May 12, 2009; Freedom Denied

What makes the Mooks so hilarious is that they honestly believe that they are going to press this little Jack Russell into the mold of their beloved, late Dalamatian, Cosmo. When they think this is actually happening, they are overjoyed, let their guard down and I pounce. 

Of course, it doesn't always work out. For instance, this weekend we had a gorgeous day and Mook B thought he would take me into the park and sit on a bench and read his paper. Apparently this is something he did with Cosmo, who would sit next to him and just watch the world go by. However, it is clear Cosmo was not fast and cunning because a fast and cunning dog does not go into the park unless it is to kill a squirrel. They're everywhere! Now this cannot be done while on a leash, especially a leash where the other end is attached to a shiftless, rapidly-aging, paunchy Mook. 

However, wait for the Mook to enter a kind of Saturday-morning-read-your-paper-in-the-park-kind-of-bliss and you have an opening...one strong yank and you're free. Which I was, and I went. 

After a squirrel here, jump up the trunk of the tree, no over there, up the trunk of the tree, around the tree, run, around a tree, run...

ACK!!!

I should have noticed: the Mook didn't even run after me. He just waited and watched until I was strangling myself with the collar attached to the twelve feet of leash now wound around the tree. He just sauntered over, paper under his arm, and dragged me home. I couldn't even face the other dogs we passed, so humiliated I felt. Lesson: when you are loose you do not run around trees—you run straight for the traffic; each street crossed is one where the chasing Mook has to stop.

Meanwhile, I'm getting to know the other dogs around here and we've all decided to stop trying to kill each other. There is one sweet poodle bitch named Ginger, but she's always playing head games with me. She'll come up to me, sniff my nose, then shriek in my face. I try to run after her, she does a double turn, then tries to make nice-nice with my Mook. MY mook. No one fucks with my Mooks when I have been working so hard to train them. So I make nice-nice with her Mookette. Ginger loses it, comes at me, I run, and before you know it, leashes are wound around legs, Mooks and Mookettes are falling like ten-pins and Ginger is waving her sweet dog-beaver in my face as she walks away. 

It's enough to make a guy—even one with no balls—crazy.

The Kong: they call it a toy but it's really an instrument of torture. One of the Mooks shoves a cookie way up the arse of this little rubber thing, and I have to suck it, bash it, and chew it to get the fucking cookie. It's good for the teeth, they say, but all I can think is: Yeah, it'll make my teeth nice and strong for when I rip your fucking Mook throats out.