June 28, 2009; Ecstasy

Finally killed that fucking Mr. Snowman who was tormenting me. I drilled him an asshole and pulled his guts out through it. Even with one arm gone and his innards all over the floor, he was still smiling...obviously crazy and needed to die!

I have found something else the Mooks are good for...at least Mook A is good for it. Ecstasy. I'm not talking about those pills faggoty party-goers use to stay up all night; I'm talking about ecstasy like in the old days (the same way we have to say "'gay' like in the old days", dammit).

It was the middle of the day, just before I was due for another walk, and Mook A was looking for me. I came running, of course, but then I saw he had a look in his eye I didn't like and I scrammed. I knew it was bad; he came for me, chased me to a corner, and scooped me up and off to the bathroom we went. Ah! A bath, fuck!

I didn't feel like a bath, I didn't want a bath. Do you have any idea how hard I had to work and how long it took me to get the sissy smell of the last one off me and get real dog smell back? And now I'd have to start all over, the cuntwad. He tossed me in the tub, one of those deep, old-fashioned things you just don't bother trying to escape from, and then he ran the water...

Now I don't know why this was different from the last time except maybe I was so stunned the then that they were even doing this to me it was impossible to understand the ramifactions. But it was different. OOOOOOOOOOOOO so different.

First, there's the shower head. I think I began to understand why women find those things so attractive (if you know what I mean and I think you do). The Mook found exactly the right temperature for the water and the right force for it and when it hit me...well, as an old ad for condoms with French ticklers on them used to say, it was, "Like a thousand tiny fingers begging you to let go!" And I let go, a little sigh escaping from me. The Mook said, "You like that, don't you, you little fucker?" I just stared up at him with adoration. "Well there's more!" he added like some sadist to his slave. "Do it!" I wanted to say.

He did. The soap, rather than being slopped on, was then massaged—oh!-so-deeply—into my fur and skin. I let out another groan. "I knew you'd like it, in the end!" he said. Yes! Yes! Go on. Then he was doing my stomach, between my legs and—oh!-my-fucking-stars—under my tail. But gently...sooooooooo gently. I think I closed my eyes. I'd been sniffed and licked there a thousand times but never had it been so...I don't have the words. The soap slathering, the fingers rubbing me so...kindly? And then the showerhead again and the warm water exploring all those unexplored places. A rumble came out of me. The Mook laughed quietly. I licked his arm.

You have to understand: when you have no balls, sensuality is all you have and all of your being—the senses, the heartbeat, the breath—goes into it. It's why dogs who are "fixed" (fuck I hate that term) enjoy a good scratch.

The bath was done, but the Mook wasn't. "Shake!" he said. I obliged by shaking off the excess water. Then he lifted me out with a huge, soft towel that smelled like home. He wrapped me up in it, took me out on the balcony in the sun, then rubbed me more fiercely, getting the towel deep into my fur and skin and muscle. I stared at him, my head wobbling about (I just could not keep it upright) and let out another one of those noises. "Did you enjoy that?" he asked. I licked his nose. (What a fucking whore I am!)

Then he let me down, back into the house and I went straight to the bathroom. He laughed like a madman and I hoped...no, devoutly prayed!...we'd do it again. No such luck; he cleaned the tub and bathroom.

So I ate the soap.

June 25, 2009; Reconsidering the Mooks

Sometimes I can stare at them for hours and wonder what the fuck is going on in those pea-brains of theirs

All this long story of my life before is to say that this is why I am here. This is why I think the way I do, why I act like I do and why I like old men (if not in the faggoty sense).

For instance, there is this wonderful old fucker across the street. Mook B doesn't like him, but Mook A seems to understand that's he a lonely, sick, queer old guy (a lot like Mook A, actually, come to think of it). But he's also crazy about me and whenever I go for a walk with A, he lets me go up to the guy, who's always on his porch, and make nice-nice. It's the smell. It's the age. It's that you can tell he understands things like Frank understood things.

There is a backstory: The old guy owns the two houses across the street and they're very nice houses. Rumour has it that when he was in his hey-day, he owned the first gay bar in the city and managed to fend off the Mafia, which controlled most of the other gay bars here. Because he did this, his place became the hangout and over the years it also became the anchor of what is now a very large gay district. Now, I may be total disgusted by that lifestyle, but gay or straight anyone who stands up to the Mob and, later on, the cops (raids were a common thing) is a pretty cool guy. He's also a cool guy who got relatively rich (ie: the two nice houses) but also paid the price with his health. He has been in and out of hospital and though he looks better, he is probably on his last legs. And he loves me and he loves Ginger and you can't better about any man than that.

