In this city there are laws about dogs. Dogs have to have licenses (no one enforces this). Dogs have to be leashed (no one enforces this). Owners have to pick up after their dogs...EVERYONE ENFORCES THIS.
Let me tell you about my 'hood. It used to be a working class district 'til all the poor people were sent to Siberia by yuppies, faggot couples, little families and the B&B trade. What that means is that it was once a nice little urban village where men doffed their fedoras to each other, where women talked to each other from their balconies and where kids played hockey in the treesy alleys. Now it's a village Nazi Germany where your neighbours know every fucking thing about your life, spread it around, judge the "facts" and make decisions about whether or not they will nod to you on the way to work in the morning or ignore you like you were a crack whore living in their dumpster.
A lot of everyone's impressions of you is how you deal with your dog and whether or not the person who is spreading this news is liked by the rest of the commune or not. For instance, their is this college professor who lives in a ground floor apartment just a little down from our place. He hates dogs. He, of course, created a little garden which is like dog-bait—we all like to piss there! This means he hates us even more. But here's something you should know: about two years ago, while walking Cosmo, Skeeter saw a young street ruffian at the perfesser's door. He was coming out and, right there at the door, money was exchanged. As Skeet had had a lot of trouble with this man because of Cosmo's explosive need to piss the minute he got out and the fact the Cos had liberally hosed down this guy's garden many a time, Skeet thought he would fight back in a way the entire neighbourhood understood: he started (very subtly) to spread the word that the prof was hiring whores. Suddenly everything the prof said about dogs peeing or shitting, or his garden or the price of barley was ignored by all the rest of the street.
However, the prof is not—by far—the only problem! The city has a beautification program and has asked citizens to adopt the trees on each street and to water them and take care of them. Some of the fucks here see that as a way to have their own little gardens without actually living in a space which allows for one. They put flowers and plants around the trees they are tending and, worse!, little fences around these gardens! So, tell me!, where the fuck is a dog supposed to piss?!
If I piss on the sidewalk some fucking nosey parker raises a stink about stepping in dog piss in sandals or flip-flops and tracking it into their place. If I piss on someone's mini-lawn it's a five-act opera with overture and ballet! And if I piss on the mini-gardens around the trees...well, all hell breaks loose! So basically I gallop about, and get yanked about by Skeeter or Boo-Boo, 'til we've found some hidden little place off the beaten path where I can empty my bladder. Since when did a dog pissing become something shameful?! I ask you!
Oh, and then there's shit. God forbid you don't pick up after your dog because on this street, when the temperature gets up above 55, everyone is on their balcony spying, spying, spying. There's even one lady who videotapes owners who don't pick up and shows the tape around until the owner is identified. In one case, a guy with a pitbull was caught this way and instead of being confronted in a neighbourly sort of way, he woke up one morning to find his wrought-iron fence festooned with baggies of other dogs' shit.
So, please, imagine living in this fascist state when you're sick (as I have been several times and as Cosmo was, apparently, often). I mean you need to go. But what happens is that one of the Boys, seeing that look in your eyes and realizing no baggie will pick up what you're going to deliver, gets you on the leash and out the door as fast as possible and then runs you down the street to the alley where your screaming, cramping bowel can finally explode. (I heard that Cosmo wouldn't tolerate this little sprint, and found an elegant solution by shitting as he ran.)
Ginger, Benjie, the walking throw rug up the street and I have talked this over and are looking for a way to rebel. For one thing, we don't think it's fair that trees we anoint all year are suddenly verboten. What's made it worse is that there are some of these fucking dink gardeners who don't like a dog pissing there even during the off season as they will have to deal with the soil under the tree when it comes time to plant their pansies. Ginger suggested that, as I am talking to Skeeter now, I tell him dog owners need to lead the charge against the tree people.
Here's the thing...I suspect Skeet has already begun the battle. Everyone on this street has a secret. And the other thing is: No one on this street has a secret. A bitchy lady planting flowers under a tree today can be the one everyone is saying should be kept away from small children tomorrow.
All is fair in the piss wars.
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