Six days to go to Christmas and the Mooks are losing their fucking minds!There's been lots of talking and whispering about gifts and I know what Mook A is getting for B and vice versa, but in all of this chatter I haven't heard so much as a murmur from either of them about anything for me. I suspect these two are like all those other "sane" people who see dogs as dogs and not much else; we're not members of the family or any other fucking thing like that so we don't merit birthdays or Christmases or anniversaries. Frank, my old owner, made a big thing out of the holidays. He refused all invitations out and made it about him and me. So there was lots of food, gifts, smoking, booze and porn. All day until we both fell asleep on the sofa from utter satiation.
The only thing I've heard about a gift for me has been from Cate and she hinted it might be clothes and she hinted it might go with my new Harley Davidson collar. So I suspect we're talking something leather. However, here's the thing about leather: there's a very thin line between looking like a Hell's Angel and looking like one of those guys at a gay pride parade who has the chaps and vest, yes, but also rings on his fingers, toes, nipples and dick and a buttplug already in place.
Meanwhile, the Christmas tree is coming tomorrow and I guess I'll deal with that when it gets here; some of those things are very intrusive—cutting your territory by about half so it becomes a requirement to mark it. Today they bought the turkey and it was so fucking honking I didn't know if I should eat it or fuck it. I sniffed its ass and realized there wasn't much pleasure to be had either way. I guess I'll wait to see what the stuffing is like (if you know what I mean and I think you do).
Strangely, in all the mad preparation and silliness, the realities go on. A Christmas with Frank was time-stopping—nothing that was real or vaguely harsh was allowed to intrude. Here, A still has to change his appliance every three or four days and the day after Christmas he has to haul his sorry arse to the clinic to see a nurse (and that was only after hard negotiation so that he wouldn't have to go in on Christmas day itself!). So the Mooks make their Christmas around these things—try to make the realities banal and, I guess, in time (and if they work hard at it), life's little miseries will take on a kind of banality...like brushing your teeth.
The approaching festivities mean one little misery for me: that I are now dealing with real winter—gargantuan piles of snow, -20 cold and ice, gravel and salt. The Mooks don't like walking me in this crap at all, but they nevertheless keep pretending that the fresh air is good for them (even though they both chain-smoke during the entire outing). This must be said for both of them: they notice when I start hobbling from the salt or ice or gravel and they deal with immediately and in a relatively gentle way and, when we get back in and are cuddling, they take my feet in their hands and warm up my poor, pink and abused little pads.
However, they do not deal with another problem of winter: the beads of frozen piss which stay stuck in my cock hair after a walk. You want to know cold? Have hard little ball-bearings of iced urine bedecking your pecker.
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