Anyhoo...

It's the way Mook A is kind with the old man—waaaaaay kinder than Karrlah ever was with Frank—that makes me thinks A may not be so bad after all. That doesn't mean he's going to win the ongoing battle of wills between me and the Mooks. I will win. I must win if I am to survive. But let me tell you: the Mooks are tenacious fuckers and A has the capacity to scare the jizz out of me.

Right now one of the key battlefields is the visit of my beloved, his nurse. I want to see her. I must see her. Simple. But A wants none of it. He claims he has enough on his plate dealing with the actual visit and its humiliations without me sticking my nose in his privates (as I am wont to do). So the minute she rings the doorbell on the mornings of her visits, he hustles me into the office and onto my bed and closes the door. To make sure I stay there he comes back two or three times while she's setting up the instruments of torture. So I behave...'til I hear them talking and getting down to the business of the treatment. Then I piss on something; the couch, the rug, the floor...it doesn't matter, it just has to make the point that the nurse belongs to me. After she leaves, though, Mook A gets downright Jason/Freddy but without the slashing and hacking. He comes in, finds my message, lets out this mother-fucking-from-some-animal-part-of-him-which-still-exists roar and grabs me by the scruff of the neck and tosses me into my bed, roaring all the while. If I so much as move my nose out of the bed, he comes back and sets me straight with another roar.

The last time I made the mistake of snarling at him and he brought his face right up to mine, nose to nose, and bellowed, "IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU'D LIKE TO ADD TO THE CONVERSATION!" I sucked back that snarl like it was a dick and I was a jonesing crack whore. I may be tough, but I'm not suicidal.

But that's the thing. The Mooks are a bit like that old fucker across the street. They don't give up. I push and push and push all of their buttons and still, at the end of the day, I find myself being cutesy for my food and fawning over them for a place on the couch or the bed and they give in. It's part of the many deals and compromises of our whacko relationship.

Is it possible that faggotry is contagious? Jesus H. Christ on toast...shoot me now!

June 22, 2009; My Life Before Part III

How did I end up with the Mooks when I was so happy with Frank? I'll tell you how!

Though Frank had had a stroke, he managed to knock the phone over and press in 911. People knew things were wrong; cops came, ambulance came, and off he went, not a soul looking back at me—indeed, one emergency worker put me in the bathroom and closed the door like I was shit or something. A day later Karrlah showed up to pick me up, drive me off, and stash me in some unused little room in her basement where I was given a blanket and fed. I was used to this kind of place, but wasn't particularly pleased that I was back in one. A couple of times a day a maid came in, changed my water and food, picked up my messes and went off. She tried to be nice to me but I could tell that I was just another damn duty for an immigrant servant who was already being worked to the bone in the rest of the house.

A week passed like this, and then Frank came to join me in the basement. Not in that little room, but in a kind of bedroom that looked like it was just part of the playroom down there. We were going to live there together, for a bit. As it turns out Frank's stroke wasn't insanely serious but he wasn't able to live on his own either so here we were with nothing but the maid, a black and white TV with no remote and no cable and visits from a home nurse, and—once a day—a visit from her highness, Princess Karrlah. Frank looked relatively okay though he couldn't walk right yet and he certainly couldn't talk right. In fact, everything he said came out, "Silly cunt," much to the delight of all the women around him. Karrlah took this especially badly and would always leave the room crying.

Somehow Frank communicated to his daughter that I needed to be taken outside for some air, from time to time, and although I hated leaving the old man behind this sure sounded like a great idea to me. So that's when I met Mr. Karrlah.

If you can imagine the worst kind of yuppie asshole—$200 haircut, polished nails, tailored everything and Italian shoes—and throw 100 pounds too much on him, acne and grease in the haircut (and into his way of talking), you've got Brian (pronounced Bree-an, the cunt). With Karrlah, Brian was fighting waaaaay above his weight (no matter how much money he made as some kind of investment banker) and he knew it. So when Karrlah said Jump! Brian would say Shall I do splits with that, Milady?

So Brian had to walk me. And Brian hated me with every fiber of the tonnage he was carrying about. We were quite a sight: me, the little tugboat, yanking that overblown Andrea Doria around—both of us heading for a disaster.

