January 22, 2010; My Options

Something has happened.

Last night the doorbell rang. I was told to stay upstairs (an order I generally disregard) and Mook A went down to answer. It was One-Legged Gingerlady with Ginger, my beloved. A and Gingerlady were transacting some kind of trade and I was sitting on the steps right behind him staring at my sweet little femme fatale.

But here's the thing: the door was wide open, none of the humans noticed I was there and I did not bolt out to the street to freedom. When A noticed me he was mind-boggled and when Gingerlady and Ginger left there was much celebration in the apartment that I had somehow not bothered or wanted to flee (though they also mentioned the fact that maybe I was too stupid to figure out that I could have fled and/or I was too stunned to flee because here was the bitch of my dreams right there at my door!).

The fact remains is that I didn't run. I don't know why. I felt the warmth of the apartment behind me and the cold of the great outdoors in front of me and the thought did not cross my mind until the fact I did not run was being huzzahed by one and all. Since this incident I had been looking at things; examining my options, if you will. I think one thing has crossed my mind—a reality—about freeing myself from the slavery here: Baby, it's fucking cold outside. But beyond that there are also all the other things: if I fled, I might get hit by a car; I might get "saved" by someone really awful; I might get picked up by the pound and done away with (even with the ID chip in my head—who knows? the Mooks might just decide I was too much trouble); I might not get caught and become one of those pathetic alley dogs who sleeps in garbage, becomes flea-ridden and...

But that's not the point!

The point is that, now, here, after nearly a year, it is time to look at my options balanced against the realities.

One negative reality is that Mook A, at least, is taking my re-training rather seriously. He's been worshipping at the altar of the Dog Whisperer and I am suffering for it. For instance, last night, when we went out, there was a cat across the street and I scrambled for it. A yanked me back, forced me to lie on my side in the snow, held me down and didn't let me move until I had calmed down (or at least was doing a good job of pretending to calm down). The cat was long gone, so I was actually calm. But he held me down long enough for Gingerlady, who was down the street, to call out, "Hey! Hey! Are you all right!!!" (It did look like A was keeling over—an occurrence the entire neighbourhood, well informed by gossip of his various conditions, is anticipating.) After A reassured Gingerlady he was not dying (she did not seem too concerned whether I was or not) he continued to hold me down for a bit, then brushed me off and off we went to continue the walk. However, I saw a dog at the other side of the street and scrambled for it and—wouldn't you fucking know it!—found myself held down in the snow yet again.

Now let me be clear: nothing was injured besides my vanity. However, I have to decide if I am going to bend to their will...a little...to have some peace, a couple of squares a day and a warm place to sleep, play and cuddle.

I will never be able to entirely check my need to run. That will always be there. But, like happened last night, it is not a pounding need anymore and I can, if I wish, push it to one side for a little. You may not think this sounds important but it is the difference between bolting automatically when the door is open and thinking about it for a bit; in the time it takes to think, Mooks wake up, doors get closed, life goes on.

There is another thing, and I will not get into this right now, but it is fairly important and if I decide to go ahead with it, there is no going back. That option has always been there and it has always been a matter of whether I will exercise it or not. More on that later...or not at all. I'll see.

In the meantime, for some odd reason, I have developed an aversion to certain kinds of elderly men. Gentlemen, to be precise. I've run into two of them at the convenience store at the corner (where the Mooks go to load up on fattening foods—a staple of their diets). On both occasions, the elderly men—both spiffily dressed and smelling of cologne—leaned over to play with me and I did play for a bit. But then something snapped—the smell of their cologne, the vague stink of death, the smell of mothballs on their suits—and I just needed to attack. In both cases I got a clop in the head (which The Dog Whisperer certainly doesn't endorse) and the Little Old Chinese Lady who owns the place and who normally adores me went ballistic. "SEE!" she shrieked. "SEE!!!" she screamed again. Then Mook A did something for which I will never forgive him: he made her one of my bosses. "The word is 'sit'," he explained to her, "and you have to hit the 't' really hard for him to get it." So now it's, "SEEEEEEEEE-TAH!" from the Chinawoman which, with her terrifying Asian trill makes my non-existent balls roll back into my body and my dick shorten by an inch.

And I do.

I seeeeeee-tah.

Fuck 'em all.