February 8, 2011; Farewell

Two years...

And...well...it was the last straw. Skeeter announced, "Tonight you are going to adapt to our lives. We are going to the theatre and we will not be back until ten—"

"—THAT'S TWO HOURS PAST MY WALK AND MEAL TIME—" I roared.

He went on without even looking at me. "—and you are going to behave or suffer the consequences." I looked up at Boo-Boo who was putting on his coat and he turned away.

"—but! but! but!—" I sounded like a retard and Skeet smiled at me indulgently like I was a retard. And off they went. I didn't piss on the floor or shit or chew something up. I made my plans. This, I knew, was going to be easy. They came home at 10:30 with no apology but, "There's a storm out there," from Skeeter. We ate. I walked. I pissed. I shit. I sharpened my plan. We watched TV. We went to bed. They slept.

Slowly I got out of bed. The house was snoring. Cosmo was in the kitchen. "You sure you want to do this?" the phantom Dalmatian asked. "Yes," I said and with a whispered, "Good luck, then," from him, he disappeared.

I went to the kitchen table, jumped on a chair and grabbed Boo's house keys and then hid them in the couch.

Now I am here. I will try to find a way to keep blogging—I have ideas about that. But this might be my last entry. In a few hours Boo has a meeting. He will go to it, come home and have to ring to get in as his house keys are gone. Skeet will go down to let him in, too pissed off about having to haul his carcass to the door downstairs to notice I'm right behind him.

The door will open...and I am out

LATER

I have to do this. I can't live with the sadness—Boo's, Cate's and sometimes Skeet's. I have my own problems and have to tend to them. I don't have the energy to help help help help all the time. And the Boys organizing their lives so that I have to adapt—well, that will not fly.

Boo has gone to work, Skeet is sleeping. I look around and wonder if there's something...something...

LATER

No. Nothing holding me here.

Move forward, for fuck's sake! Be a dog!

The doorbell is ringing. Have to turn off the computer. Skeet is moaning and bitching...getting up...

Have to go

February 4, 2011; Ceecee and Me

Dear Ceecee (my email began)
I am trying to decide what to do with my future. If you have been following my blog, and I think you have, you'll understand that I am not content. In fact, I think if I hang out here too much longer I'm worried that I will become one of those fat, lazy lap dogs that has to wear booties and a little outfit in the cold and who is always curled up in a bed or in a La-Z-Boy when he's not eating or slogging throw the snow in his knitted ensemble (bitching and moaning all the while).

Please advise me!
D

Dearest Dee
I have been noticing how you seem unhappy and I am very worried. I don't want you to do anything foolish and whatever you do I want you to think long and hard before you do it.

I do know one thing for sure. You may be my twin brother but you are not like me. I like living here in my cozy apartment with my three old birds but I am perfectly aware that you are not like that. In fact I don't think you're like any other dog I know. You're more...lordie...dare I say it?...feral. The way you write and the way you talk to your Boys and all your little rages...well, there is something wild about you. I don't know where that's from. I don't have it. What do you think?
C

Dear Ceecee
I don't know if it has something to do with watching our siblings die in that horrible puppy mill or if it's watching Frank get old so fast after his stroke or even watching the Boys and their crazy lives (which are also lazy lives) but I feel there is a side of me that feels locked in and needs to get out. Maybe it's living in this small apartment with this small life. There's got to be more, doesn't there?
D

Dear Dee
You know those fits all Jack Russells have (even me)? The ones were suddenly we just explode and run and run and run around the house until we can't run anymore? Are you sure that's not what's happening with you—except bigger?
C

C
Way bigger. Too big.
D

D
Please think. Think hard!
C

D
That's all I do.
C

D
You know I love you, don't you?
C

D
I know. And I love you.
C

D
But that's not enough, is it?
C

C
I don't know.
D

D
Think hard, sweetheart. Think very hard.
C

C
I will. I have.
Love you
D

D
xx
C

C

x

D

January 31, 2011; Winter of Discontent

What has become of my life?

What has become of me?

I am living with two Peter Pans: one who is so surrounded by toys and silliness you wonder if he ever lifts his head and looks around at the real world (Skeeter); the other who handles adult stress by falling into a million pieces of broken psyche (Boo-Boo). And I have to put up with both. That's getting tiresome.

And worse, now, I am talking to them or, rather, they are talking at me. These two very rarely actually talk with me about things I'm interested in. They're either bitching me out or I have to work hard to find a subject that they find fascinating. They hardly ever explore my world, try to understand what makes me—or other dogs or even other animals—tick. And that, too, is getting tiresome.