At home, Frank could do nothing for me, but I could cuddle on his lap and I could see in his eyes that he loved me so, so, much and I could hear it in his voice as he murmured, "Silly cunt."

It was in the second week...Brian was about to walk me when we ran into Karrlah on the way out and she flashed him a look that could have meant a million things. He just nodded like the poor loser-in-love that he was. The walk was different this time because he took me in the car first and we drove away a bit before we got out for my business. I yanked, he yanked back, I yanked, and then he wasn't yanking back and suddenly the leash got away from him. He looked at me. I looked at him. I ran a bit. He looked at me. I ran a bit. Was he playing? I ran toward him. He looked at me, bent over, took my leash and collar off, and said, "Go and play!" Brian wasn't any kind of guy you play with but I was game and ran all around him in wider and wider circles. There wasn't much chance of him running after me, huge as he was, after all.

And then...!

And then he just got in the fucking car and drove off! I sat on the sidewalk and went, "Hm" wondering what it all meant. I was sitting there for a long time, thinking Brian might come back, but he didn't. So I decided to walk home. Problem: I had no idea where home was and for a day just wandered through the city, eating garbage and drinking puddle water and wishing I was home in bed with Frank, toasty-warm and surrounded by his good smells. But soon it looked like Frank, like my Mom, Ceecee and other little joys, was a thing of the past and I became an alley dog. A good alley dog. I loved it. The freedom of just roaming about, not anyone yanking me on a leash, of running in and around and out of a park. Fuck, you don't know what that feels like 'til it's gone. And of course, after a week, it was gone.

The rest you know. SPCA, Mooks...yadda yadda yadda. I wonder what happened to Frank. He can't be happy. Not with all those silly cunts. Not without me. And let me just say this and get on with my life: I think of that smelly old fucker every day and miss him like mad. He taught me everything I know.

June 19, 2009; My Life Before, Part II

Sometimes you just want to curl up with your memories...sometimes not

The Mooks sometimes wonder why I am attracted to really old men...not in that faggoty way, but I like them...not in a faggoty way. It's because of Frank.

Thankfully, life at the puppy mill was soon over for me when, one day, a pickup showed up and some high-haired lady got out, chose five or six dogs and bustled us all into cages in the back of the pickup and on to her pet store. Luckily my sister, Ceecee, came with me and we were even in the same cage. We curled up together for warmth. I didn't tell her about the horrible things I had seen at the puppy mill because she was just so happy to be out of there and I didn't want to spoil it for her.

At the pet shop we were kept together in a larger pen than we'd ever had at the puppy mill. We were fed and watered as soon as we got there and once a day the lady with the high-hair took us out for a walk. It was okay. The price marked on our pen was $700 for me and $500 for Ceecee. They were going to get it too.

A couple of days later and a few days before Christmas this woman came into the store. She was all gorgeous: trim, blonde, boobs out to there (fake) and an inch and a half of makeup that would have taken a month to lick off. She was wearing very tight pants which rode up, back and front; some people call them stink-pants. (Call me old-fashioned but I don't think a woman's trousers should clearly outline her clit.)

She wandered about the place for a bit but I got a feeling and, sure enough, when she saw me and Ceecee she came right for the pen, picked me up, checked my gonads (to see if I was the male) and yelled out, "Daddy is going to love you!" She went back to the front of the store, bought about three hundred bucks worth of dog-crap. While Blondie did this, I started saying my good-byes to Ceecee. We cuddled for a little and I hoped she would find a good home. (Months later, when I was living with the Mooks, they would read the Lost and Founds to see if anyone was looking for me; they weren't but there was one ad for a white, female, Jack Russell with brown ears. I know it must have been Ceecee.)

Then, off I went in Blondie's car, packed in a traveling case she had bought, sitting in the back seat with all the dog-crap. The trip wasn't long enough for me to get sick. In a few minutes, we were getting out at an apartment block, she was ringing a buzzer and was being buzzed in. At the door we went to on the first floor, and before she knocked, she took me out of the case and held me. When the door opened there was this ridiculously old man standing there and Blondie said, "Dad! Merry Christmas!" and thrust me toward the old man who took me and immediately held me close and as he said, "Thank you, Karrlah," he cried a little. (Karrlah...yup...that's how she spelled it. Changed it legally and everything.) After she hauled in all the dog-crap, she left in a mighty hurry.

