The seat of power—the La-Z-Boy
Something truly bad has happened.
Lately, the Mooks have been saying the one thing an independent, savvy, street-smart canine does not want to hear—and they've been saying it a lot.
"Good dog."
When your owners start saying things like that to you, you have become one of them; an accomplice to the humans. It is the worst thing that can happen and usually it only happens to those sucky little dogs with the high-pitched, squeaky, faggoty barks; dogs who live with little old ladies or aging queers and who, in winter, not only wear a sweater but sometimes even sport a hat...like a tam-o'-shanter, fercrissakes.
Here's how it began...
As you know, Mook A had an operation two weeks ago and finally got a decent pain-killer, so we were spared his tedious moaning and whining. But the operation and the drugs and the daily visits from the nurses takes a lot out of him so he now does what he had never done before: takes naps. He receives the nurse, he has lunch after she's gone, then he flops onto his La-Z-Boy, takes off his glasses, kicks the chair all the way back and soon he is out. As this time of the day is a dull one for me—between walks and meals and all—I propose getting up there with him. He always accepts and then after a bit of turning and poking we both find a comfortable position and, before long, we're both snoring.
Now I don't like to admit this, but it is soooooo good. He's toasty warm and I am wedged between him and the arm of the chair and it is utter bliss. I snuggle my head beneath his and his breathing sends me off to Sleepy-Land. But apparently, he is getting similar benefits. I am like a hot water bottle for his aching bones and my snoring calms him, so he told Mook B, and it is the best sleep of his day. When he wakes up during our naps, he leans down to me and whispers in my ear, "I love you." My toes curl. He, of course, thinks this is because of the love, but it's actually because of the insanely delightful sensation of hot breath in my ear.
So it starts there; with the "I love you"s. But then I've noticed—during walks and the millions of daily rituals around living in this house—that the two of them have been calling me "Good dog" an awful lot. It's not my fault. I just do what they expect me to do. I know they won't let me up on the couch or feed me if I don't sit and give my paw to them. But now, when I do that, they give me the "Good dog" crap like I have a choice in the matter. And when we're walking if I come back when they call me they tell me "Good dog" even though they and I know that if I didn't come back they would yank on that leash so hard I'd be ass over teakettle.
And what's worse, all my friends in the neighbourhood are hearing this "Good dog" shit. Benjie, a mutt who belongs to this three-hundred-year-old lady down the street, plays with me sometimes. We try to be careful 'cause the old bird is on a cane and we don't want her breaking a fucking hip or something because our leashes get tangled. But because I am careful the Mook walking me says those deadly two words and Benjie looks at me like I've just tried to touch his cock!
So just to set things straight I did something I've never done before: I peed in Mook A's bed. I mean I was thorough: pillows, duvet, sheets...the whole nine yards. But because they think I am now a "good dog" they hardly punished me at all! They explained to each other that I had gotten into the bedroom and the wind had slammed the door and because I had been caged up in that hellishly cold place (he doesn't heat his room in the day), I had peed from fear and the cold.
That's just retarded.
Yes, I had gotten into the room from pushing the door open, but once in I slammed the door behind me because I wanted privacy for what I was going to do. And as for the cold? Once the linens had been baptized, I curled up under them to keep warm and had a nice, long nap of my own.
I mean, I suppose it's good that I'm not being punished as heavy-handedly as before, but I've got my cred to deal with here! I'm a pound dog! I've lived with pitbulls and rottweilers and pinschers. I can tear the face off a German shepherd if I have to!
But what does any of that mean if a pair of pansies call you "Good dog"! It means that other dogs on the street will start thinking of you as "the cute one" and then you'll become one of those dogs which have balloons tied to its ears and are brought to children's parties or the dogs who are brought into retirement homes so that urine-stained quasi-cadavers can pet a puppy to remind themselves they're not dead yet.
This has to stop! But what do I do?
What do I do?
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