And I have to fit my life around theirs. I realize this as I look over my blogs for the last two years. I never go out as often as I want. They think walking me four times a day for ten or fifteen minutes each time is alot! But—fuck me!—I'm a Jack Russell Terrier! I need to run! And not just mad, insanely fast circles around an apartment which is far two small for a dog, let alone a dog and two ever-widening old fucks. And they feed me once a day—cheap kibble soaking in tasteless broth—and they give me a hard, bargain-basement biscuit after the walks and they sometimes give a little of the yummy stuff they eat...a very little. This too is getting tiresome.

And I have no friends, no lovers. I just have these two fogies. Sure, once in a while, I get to talk to Benjie, Ginger, Babette and my beloved Twiggy. And even more infrequently I get to have a quick chin-wag with Cleo and that mad thing, Slicer. And, sure, I have my followers and friends on the internet. But I need real friends. I need other dogs. I wish I could do like humans and get on the phone as often as I want and have a long chat about my problems, about dog problems, with my sister or even a close dog friend. I could have a good dog friend, if I wanted—my personality, despite what The Boys say, is okay! I feel lonely. And that's tiresome.

And I look at my life and realize I'm missing something. As a dog. Especially as a Jack Russell. My curiousity is being crushed by hours and hours of idiot television and bad movies (which these two losers watch constantly) and by hours and hours of dull conversation. My head is becoming empty and there is a kind of enforced ethos here that allows for this emptiness. And I realize this, also, is tiresome.

And I'm not the nice, tight physical speciman I was when I came here two years ago. I have become round and fleshy and nothing is sleek or hard anymore. I have embraced the lifestyle here; the lazy, do-nothing-if-you-can-manage-it way of living. I have become something other. And I find that tiresome.

More, I find myself tiresome.

I don't like what I've become and I know it's only going to get worse.

Maybe it's the winter blahs.

Maybe.

And I do feel sooooooo good when I'm jammed into the La-Z-Boy beside Skeet, especially after a walk in the brutally cold weather we've been having. I like the small space and the heat. It's like a narcotic.

And that's the problem: it's almost exactly like a narcotic and I am getting wickedly addicted to it and addictions lead down roads which end in awful places. But what to do?

Sigh.

What to do?

January 27, 2011; More Dage Advice

In my role as a dog sage, or dage, I continue to receive email asking me for advice. As I do not believe my light should be kept under a bushel, I will share this advice with you, faithful readers.

Dear Dage Leo
I am living with a pair who are loose canons. I am always worried that they will go off. I know they're not out and out psychos as they are most often pleasant with me. But sometimes they just lose it. What should I do. I am a two year old golden retriever who is not fixed.
Confused Bitch

Dear Bitch
If you are right and your couple are not psycho (and they don't seem to be if they have not sterilized you like the rest of us) then there is a way to keep them from going off, as you say, or at least run away if they are about to lose it. All humans give a series of warning signs that heighten from one to the next. Each dog living with a human has, as his or her first responsibility, learning how to get around their humans—what they can get away with and when to stop.

For instance, with one of my doofi, Skeeter, the signs are crystal clear. If he is in a generally pissy mood both me and the other human, Boo-Boo, know to lay low. The pissy mood expresses itself with slamming doors, swearing at himself and becoming enraged at something that he knocks to the floor (bending over, for this fat fuck, is an opera!). There's nothing you can do to avoid or predict general pissiness. (Pissiness can come from a bad night's sleep, a missed bus on a cold day, a sandwich where one ingredient—like mustard—is in insufficient quantities.) General pissiness is one of the weird aspects of humans animals will never truly understand. Move on.

Now, the warning signs of a rage with you as the source are different from one human to the next, but you can find the pattern with yours. Mine starts with a "tsk." If I yank too much on the leash, I get that one. If I don't give my paw or sit pretty fast enough it's a "tsk." If I persist, I get a, "Dammit!" The heat has risen from there when I hear, "Fuck!" The final step before he goes off is when he says, "Leeee-yeeee-oooo!" The two-syllable name becoming three is a bad sign. Get out of the way.

If you way to learn the signs for your humans, do something you know annoys them and keep doing it until they go off. It's painful the first time but after you know the signs you will be able to exercise control—on them and on yourself—as needed. Good luck!

