And so a new year with the Mooks begins and in the last days, since I first talked to Mook A, it has been talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk.
Not from me...from him. Yes, I had to shut him up a couple of times because he was in danger of exposing our secret. He'd try to get me to say something while Mook A was just in the next room or in the can and we all know that the walls in this fucking dump are paper thin and that you can't fart or lick yourself without the sound echoing through the whole place. A also tried to chat when were out on our walks. What happened, instead, was that he would talk to himself and began to look like the village lunatic, with people veering away onto the other sidewalk to avoid walking near us. It is normal to see people talking to their dogs and A did do that before—"Stop yanking or I'll rip your fucking head off!"—but that was normal (if a little sadistic). It's not normal to be walking with your dog and saying, "What do things look like in your world, or do you live in a world that is made up entirely—and perceived as—smells?" I would sometimes just snarl back, "Will you shut your fucking cake hole before we get caught," but stopped doing that too because it was just too dangerous. People—
except those in the know (and there are precious few of those)—cannot handle the truth; dogs, quite simply (in their little universes), do not talk.
We did run into Ginger and her one-legged mistress and I told Ginger that I was talking to the Mook now. She was very surprised and said, "I would never do it because if you don't communicate they treat you like a baby—with love and treats; the minute they think you're not their baby, they shit all over you." I'd heard that and wondered if I had made a mistake coming out to the Mook.
On that subject, I did get him to shut up—and quite easily—one night when he asked me if I hated him for having me castrated. "Let me answer your question with a question," I said: "do you hate the fact that you are still as horny as ever but that now you're just an old queer and damaged goods into the bargain?" I know...it was particularly cruel but it served. He muttered a very weak, "How would you like me to cage you, little fucking cretin," and then he shut up and let me finish watching Bargain Hunt.
We did have one good talk and it was about food—an obsession we both share—and on how best eat to a cracker; he gobbles his down and I like to lick the salt off first. I know it isn't exactly the Algonquin Round Table but it was interesting that there was something we could discuss.
Meanwhile, in the rest of the world, I really fucked up with Cleo, the cat down the street with whom I had done a nose-to-nose. I started to have sweaty fever-dreams about her after that encounter and could not wait to see her again. Then, yesterday, there she was bigger than life and twice as sexy, sitting between two parked cars, staring at the traffic. I saw her before I scented her—and she smelled divine (fish with an ever-so-subtle top note of used diapers)— and I went ballistic. I was pulling toward her, dancing on my hind legs, whimpering and trilling with joy. I think I was a bit OTT because she just looked at me with utter disdain, hissed and whacked me in the nose before toddling off to the other side of the street, her tail in the air, her little arsehole torturing me.
"You see," said the fuckwad, A, "you scared her off."
I permitted myself to say, "What the fuck would you know about pussy. For that matter what the fuck would you know about dick—"
That set him off, and he began blabbing on and on about what he did know about dick. It was considerably more then I wanted to hear and, for that matter, considerably more than the lady who was walking her infant in a carriage wanted to hear as well.
It shouldn't be long before the idiot ends up in a cage himself.
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