In a way I don't blame her. Her high-fashion-perfume was a bad match with the smells which filled the apartment: aged cheese, cabbage, cigarettes, feet, lots of other vaguely organic things and old sweat. In fact, these magnificent smells followed my new owner around everywhere—even outside.

His name was Frank and I loved him on sight.

My life was simple with Frank: we walked many, many times a day as that was his only exercise and his only exposure to the outside world. He wasn't very neighbourly, telling me each time I shat, "Try to do it in the middle of the sidewalk...trying to get dog-shit out of their $500 sandals is all these fuckers deserve." So I obliged. At home he would play with me for a little, feed me quite well, snacks were abundant and then he'd settle in front of the TV with me on his lap and comment the shows. Or, rather, bellow at them.

"The worst thing that could have happened to the Republican Party is that fuckwad George Bush! How is it that the fuckwads never get shot!" Though Canadian, Frank was an ardent American-style Republican. "I have no time for Canadian politics, Little Fellow; it's for faggots." Little Fellow is what he called me most often, though my name with him was Reeg (short for Regent, not Regis).

When Barack Obama started to rise in politics, Frank went ballistic. Not because he hated Obama but because he admired him and he hated admiring Democrats. "He may be a darky, but he does have brains," he would say grudgingly. "And he's 100% politician. Haven't seen one of those since Clinton."

Most of the time, though, he just yelled at the TV...during everything. We could be watching Survivor and he'd lose it, "What the fuck does that stupid homo think he's doing—does he really fucking think he's going to get away with that! That little twat will tell everyone he's plotting." Note: For Frank all men were homos, all women were twats. Simple. So American Idol, for instance, was one vast parade of homos and twats all, Frank insisted, singing off-key. I'd yodel along with the singers and Frank would laugh his ass off.

At night I would sleep with Frank in his bed and I'd cuddle up under his chin, into his unshaven face, and he would hold me really close. I had never felt so safe, wrapped, as I was, in all those magnificent Frank-smells.

Karrlah visited rarely but always brought food for me and Frank and then skedaddled so that was okay. I never liked her and, let me tell you, Frank did not much like his daughter's stink-pants. ("I can see if she's ovulating, ferchrissakes!") But Frank reserved all his hatred for Karrlah's husband: Brian (pronounced Bree-an, don't you know). "You want to talk homo, Little Fellow, that guy has all his holes filled on a regular basis, I'm sure of it." The picture I got was that he was rich and snotty and had absolutely no time for his father in law.

I would soon find out this was the case because during one of his television rants, one night, Frank had a stroke.

Time to take a break. The rest next time.

June 17, 2009; My Life Before, Part I

The first picture the Mook ever took of me at the SPCA - but there was so much more to my life before that

I have a bad stomach and am feeling a little under the weather. (Could be the ants I ate on the balcony yesterday.) So I've been pretty much lying around and day-dreaming and a lot of it has been thinking about my life before the Mooks.

My first name was JR-14-22-09-D when I was born in the puppy mill. Jack Russell-sire 14-dame 22-litter 9 for the dame-fourth born (D). The first thing I remember was the warmth of my mother's belly as I fought for her teats with four other siblings. The first thing I saw, when my eyes started to open, was that my mother—though still a young bitch—looked very old and worn down. She also had mange and was very, very dirty. But my brothers and sisters loved her a lot and though a fight to get to a teat is a serious thing, once fed, it turns into fun.

The first thing I felt was a broken heart because, within a week or so of us all opening our eyes, Mom was taken away from us to prepare her for her next litter. My siblings and I squealed and screamed for a day or two, but eventually we learned to make do with the sugary milk they put out for us, and with the crazy playing we did together in that pen. I loved them all very much and, when you're young and barely walking (tottering about really) you glom on to any beating heart that's near.

Though there were five of us in the litter—three males and two females—two died in pretty short order. It was usually in the night-time when it got ice cold in the place and most of the dogs—the smart ones—huddled together for warmth. Another of my siblings, who wasn't really right in the head and continued to walk funny even after he should have been able to do better, was taken away. That left two of us: my sister C, and me. I called her Ceecee and she just called me Dee (because, let's face it, Deedee is not very butch and you need to be as butch as you can in those places).

Soon I was being taken out of the pen and walked about. I learned that I was a premium dog: a dog which could actually be sold in a pet shop instead of to a lab or to the white trash who came and went at the mill trying to find the perfect fighting dog, guard dog, or vicious companion. Ceecee was also seen as premium, though less so because she was a female. This would have been a good thing for her if she had had her pedigree papers, but there was not much of a chance of either of us getting anything like that in a place like this.