Dear Dage Leo
I am a miniature poodle living with a very nice family except for one: the ten-month old girl child in the house has just started walking and is always coming at me. Most of the time I can get away because, as you know, humans stay clumsy as retards for a very long time into their lives. But sometimes the baby corners me and starts sticking her fingers in my eyes and yanking my ears. When the other people in the family see her doing this they stop her but that's not all the time and never quickly enough. What should I do!?!
Poked and Pulled

Dear Poked
Bite her. Not a little. Hard. After a couple of times the kid will stop (having learned a valuable life lesson about living with others) or your nice family (if they're as nice as you say) will place you with another nice family who don't have a small child. My confusion with your case comes from the fact your family is both nice but also profoundly stupid. If they don't start beating that kid like a gong, she will grow into a real demon.

Dear Dage Leo
I am a large, male mixed-breed. My person, also a male, and I like to rough-house. We have lots of fun and he and I get very excited. The problem is that sometimes I get too excited and get a hard-on. Am I a faggot?
Fucked-up Pooch

Dear Fucked
Of course you're not!!!!!!!!! (By the way, it is no longer considered appropriate to say "faggot"—the correct term is "person of the faggot variety.") Dogs exhibit many different manifestations of excitement and very few of them are sexual including, for the most part, hard-ons. It is a whole different kettle of fish, however, if your person gets a hard-on. Run, hide and keep your asshole close to the floor.

January 24, 2011; Fucking With the Frost

The first three times I needed Skeeter to do it and bellowed, "Jesus fucking Christ! What is this shit?"

"Look," he said, leaning down to me and wiping the grit and salt from my foot, "the people who live on this street are getting older so they are putting down more and more abrasive so they don't slip?"

"So THEY don't slip?" I snarked.

"Oh! fuck off."

"You know that, theoretically, you are old enough to be the grandfather of a teenager."

"I SAID FUCK OFF!"

"Don't they ever think of dogs and their little pads when they put that crap down?"

"You know, it is fucking minus 20...could we get on with this? I have de-salted your fucking foot three times already and we're only a quarter of the way through the walk."

We went about ten yards farther and I stopped again and lifted my paw for de-salting even though I didn't need it. It's fun to make him my bitch and also he gets a lot colder a lot faster than I do. He dutifully bent over and smacked my paw around to brush out the imaginary salt and grit. This was fun. We walked some more and I pissed and then needed to have a dump so I veered off the sidewalk to go into the snow. He yanked me back, I yanked again toward the snow. He yanked me back again. "Hey! Can I have some privacy!" I barked.

"I'm not mushing through the snow to pick up after you!"

"Oh stop being a pussy and besides, who's fucking watching! You don't have to pick up—"

"—in this neighbourhood you ALWAYS have to pick up! I bet there are six fucking busy-bodies staring through their windows at us right now! And let me tell you this: everyone on this street knows you by your rotten fucking reputation and they would so love to spread the news that I don't pick up after you!"

"Fine! I'll shit on the sidewalk! Just stop talking! You know I can't do it when you're talking! And you're going to have to do my left hind paw again, there's a big hunk of grit and ice between my pads." There wasn't but the combo of him bending over to pick up after me and then bending over—with an old man's grunt—to do my paws was too delicious.

He was really cold and better still his wool gloves were soaking from the paw-cleaning so his hands were really iced up. He was now bitching and moaning so I allowed us to go for a couple dozen more yards before I faked the paw thing again.

A paw too far...

"That's it! You're fucking with me!"

"I am not! Do you have any idea how painful having something between your pads is?"

"Okay...this is what we'll do: I will continue to do de-salt your feet tonight because I feel your pain," there was a strong sarcastic tone now as he went on, "but tomorrow I am going to the fucking pet shop and I'm going to get my faggotty little dog a nice set of pink booties!"

Yikes! I had goofed. "So what you're saying to me is that I have a choice between burning my feet clean off or walking about being laughed at by the whole neighbourhood! This is not going to happen!"

"Then man up, you big sissy!"

"You're a big prick. Get me home! Now! I'm cold!"

I didn't have to tell him twice as he was freezing. When we got in he was cleaning my paws and he said, "Do you regret starting to talk to me?"

"Oh, so much."

"'Cause I have figured you out, right?"

"Oh Lord, you flatter yourself. You'll never figure me out. No. I regret talking because when I was just a little dog you did stuff for me without question but now it's talktalktalktalktalk and negotiation and debate and discussion and you and Boo whingeing and complaining and laying your crap on me. OH...MY...GOD!"

"You're a little ingrate. So...do we go with the booties?"

"No. And I will stop reacting to the ice and salt and grit when you go barefoot with me."

Then he said the nastiest thing you can say to a house dog, "Cosmo managed to get through the winter—"

"—you're a cunt, you know that."

