July 19, 2009; The Bulge and The Bitches

Me at the pound

Me now

Sure, you can see I've lost my waist, but Jesus-Fuck! I was at the pound!

There is a little war that is being waged between me and Mook A: The Weight War. First, you better know that he is on a diet and has lost 14 pounds. That is the weight of a good-sized small dog. From the looks of him, however, he has about two poodles and a German Shepherd to go (and that's just in his arse). The thing is, he's started to notice the weight of those around him. He can't fault Mook B who is somewhat of a stringbean with those little matchstick legs he obsesses about. But during our walks together, A definitely notices who, in the neighbourhood, is overweight, underweight or, he sighs, "Juuuuuuuuust right..." He seems to sigh this way whenever a shirtless male jogger passes by (he's quite talented: he can strangle me back with the leash while devouring the jogger with his eyes).

But the one unpleasant offshoot of all this is that he has taken to noticing my weight. He and B have a phobia of having a little dog who is obese (the 'hood is full of little old ladies with little old dogs who clearly get more in their food-bowls than kibble). The moment when A tends to comment—and around other people, thanks much!—is when we go into the corner store for milk or his lottery ticket (poor people seem to find a million ways to shit their money away). Whenever we go in, he lifts me up under my front legs and dangles me about as he shops. He then says, for all to hear, "You're getting tubby, you little monster!" and takes to calling me "Porky" in these instances. It's not a nickname in which I find much delight, and pay him back later in the walk by making sure I have a nice dump in the middle of the sidewalk at precisely the moment I see a shirtless male jogger coming towards us. Pick up dogshit and see if you can flirt at the same time, jizz-wad!

The other dogs on the street don't seem to notice that I've put on the weight and I don't mean just the fat dogs. The beautiful black Caniche Royal next door still plays with me (apparently he hated Cosmo); Ginger, when she pays attention, doesn't seem to mind. And then there all the dogs of all the fags on the block. So many fags, so many little, squirrelly chihuahuas and terriers yapping and grunting at me.

But I have noticed one bad thing: my reflexes are a little slower. There's this great dog just up the road. I can't tell you what it is or if it's a bitch or not. It's tiny, very low to the ground and when it lies on its stomach it looks like a discarded furry bedroom slipper. But we have fun. The fun can get a little rough, and when it gets too rough for the other, it comes running to my Mook and curls up on his shoes. A loves this thing and pats it and snuggles it. So I do what I have to do! I stomp on it. No one fucks with my Mook. Normally that ends the fun and it goes scurrying back to one of its two masters (they may be gay or brothers or something but the Mooks like them...if you know what I mean and I think you do!). Well yesterday, I was stomping on the animated little throw-rug and it nipped me...I mean it was one of those nips on the nose that brings tears to your eyes and if I was like those yappy chihuahuas I would have been shrieking like an amateur soprano on crystal meth! But instead I just jumped back, stunned. The carpet ran back into the house and Mook A roared with laughter and said, "You deserved that, you fat little thing! Porky's not moving as fast as he used to, is he?"

I fumed all the way home, him laughing like some nut. He felt compelled to tell the story to Mook B and to anyone else who phoned, stressing the "Porky" aspect.

Now, of course, I'll have to add lots of leaves and grass to my diet; not to lose weight—no—but to make sure I got a good load locked and loaded every-fucking-time he sees a jogger this summer.

He will pay.