holding him up. "Okay, we're even," he said.

"You fucking bet we are," I said.

Now I desperately need a bath to get rid of my whore-stink.

September 9. 2010; Brain Fart

I haven't always mentioned it—'cause it's tedious—but Skeeter has been on my ass for months to start talking to Boo-Boo and I've been resisting for a number of reasons:

- Starting to talk to Skeeter himself was probably a mistake. Not a critical mistake like the secret that all dogs can do it getting out (that's not such a big secret because most people don't or won't believe it), but a mistake because even when I'm snoozing or watching a program or day-dreaming there's Skeeter with his blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda stream of consciousness. He's like "Seinfeld": a show about nothing.

- I am convinced that if I start to talk to Boo, then Skeet will feel free to disappear into a book, a newspaper or his fucking World of Warcraft and leave me with Boo and his endless, stressed-out chatter about work (and things are getting worse because he's now tangling with the local union forewoman—a twat with a capital C who wanders the halls looking like the petty bureaucrat she is , dripping with cheap jewelry and stinking of one of those perfumes with an undertone of urine).

- When things go wrong in their queer little couplehood I don't want to be like one of those pathetic divorce waifs, forced to take sides and finally crying out, "Mommy and Daddy please stop fighting!"

- I don't don't don't don't want to "share" in both their sex lives. It's bad enough Skeet tells me about all his likes and dislikes when we pass men on the street, but to have to hear it from the other one too and be the one who holds the secret that these two old Marys are utterly incompatible would be too much for one little dog to shoulder.

- There are so many other reasons, all good, but the best reason is this one: I don't wanna.

But there was Skeet, always telling me how guilty he felt about this secret and how come I, too, did not feel just as guilty and there he was assuring me that Boo is just as fascinating as he, Skeet, is (which means precisely nothing) and don't I want to look into his world and doesn't Boo's world seem interesting. Most often I would just walk away, or simply ignore him when he went on and on about this.

But I'm an idiot, aren't I?

I was lying on the floor, while the two of them watched TV, and I was feeling content—a nice meal and a walk behind me, the end of the day and a nice sleep before me. I did what I always do: sighed deeply and let out a nice, long (but silent) fart.

Suddenly Boo yelled, "Oh! For fucks sake, Léo, did something crawl up your arse and die?"

I muttered, "Like it's fucking Febreze shooting out of your arse all night."

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

I did not move. Skeet pretended to hear nothing.

Then Boo said, "Hunh." Then there was more silence. The TV seemed really loud. I got up, went to the kitchen, sipped some water, let some time pass, then came back to the living room, jumped up on the sofa with Boo and curled up...like I always do.

Silence.

He said, "Hunh."

"What is it?" Skeet said, with a faux nonchalance that was rather admirable.

"Did you hear something?"

"Hm?"

"Something weird?"

"Weird?" said Skeet.

If a dog could sweat I'd've been sweating. As it was my mouth was dry and a couple of drops of piss were trickling into my dick-fur. I wondered how long this stupidest conversation ever would go on before it got somewhere.

There was more silence. I pretended to snore. Then Boo said, "I don't know. Nothing."

Later, when Boo and I went to bed, he sat up staring into space, then he picked me up and looked me in the face and just stared some more. Then he turned off the light, curled up to me and mumbled, "I wonder if I'm going nuts." And soon he was asleep.

I don't think I've dodged a bullet.