He chuckled and I realized I would have to grin and bear it and it was going to be a long, long winter.

January 20, 2011; All The Sad People

I do not know if it is the weather (wintery) or the world (wintery) but people are walking around like zombies and some of these zombies are walking through my life. Take Boo-Boo and his problems which—now that the school year is in full swing and the holidays over—are back.

And Cate who came over to visit after a disastrous Christmas trip down south; she was one sad puppy. She, like Skeeter, is a victim of the made-at-the-American-banks recession that is crushing so many. Skeet, though, with the help of his new project and fists-full of anti-depressants has more or less pulled himself out of the endless gray days. The problem with Boo and Cate is that they both despise doctors—which, to some extent, everyone should—to the detriment of their health.

Also, it's the mental thing. People don't have too much of a qualm when it comes to talking about having cancer or ulcers, but when it comes to their head there is stigma. Skeeter told me this but that means nothing 'cause Skeeter, who is just a big, fat skin-bag of health issues of all sorts (that appliance and his depression and what-have-you), talks about them all and all the fucking time. Anyhoo...Skeeter says that a lot of people, hold-overs from the olden days, don't like to admit they are nuts. (He also says that people in some circles talk ENDLESSLY about therapy and their little brain-bugs.)

It's a funny old world. And it appears to be getting awfully hard for a lot of people.

My old owner, Frank—now deceased—had a theory about this (as he had a theory about everything). He found Skeet's, Cate's and Boo's generation truly sad. Actually he found his daughter's generation sad. Same difference. But he explained it thusly:

"We gave that generation everything: health care, jobs, money, a glorious world, electronics, the internet, good TV and lots of it. And what did they do? Ruin it. They went to the fucking hospital for every case of sniffles and took pills for every fucking ache and bankrupted the system; they took jobs that were built in the turrets of sand-castles like dot-coms; they spent their money looking for quick and obscene profits in the housing market and lost everything; they polluted more than ever even as they all pretended they were 'doing their bit' by fucking recycling; they created gadgets which are obsolete weeks after they come out and they all want the latest version of their toy and so create more garbage; they take the internet and jam it up with blogs about what they had for fucking breakfast; and instead of watching good shows on TV they watch reality shows about facelifts and brides-to-be who are just gaggles of twats."

Sometimes Frank would take a breath here before continuing. Sometimes not. "So, little feller," he would say to me, "they are sad and badly equipped for the very shitstorm they have created. And lots of them are going to get run over by it. Sad but true. When they are as old as I am and the world they ruined is decaying around them and they are too decrepit to protect themselves from it they will simply succumb...sanity, hope...all gone."

I've said it to Boo. "Fight back!"

If I was talking to Cate or if her aging, crotchety dog was talking to her we'd say, "Fight back! Getting angry is better and more productive than being sad! For the love of all that is holy, put your dukes up! Protect yourselves!"

And I'd add to all the middle-aged people who are ready to give up right now, "FIGHT THE FUCK BACK OR ELSE!" But they will never listen 'cause I'm "just" a dog.

Thank God I'll be dead well before the shit goes down.

January 18, 2011; Plaint From a Broken Heart

To a Beloved O'er the Ice

Through the snow and o'er the ice

Lives a bitch who's really nice.

"Nice" however's a weakling word,

For this thing who's like a bird!

They say of her, "Oh! She's a whippet!"

Who cares? her skinny tail, I'd flip it,

And my nose 'neath deep I'd dip it,

Hoping my dog dick she'd nip it.

She loves me so, almost to madness.

Our distance causes her such sadness.

Each time she sees me there is gladness

And much delight t'ward all my badness.

I see her and take out my lexic.

The reason is she's anorexic,

And seems just a bit dyslexic.

Nevermind - she makes me sex-sick.

She is all these bones and pointy.

But in her eyes I'm an apointee,

Of her sect I'm an anointee.

Please, dear heart, pull on my jointy.

When she barks it's kind of yippy

But it makes my heart go skippy,

And my head gets sort of dippy

For that body, good and whippy.

My lovely's name is odd; it's Twiggy.

E'en the name makes poor me wiggy.

It also makes my little'n' biggy

And plumbs from me my inner piggy.

Why, oh why?, must we be parted

Now that winter's snows have started.

Back into the house she's darted,

Running from me like I'd farted.

Someday, someday'll come the spring

And I'll hear my whippet sing,

Calling out for Leo's thing,

Calling for the blaze he'll bring!

I'll run to her my heart so full

And into my love her I'll pull.

But now nothing can nor ever will

Take from me this bitter pill.