As I walked about the mill, I saw some of the horrors of the place: how dirty it was, how everything we drank or ate was wrong (tainted meat, polluted water) and just made us all sick and made the place dirtier. I also met some of the other premium dogs: there were dobermans and dalmatians, poodles and lots and lots of labs because of the popularity of the book Marley and Me. There was also no shortage of JRs and that was because of the TV show Frasier and the film My Dog Skip. (Here's some interesting trivia: The dog who played Old Skip in that movie, Moose, was actually the father of the dog who played young Skip, Enzo; and Moose also played Eddie on Frasier...you can see there aren't a ton of us decent JRs around.)

The other kinds of premium dog being bred at the mill were real beasts. Unlike the psycho dogs who were bred to be sold to the white trash for fifty bucks, these were muscular, nasty dogs with good teeth and good coats bred to be sold for serious purposes (protecting very rich homes and attacking very dangerous enemies).

It was during one of my training walks around the Rottweiler enclosure that I found out what had probably happened to my brother who had been taken away because he wasn't right. As I watched, they brought a couple of really fucked-up poodle puppies into the pen and just let them loose among the huge dogs. Within seconds they were eaten alive.

Sorry...can't go on. I'll tell you the rest next time.

June 14, 2009; Rendering Accounts

Will freedom ever come?

I was sitting on the balcony, looking at life come and go and dozing, when Mook A started to talk to me. Actually, he was talking to himself. He's the only one who thinks I listen. But this time I paid a little attention because there was a tone of discontent in his soliloquy.

"You're starting to work out, here, but I just wish you had some sense of what you have actually cost us. Idiot dogs like you don't come cheap."

I'm getting used to being called an idiot by him. People always assume you're an idiot if you ignore their blather. But he went on and gave me a kind of shopping list.

"First there was the $200 some odd that the SPCA charged us for you, your chipping and castration." Well, boo-fucking-hoo, I thought. "Then in the first week there was the reward of $100 we gave that woman who caught you when you escaped." She could take that 100 and shove it up her twat, the bitch. "Let's not forget the random damage: $70 for the XBox controller, $20 for the iPod earphones, assorted plastic items for about another $50." Yadda yadda yadda. "Then the toys. The $15 ball you ate on the first sitting, the $15 knotted rope you destroyed, the $20 supposedly-indestructible squeeze toy you squeezed the shit out of and, of course, the replacement toys: two Kongs for $30." Stupid fuck doesn't get it: if you don't want me destroying everything in the house, give me some decent playthings, asshole!

But he went on. "Let's not forget the various food fiascos! Thirty containers of Cesar you loved but pretty much shat all over the place. Two bags of premium dog food you decided to ignore. That's—what—another $80!" Yeah, well, I don't give a flying fuck if you call it "premium"—if it tastes like fucking cardboard, I ain't eating it.

"So what are we talking about here, idiot dog? Some six-hundred-fucking-dollars! For a fucking pound dog! A fucking pound dog!" And on he went and I pretty much stopped listening until: "Sometimes I wonder if we shouldn't have left you there to sleep it off...if you know what I mean." I did know what he meant and thought it was a bit peckerish on his part. "You're lucky you're a funny dog, even if you are an idiot." He concluded.

You're lucky I don't rip your throat out as you sleep, fuckwad.

That's when Mook B came out on the balcony, picked me up and I just continued my nap. I'll show you funny later, asswipe, I thought as I drifted off.

June 11, 2009; Let's see what's on

The white squirrel in the tree outside my place...I wonder if it's an omen

One of the upsides of living with the Mooks is that at the end of the day they settle down to watch TV and I get to cuddle.

But to every upside there is a downside and with these two it's a lot of the crap they watch and which, of course, I have to glance at between naps.

They watch a lot of news—in French, in English, Canadian, British and American—and it seems, from all the shit coming down on the world, that the Mooks—as a species—are finally paying the piper. What does get tedious is that there is so much goddam news about Obama. Now look, if I could trust this guy I would like him. But you can't trust him and, no!, it's not because he's the anti-Christ, it's because he's a Democrat and you know what happens when a Dem is a leader...all the mini-Dems who want to be the next president keep getting in the way and fucking up. Watch. You'll see.

Of the things the Mooks watch which are halfway-decent there's this great cop show called Southland. I know Mook A watches it to see if Ben Mackenzie is going to take his shirt off, but I like it for the fucked-up dog who used to be a drug sniffer. Hi-larious.

