January 2, 2010; Happy New Year indeed!

Oh! what a wondrous, wonderful year it will be!

You want to know how well it started? So well! I was walking with Skeeter, pissed at him because we had gone in the corner store and he had yanked me about. As we left the store I hissed at him, "You know, you could stop with the fucking short-leash and the pulling and choking me—"

"—fuck you! I wouldn't do it if you could for one second be trusted in there—"

"—WHAT COULD I POSSIBLY FUCKING DO?!?!—"

"—TEAR OPEN A BAG OF CHIPS! EAT A FUCKING CHOCOLATE BAR! YOUR NOSE IS ALREADY POKING ABOUT WHERE IT SHOULDN'T BE!"

Well, he was right about that, but I thought I had been subtle about it...I guess not. But then...

...then...

...we turned the corner onto our street and I saw something. Movement. A dog? I slowed, slunk into attack position. Skeeter said, "Knock it off, you fucking putz. I think it's your girlfriend."

"Which one?"

"Pig. It looks like Twiggy."

"It can't be—I haven't seen her in months—"

But then...

...then...

...gallopping towards me—a vision of sharp bones, nose and tail-out-of-control—came my beloved whippet! "What the hell is she doing out without a leash!" Skeet murmured stupidly, like that was even vaguely important. While he puzzled over that, though, I took off and before I could get to the end of the extensible leash and before Skeet could think of reeling me back Twiggy and I were hopping all over each other. It was the first real contact we had ever had except for our nose-to-noses on her balcony.

"My Love!" she shrieked.

"I adore you!" I barked. And soon my leash was tangled around her long, twiggy legs and we were falling into the slush and frollicking towards something nice and nasty.

Skeeter came rushing over and as he unwound the leash from around us he chirped, "Nice to see you Twiggy! How have you been?" She was just shrieking with joy and gallopping about. "What are you doing out without a leash?"

Then our answer came toddling over to us: Babette. "Her people are off on holiday and she's staying with us," the little rug-dog said. Suddenly Skeeter was verrrrrrry interested. Babette belonged to two extraordinarily handsome young men, one of whom adored me to death (and for whom Skeet had the roaring hots).

"The door of their apartment is open," Skeet said, "do you think we should take them home?—"

"—yeah, and maybe he'll be wandering about in his skivvies," I snerfed. Babette giggled and Twiggy gave a laugh so hysterical it was just a little bit scary. Then she went gallopping into the apartment, screaming, "COME ON IN, LEO! COME ON! COME ON!!"

Twiggy went in and out the open door, yipping like she was on crystal meth. Babette toddled up the steps to her apartment saying, "You want to come in?"

You bet I did and I tore off but with one, sharp pull I went flying back. "No!" Skeeter yipped himself. I yanked, I clawed on the ice, I dragged myself up the steps and because Skeet was on ice, he was being dragged along. I have to say there wasn't much resistance on his part, almost as if he might just get to see his pretty boy in his skivvies or even, maybe, in the altogether. But the thing with Skeet: he thinks things to death and as much as he would like to see that guy starkers through the window—like any other common voyeur—the possibility of suddenly being face to face—or beezer to beezer—with Cutie McCutiekins scared the bejeezus out of him.

But us not going in did not prevent Twiggy from going in and out and in and out, begging—pleading with me!—to follow, follow, follow, follow. But, no, Skeeter would have none of it and started pulling me home. In a replay of our Romeo and Juliet scene of the summer, Twiggy stood on the porch, singing out, "Leo! Leo! Belovedovedest! Come back! I love you!"

"I love you too!" I called back.

Skeeter laughed and said, "I don't have to understand Dog Speak to know you're lying your little arsehole off to that poor bitch."

"I'm not! I DO love her!"

"You just want to bury that fat nose of yours in her cootch, you little swine. Admit it!" As we moved out of sight and sound of the whippet I had to snerf. He was, of course, quite right again.

But the full body contact! O...M...G!!! That was bliss and would inspire hours of obsessive dick-licking in the future. And who knows—Kwansaa miracle?—maybe sometime in the future I'd see her and we'd seal the deal!

Happy New Year!