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.