But here's the thing...if it was just the news and such, I could sleep through most of it. But Mook A likes his musicals. After opera there is no more retarded form of Mook expression than musicals. When it's good, it's shit but when it's bad, it's shit on toast. I was submitted to Phantom of the Opera the other night which the Mook had gotten at the library. Even free it was no deal. A more redolent, mushy piece of feces was never seen floating in the canals of Venice.

It was so tedious I found myself rewriting the lyrics.

The Phaaaaaaaaaaantom of the opera

Is heeeeeeeeere

Inside your ass.

or

Angel of music

Sit on my face

You'll see it's a

Giggle

Angel of music

Sit on my face

Do it and then

Wiggle.

It helped pass the time between the murders in the fucking thing. I'm pretty sure the Mook only watched it because he kept hoping the Phantom would take off his shirt instead of his mask. I kept watching cause I wanted to see the soprano get her throat slit so that all that fucking trilling would finally stop.

I don't know what it is about queers and musicals and opera. Mook A can sing a vast repertory of show tunes and arias but somehow always comes back to one: I Feel Pretty. 

Gayer than that and you die.

June 8, 2009; Goin' Visitin'

...think I'm gonna heave...

Yesterday began a week of celebrations for Mook A's birthday. I know this sounds crazy given that he's just a Mook, but apparently all of his friends are separate friends and either never meet each other or can't stand each other so he gets a whole bunch of different lunches and outings from each one and yesterday he was off to his sister's for a BBQ. Mook B was going too, of course, and they decided to take me.

I love to get out of the house, but it had been a long time since I'd been in the car (not since they took me home from the pound, actually—and I was stoned out of my gourd then from the operation). But it was an outing and I was excited! Mook A sat me on his lap in the front seat while Mook B drove.

It was slow going because there was some idiot biking event in the city and every fucking street had a detour and the streets we detoured onto were bumpy and windy. It wasn't long before I was getting that feeling.

You know when your mouth starts filling up with saliva and suddenly it's too hot? And then your head starts to get a little zingy—little tiny flashes going off which make you overreact to noises and make you a little hotter? And then the saliva gets to be so much that you start gulping it down and that doesn't feel good, but if you don't gulp it down you drool a lot and then you're gulping and the heat and the little zings in your head...

I didn't even chug—that thing in your stomach which warns you that what went down is on its way back up—it just happened and before you know it, Mook A and a good deal of the rented car was covered with the breakfast I had eaten five hours before. I was sort of amazed that there was so much undigested kibble left in my stomach! The body is an amazing thing, isn't it? Of course Mook A wasn't nearly as amazed as I was, 'cause all of his clothes—shirt, sweater and pants—were covered in used food. Mook B nearly swerved off the road, but by this time we were on the highway and there was not much anyone could do. Mook A said, "Just get me to my sister's!" 

All I wanted to do was get away from the mess cause, let's face it, I'm a white dog and this stuff was sticky and threatening to get on my fur. I don't give a fuck about what the Mook looks like, but when I go a-visitin' I want to look nice. 

But In my attempts to get away from the mess, I got that feeling again. Little belches were coming up, the saliva was backing up again and—voilà! (as the Frogs say)—the rest of what I'd had for breakfast and some odds and ends I'd nibbled off the floor decided to reappear. This time it ran down Mook A's pants.

Then the oddest thing happened: Mook A started to laugh; laugh like mad and "mad" is the operative word. Suddenly all I wanted to do was get out of that car and away from him. When we finally got to the sister's house, Mook B took my leash, jumped me off Mook A and we toddled into the sister's house. Mook A stayed in the car. The sister came to the door, was told what had happened and went out to her brother with towels and such. 

While the Mooks and the sister took care of the car, I met the gang: the niece (whom I've talked about), the brother-in-law, the brother-in-law's sister and the lawn behind the house! The niece held onto the leash but I still had 15 feet of rope to wind around things and people and I just went crazy. I didn't feel sick anymore...this was going to be a blast!

Soon everyone was back outside in the yard; Mook A had changed into some borrowed cloths while they washed his, and I went exploring. But they wouldn't let me off the fucking leash so I figured I had to convince them otherwise.  I wound the leash around a few flower pots, sent them flying and thought that might do it. Nope. Instead they just tied the leash to a post at the end of the yard and let me run as free as the 15 feet of rope would let me; that is: just short of them and the food. So I shrieked, and barked, and started digging up objects in the grass they didn't even know were there and eating them—a block of wood, an action toy, chips of mulch—all of them added to a nice salad of grass.

