AAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!Everyone is suddenly a fucking expert and I am the subject of their expertise!
One-Legged Gingerlady tells the Mooks what to do! Cate tells the Mooks what to do! The Mooks tell each other what to do! And it all comes back to two people: me and the mother-fucking, suck-my-dick, eat-my-shit, burn-in-hell-for-all-eternity Dog -Fucking-Whisperer!
Okay, okay, okay—deep breath. Let's start at the beginning.
Mook B goes on holiday to France and I am left with Mook A. Something tells me I had better not fuck around with this one because he's in a pissy mood most of the time (we would all learn, later, that it wasn't just about having to walk me at 7:30 a.m. but also because he was nursing an infection and would end up in the hospital). Anyhoo...I don't piss in the house (as I would if Mook B was here), and I get my evening walk earlier than usual and my morning walk later than usual and hold it in and there you go. Mook A has learned that I can control my urges. Well, of course I can! It's just that I won't except when I feel my life may be in danger (as I did with Mook A, when he was alone).
So Mook A shares this information with Cate and One-Legged Gingerlady and, when he gets back, with Mook B. Except when B comes back, all bets are off. I am not going to be the well-behaved little lap dog I was when I was alone with A; I am going to be my self!!! So I piss on the couch leg.
It's when I piss in B's bed, again, that I realize everything is back to normal 'cause B says to A, "It was my fault...I slept too long." Life is good.
But that night...that very night...that very horrible night...
The Mooks watch an episode of the The Dog Whisperer. The smiling little foreigner tells someone that you can't make excuses for dogs. You can't say, "Oh! They were pound dogs!" or "Oh! I did something wrong so they are allowed to misbehave." Misbehaviour, says the little fuck, has to be "corrected" immediately. And then A talks to Cate who, also a fan of the fucking guy, agrees and A talks to One-Legged Gingerlady who is also a fan of the fucking guy and she, too, agrees. In short: everyone thinks I am out of control and have to be "corrected."
That's when it begins...
PSSSSSSSST!
PSSSSSSSST!
Mook A makes this noise...
PSSSSSSSST!
He hits the "P" and the "T" hard and does it each time I yank on the leash, jump on a piece of furniture, insist on a cuddle when he's reading the paper, go in for food one of them is eating...
PSSSSSSSSST!
And you know what? It scares the shit right out of me. There is something about that hard P and hard T and the hissing, snakey S's in between that smacks me in my non-existent testicles, climbs up and down my spine and shoots out my arsehole like farts from a curry.
Worse!
It makes me sit, and stay and behave and be "correct."
How—oh how???—do I get out of this? They even learned a lesson, from that nasty little man, about dogs who run away and they're planning to "correct" that with me too with that fucking PSSSSSSSSSST! Am I doomed to be here forever? Am I going to be one of those dogs: the ones who are cute and cuddly and behave?
Where's the fun in that? I mean, how do I get back to the days when I was training them? For instance, if I didn't eat the two of them would go into a tail-spin and virtually suck my cock to get me to eat the food. I mean, I kid you not, B would get down on all fours and pretend to eat my food himself, going "Mmmmmmmmm, Léo! It's so good!" And I'd sit there, laughing my fucking fool head off because, let's face it, there is nothing so funny as a human making an asshole of himself? Now, when I don't eat, or pretend the food isn't there, there's A with, "PSSSSSSSSSST! Eat your supper!" And—kill me now!—I get down to gobbling this putrid shit up!
The only time they let up is when they're in front of the TV and these days they spend a lot of time there watching the news from Haïti and crying their eyes out. I have to admit, it is pretty awful to see. I also get some respite as A (and it's always A) rants and raves about injustice and suffering and when he throws himself on the internet to tear new assholes for anyone who defends Pat Robertson and what he said about the Haitians bringing this down on themselves. (When A has a freak, no one is fucking safe. B and I just shut up and let him go on and on and on.)
But, inevitably, they turn off the TV and they go to bed and I lie awake, "behaving" on B's comforter and plotting...
...plotting ways to kill them all. Especially that mother-fucking, cock-sucking, shit-eating, may-he-burn-in-hell-for-all-eternity, Dog-Fucking-Whisperer.
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