What I look like after a walk in the pouring rain
There is peace in the land, these last two weeks, and it's starting to worry me. I don't know if it's because they are giving in on a lot of things or because I am giving in and anyone who knows me knows that I don't like to give in: it's not in my nature.
For instance, the walks. They tried to make me into one of those dogs who is walked twice a day. I didn't even know such beasts existed except that Mook A kept talking about his sainted sweethearts, Buddy and Kitoune who lived to 15 and 18 respectively with only two walks a day. I don't know what kind of mega-suckups those two were, but a dog who calls himself a dog cannot and, simply, will not put up with that shit.
Then they tried to make me into Cosmo the Younger as opposed to Cosmo the Older (who had to be walked very often because he had become incontinent). Apparently this earlier version of the beauteous dalmatian could manage with three walks a day. How nice for him. But the physical realities stand: his bladder was the size of my head, mine is the size of a peanut.
So I get my walks: one early in the morning, one later in the morning (before the nurse arrives because we all know what I'll do when she's there and I'm out of Mook A's control), one in later afternoon and one in the evening after supper. This works for me, but they still moan and bitch about it.
But here's the thing: I don't really need all those walks at those specific hours—I just insist on them. So they insist too even when I would not be so...er...insistent.
Like two days ago: it was a pouring rain and I mean pouring. I did the little dance of joy I can't resist doing when we are about to go out (the dance is instinct and I can't help it even though I know it's profoundly faggoty), and then my ass hit the landing of the stairs outside and I saw...well, I saw nothing. It was that kind of rain; sheets of it, blurring everything in front of us. This no longer seemed like a good idea at all but Mook A, dressed for the weather, literally dragged me down the stairs and into this. Worse! He didn't even shorten the fucking walk!
I pissed fast and then started to head back but he just yanked the leash and said, "Oh no, my little fucker, you wanted this and you're fucking getting it!" So on we went. And he was downright perverse about it. Normally the walk at that hour is called a mini-walk; it's ten minutes tops. But he claimed out loud, "Oh! How I love a good rainshower!" then he lit a cigarette, the cunt, and on we went. I kept trying to drag him back but he said, "But no! my little fuckwad, you haven't shit yet, have you?"
But I didn't need to shit! "We are going to do the full 20 minutes, dear fucker, and you can shit and piss to your heart's delight!" (Do you see why I hate him! He was calling my bluff.) So on we walked and I could feel the ice cold rain sloshing into every crevice of my body. There was no fur to protect me anymore from, it had all become a sodden, transparent mat.
I couldn't believe it! We got to the end of the block and crossed and started up another block, nowhere near coming home! I tried to find shelter under every balcony or in every open entrance hall to a building but he would just drag me out into the rain, saying "Why! You still haven't shit yet, my wee friend!" So I tried...by god I tried. I squatted and pushed and pushed and pushed 'til my eyes were bugging out and my sphincter was collapsing but all I could manage was a fart. "That just won't do," he said. That's when I thought I might kill him.
And on it went, for another 15 minutes. We got back onto our street and I started to yank us across the street instead of the usual to the end of the block and back the other side to our place but he was having none of it. So I squatted again and again I tried and I even waddled about, hoping that the bent-over position would churn my guts into action when finally—finally!—a turd the size of a robin's egg and the hardness of a rock came out. I think a part of my colon would have flown out after it, but I clamped down my butt cheeks fast to prevent that from happening. "There you go!" the motherfuckerfuckwadcuntfacetwatheadshitforbrainsbabyraper said in a chirpy voice as he picked it up.
And on we went to the bitter end, him humming Singing in the Rain while I just sloshed beside him.
I've got to figure this out...
It's one thing to do these fucking walks in the rain, it's quite another thing to do them when it's -40 outside (which it can be in the winters in this godforsaken place). I do not, do not, do not, want to give these two faggots an excuse to put me in a sweater and booties for the cold. Can you fucking imagine! If Ginger saw me like that, she'd assume...well we all know what she'd assume! How the fuck would a self-respecting dog live it down?
Or, of course, I could go ahead with my plan and kill them both.
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