Finally they let me come up to them, but kept me on the leash as, in their heads, there were a million ways I could get out of the yard. So I just sat on laps—pointy, knee-sy laps which were always kept miles from the food. Worse, though, was that the Mooks had brought cookies with them but weren't giving me any! "No food! No food!" Mook A kept bellowing like some commandant in a work camp.

Then it was time to go, but this time they put a blanket they had borrowed from the sister in the back seat of the car and let me lie down there. That was nice, except I couldn't really see out and the road home was windy and bumpy and...

....you know when your mouth starts filling up with saliva and suddenly it's too hot? And then your head starts to get a little zingy—little tiny flashes going off which make you overreact to noises and make you a little hotter?...

Up came a block of wood, an action toy, chips of mulch and a lot of grass.

Then we were home and I was soooooooo tired. 

But—boy!—it had been a fun day.

June 6, 2009; Cats

The fucker on the roof next to my balcony

Mook A's niece lost her cat this week. Rather, it was "put to sleep." Rather, the cat was murdered as we are all murdered if we're not hit by a car; as even the sainted Cosmo was murdered. Given the choice between an operation that would save our miserable little lives—a couple of thou, don't you know?—the Mooks, as a species, will almost always opt for the trip to Disney or the plasma TV.

Anyway, that's neither here nor there. What I wanted to discuss was cats. (Even the word makes me barf a little in my mouth.) Fuck they have it easy compared to dogs. You see, no one expects a cat to do a motherfucking thing.

First, they can shit and piss indoors; I'm expected to freeze my spotted little prick off outside if I need to go. Moreover, I get punished if I have a fucking accident—cats can stink up the whole house and the owners don't seem to notice the spray stains halfway up the wall.

Second, I'm expected to do tricks, whore myself for a measly fucking cookie—dance, sing, sit pretty like some faggoty, pinheaded circus animal...everything short of sucking cocks and bending over to take it like a man. Cats? Nada. You can say, "Sit!" and they'll yawn, fart and walk away. "Lie down!" and they show you that tight little asshole as they walk away.

Third, I chew on a piece of cardboard littering the floor and the Mooks lose it. Cats? They sharpen their claws on the Chippendale secretaire and—well!—that's just what they do, ain't it?

Fourth, I eat whatever cheapo slop they stick in my tin bowl and if I don't like it, tough tits! Cats? Even the fucking commercials tells you what twats they all are about food. Finicky, we're told they are, like that's some kind of cute trait. Jesus H. Christ! If your own fucking kids were as "finicky" as cats, you'd beat them like gongs!

And they're fucking everywhere! I get walked on a leash, they're wandering about tormenting me like the squirrels do, except the squirrels run from me and cats hiss and spit and arch their backs. What kind of demented behaviour is that!!!??? If any other animal did that you'd blow its brains out for possibly being rabid!

And don't forget the platoon of semi-insane cat ladies who protect these fiends. Even on my own street there are these biddies who actually put out fucking bowls of food for the alley cats! A dog roaming around free is gathered up and hustled off to "sleep." But cats? They eat the birds, strut about, and when they're good and fucking horny shriek through the night like a baby in a scalding bath!

So, yes, I grieve for the niece's late cat. But let's face it: it's only in those final moments at the vet's that cats and dogs become equal.

June 4, 2009; Healer in the Wasteland

Mmmmmm....rubber glove

By and large my life is a vast wasteland: eat, sleep, jump around, play with my toys, walk, dump, pee, eat, jump around, mangle the cloth toys, rape the rubber ones, eat, barf, walk, pee, dump,  barf, sleep.

But...

Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings are heaven. Mook A had surgery eight months ago and he has a wound that is healing slowly and so on those blessed three mornings a home nurse comes to tend to him.

Ohmyohmyohmy. Look, just because she's a different species doesn't mean I don't know she's gorgeous. (Hey! They say some guys fuck sheep!) She's little and has this wonderful, smooth, white skin—unlike the Mooks who are huge and hairy and lumpy. She's got this great hair she ties back but which still falls a little in curls around her face. Such a waste...not only because she's not a dog and married and has kids but because she does intimate stuff on the Mook and the idiot faggot doesn't have the wherewithal to pop a boner!

