April 22, 2010; Kaffee Klatsch

The Boys were getting to me. I mean, normally I'm a happy-go-lucky, live-and-let-live, decent little dog nice to people and other animals (except the tards and fuckwads, of course), but between Skeeter's medical problems and Boo-Boo's work-stress, we're talking major buzz-kill. So I needed some advice.

I was out walking with Skeeter when we ran into Ginger (and her Babs) who was already having a chat with Benjie (and his old biddy hen). Skeeter joined in the human conversation and before you know it, it was a chorus of aches and pains and whining about age and ailment.

I asked the other two how they dealt with all this and before you know it the three of us dogs decide to have a good old-fashioned chin-wag. Ginger was being civil to me since Cleo had disappeared from the neighbourhood (and, I prayed, had not been hit by a car or something equally atrocious).

"Listen to them," Ginger snerfed disdainfully, "you'd think they're the only one with problems."

"Yeah," Benjie chimed in, "especially since their problems invariably become our problems."

"The way they sweat," Ginger went on. "Do you know when it's really hot outside, and after we've had a good long walk, this one has to take off her leg and empty it like a bucket—"

"—ewwwwwwwwww!" Benjie said.

"Like I said," Ginger went on, "humans and their sweat."

"Well, mine farts," said Benjie. I snerfed a laugh. "But she's very delicate about it. She gets up, opens the window, hangs her rear-end over the sill, and lets it fly. I know it must be bad because you can see the birds dropping from the trees." Ginger and I howled with laughter and the humans looked down and the old lady said, "Look at that, they're all singing together." And they went on with their conversation as we did with ours.

I could have shared my invormation about Skeeter and his appliance, but somehow that felt wrong. So instead I told them about Boo-Boo. "Not this one, but the other one," I said, "can't drink a glass of water without some kind of major digestive disruption—heart burn, or upset stomach—and then, suddenly, during the best part of a movie or program he will let out these blasting belches that go on and on and on. Sounds like a camel yowling!" And once again the three of us fell into a fit of merriment that drew the attention of the masters. Skeeter looked down and I could see from his face he was suspicious of the conversation, but he went back to his.

"But I'll tell you something," Benjie said, "I like it when Mommy's daughters come over and it's like a little party with cooking and baking and cleaning and even some knitting and singing the old-time songs."

"Oh for Christ's sake, Benjie," Ginger bellowed, "could you be a little less fruit-flavoured for once!"

"Fuck you, yah horny bitch," Benjie sniped back.

"What's going on here?" I asked.

"Ginge, shut up!" Benjie growled warningly.

"Oh Fuck, Benj, if he hasn't figured out you're queer by now, then he's a bigger imbecile then I thought!"

Benjie was hanging his head, trying not to look at me. "Nice going, Ginge," I said to her, and to him: "I suspected, Benjie, and it doesn't bother me at all." Benjie leaned over and licked my face. The three humans were looking down at that moment and all went: Awwwwwwwwwww. If a Korean nuke could have hit us right then, I would have been happy.

The three duos went off on their separate ways. Skeeter murmured to me, "Do I hear wedding bells?"

"Shad-up."