Anyway, when the nurse comes I get to cozy up to her and she smells good and skritches my head. But then the Mook jams a cookie up a Kong's arse and pitches it into the living room and shuts the door. Sure, I'm distracted for a bit but then I hear him and her talking and laughing and I go nuts.

'Til yesterday.

The room adjoining the living room is also closed off but only by something jammed under the door.  This time it was a wadded up New York Times Magazine and I worked it and yanked it and got it out and shredded it for good measure (it being that Commie paper, after all). Then, once in that room, there was a folding room divider; a couple of whacks of my nose and paws and—bingo!—I'm in the kitchen. And there's the door and she's behind it and that door is shut. But here's the thing: in this apartment, where everything is crooked, nothing ever really shuts. So I took a run and biffed into the door and there she was! My beauty!

But what the fuck was she doing!!!???

It was something that involved bending and spreading and naked arse and rubber gloves and her lovely face waaaaaaaaay too close to something ugly of his.

Well, this required further investigation up close. "We've got a visitor," she cooed and, "We have to keep this sterile." The last time I heard that word it was bad and my legs crossed reflexively. But I had to see—its a dog thing—so I nuzzled up to the bed which was serving as an operating table. 

My beloved nudged me aside! Playtime! "LÉO! LIE DOWN!" the Mook roared, "NOW!"

Judging from his position, hers and all the medical paraphernalia all I could think was: Make me.

She worked on when I noticed—ohmyohmyohmy!—on the other side of the nurse was a little trash bin full of used bandages and gauze pads, rubber gloves and plastic syringes! Lunch time! And it all smelled so divine!

"He's in the garbage," she said to the Mook's arse and she nudged me again. Food and fun! The Mook was shrieking at me now but in a cute way so the nurse wouldn't know how monstrous he really is. I finally settled under the nurse's chair because, despite the food and her intoxicating presence, I was utterly fascinated by what she was doing to the Mook. I suddenly thought about the sheep-fucking guys. If my sweetheart could get up close and personal with this atrocity in front of me, maybe—just maybe!—I had a chance.

And then she was done and quickly the Mook was dressed and hauling me into his arms (not for love) and emptying the trash in the bin outside. There was the goodbye!-goodbye!-see-you-next-time! thing and I was left alone with the Mook and my thoughts.

My life is bliss! Giner! Nurse Angel! Sure, there's that naked Mook-arse messing up the image but that's like a fart: a stink that blinds but eventually dissipates to make everything else smell even more wonderful.

June 1, 2009; Something to share...

This you have to see. Some think it's cruel, I laughed my ever-loving ass off 'til I was howling.

What a tard...

June 1, 2009; The Watchers

Sleeping with one eye open

Though I had an "accident" three days ago (which the Mooks admitted was their fault for making me wait...) it's been eight, almost nine, days since the last big incident and the two of them are still watching me like hawks. I don't quite get them; we even speak different languages—I speak English, French and Dawg (yes, that's how the language is spelled!), and they speak Mookinese.

I've slowly started to decode it. For instance, when Mook A says, during a walk, "Short leash, now go slowly," it means: "Strain every muscle in your body and pull that short leash 'til you choke." When he says, "Come!" It means: "Sit and wait until I come over there." When I do those things he lets out a deep sigh which is a lot like the one I release when I'm falling into delicious slumber. So he must be happy.

But do whatever I can, they watch me. You know how much they watch!!!??? I HAVE A MOTHERFUCKING CHIP IMPLANTED IN MY BODY!!! Do you believe it!!! What kind of Nazi world are we living in when, as I'm asleep having my balls scooped out, they jab a foreign object under my skin to track my comings and goings? How soon before they're doing it to children...or maybe they're doing it already! I wonder if they're hacking the tots' goolies off too for "population control" or some such high-minded principle! How many ethnics or demi-tards are born and then sterilized before getting a chip in their scalp to track their politically deviant activities?

I'm telling you—it's not the Mooks who should be watching me but me watching the Mooks...all the Mooks!

I'll tell you which Mook we keep a close eye on, for starters: Bono. He's up to no good. Sure, it's the environment-this and Africa-that, but I know...I...know—he's covering up a more sinister agenda that includes eugenics, chip implants and world domination. Just listen to the songs! "I can't live with or without you." (Translation: You can't be killed, so I'll control you with sterilization and a chip.) Or: "Where the streets have no name." Get it? No name...no name...(Bo)no name!

See! See! You just have to decode the Mookinese!