March 27, 2009: The Show

Sometimes you just need a little nap in the sun

The Mooks keep screwing with me, trying to get me to compromise on my principles. For instance, with food. 

When I came here I was so hungry I'd have eaten any crap which is what the Mooks served in the shape of some dry, tasteless kibble. Worse, it had no odour. Everyone knows flavour starts in the nose. After a couple of days of eating this shit, I stopped and they panicked and started adding this wonderfully odiferous and juicy wet food to the mix. Yummy. Then one night they tried to get me to eat it dry again. Stupidly, I thought they were out of the good stuff and bunged it down anyway. They then decided to keep on with just the kibble. 

Hunger strike time. Two days went by and I would nibble the kibble, stop, sigh and sit down as if in mourning for my life. Finally, back came the good stuff. Then, last night, Mook B decided to get cute and filled the bowl with just kibble. He shook the bowl, thinking the clatter of the "food" would give me a hard-on or something. I just turned my head. Mexican standoff. Of course he gave in and the good stuff came out because they both know what I'm capable of when I'm really pissed.

The other thing is this NILIF atrocity still reigns. The problem? When it's time to go out, I get really excited; I can't help myself and go a little berserk. (Any walk can turn into an esc ape, you see.) Now they expect the show each time, figuring that the walk I deserve is something I should earn. (Nothing in life is free, say the fuckwads.) So now my natural excitement has been turned into a show and no one moves to the door 'til I do the fucking thing. 

I hate them I hate them I hate them.

The show

March 15, 2009; Tricks of the Trade

Me

My Tormentor

When I heard about this NILIF (Nothing in life is free) thing going into effect with me and the Mooks (see February 18), I figured it was time I came up with some strategies of my own to show them who was really the boss.

I've already done pretty well with "the look" (also February 18). When they're in that warm fuzzy place, I can get them to do just about anything. However I needed to dominate the walks, the only time when I am out of the house and, also, outside of their comfort zone.

For instance, today I almost got away again. It's something I've been working on for weeks: the shit and sprint. You start off by having a dump, then the Mook (in this case B) leans over to pick it up with a baggie (fuck, these humans are wacked out), and then he sets to tying a knot in the bag and while he's doing that (and especially if he has gloves on) he is fumbling about, hardly holding on to the leash and they you GO GO GO!!!!! The leash goes flying out of his hands and you're off.

Always be pulling and, if you can, get them to walk into polls.

Today it was hilarious. Mook B yelling and crying and slipping on the ice as I ran ran ran. Then, again, those traitorous others... I stopped to sniff this old golden lab—just a big, slow-witted boob—when his mistress grabbed my leash and held on 'til Mook B, gloriously sweaty and out of breath, caught up. Dammit. But the sight of him all panting and relieved and grateful was almost worth the loss of freedom.

Another great trick, and I tried it yesterday on Mook A, is shaming. During the walks I want to smell things, eat things, meet things, hunt things—garbage, other dog's crap, candy wrappers, dogs, squirrels—but since the Great Escape (see February 13), A holds onto the leash like it's tied to a life buoy and yanks me back whenever I get too close to something His Mookship doesn't approve of. So here's what I did: there was a blue-eyed German shepherd I absolutely wanted to meet but the Mook yanked, yanked, yanked and the shepherd's mistress did too. So I pulled the leash to its limit and let out a symphony of screams as if I was being beaten like the red-haired stepchild. It was a perfect noise because even those within earshot who didn't think I was being kicked about would have thought I was under a car. Time on the street stopped as I shrieked. People came out of their homes and halted on the sidewalk, looking for the pulverized little dog-body under the car or the bleeding victim of torture. 

All saw perfect little old me and Mook A, looking as guilty as you can look without a noose around your neck. He tried to explain, through the shrieking, that this was the first time I'd done that. You always win the upper hand if they have to admit it's the first time you've done something because it suggests they don't know their dog well and don't know how to deal with him.

So, fellow slaves, there is NILIF, yes. But it can also mean: Now I'm Leader, Idiot Fuckwad.

March 4, 2009; The Upper Hand?

If you wait long enough, someone dumb opens the door.

I decided to have a dump last night and I did it right in front of the Mooks, looking straight into Mook A's eyes as he yelled, "No! No! Bad dog!" But that's all he did. No paper swatting, no smack, no pitching me outside. 

The thing is they still haven't figured out that I speaka da lingo so I heard A say to B, "Do you think he was trying to tell us something; like he really needed to go out?" What a pair of ultra-maroons! But then A, the imbecile, went on: "The problem is he's so cute I find it hard to punish him." My God!, what do I have to do to get out of this fucking place? Shit in his ear? 

What an enterprising dog can do to an Xbox battery pack

But then it got positively surreal. A, again: "Why was I the only one yelling? Why don't you be the heavy sometimes?!" Ah!, thought I, a button to push! So I pushed pushed pushed. I spent the rest of the night snubbing A until he was being so nice I thought he's suck my useless cock to get back on my good side. NOTHING IN LIFE IS FREE, MOTHERFUCKER!! NILIF MY HAIRY ARSEHOLE!

Now I figure if I can't get out of this place, I might be able to enslave these two myself and soon will be the alpha dog, as I should be. 

Watch me.

When the paparazzi get into your face, you have to get into theirs

February 27, 2009; A week ends...

So it was announced, yesterday, that I had gone eight days without an "accident" and the Mooks were going on and on about how I was now a perfect fit and yadda yadda yadda. So I figured I'd remind them who was the boss—despite all this NILIF nonsense (which they are still nuts about). So I peed on the couch. Strangely this did not cause the normal hysterics and I suspect it's because they're both exhausted; B from working his ass off and using all his spare time to go mental and A—well A...everyone knows how tiring being unemployed and doing nothing can be.

Meanwhile, we had a little panic this week because, it turns out, that I am becoming covered in spots. So off went A to the internet and he found all sorts of stuff about Black Skin Disease which had me scabbing and oozing and stinking up the joint. If there's one thing I can say in my defense it's that I do not fucking stink. Then Mook A Googled "black spots Jack Russell" and found out that I will be changing my skin colour for a bit yet. The Mooks made a joke that I was channeling Cosmo, the late great dalmatian. Hardy har har.

So now it's the weekend and they better not be too tired to keep me occupied, the fuckers, 'cause when I get bored...well, you know.

 

February 18, 2009; The Gospel according to NILIF

Okay, I peed on the bed again and then, for good measure, I peed on the couch, expecting that this time they would finally let me go out of exhaustion. But no. They went on the internet and they got wise to what I was up to. (Christ! I hate the way they network!) Now, I have no access to the couch or the bed until Mook B turns in and lets me up. They let me sleep on a little ottoman near the window and when I get on their nerves it's, "Bed!" and I am expected to fly onto it and be a "good boy." Yeeej!

But Mook A found something else...something terrible...on the internet. It's NILIF. It's a...gulp!...dog-training philosophy and it stands for Nothing In Life Is Free. What it means is that the trainer/master/slaver never gives anything to the dog/slave without the latter earning it. If I want to get up on the couch or get cuddled or have a walk or even something insignificant like getting my ears scratched, I have to obey some arbitrary command like "sit" or "give paw" just so the Mooks can show me who's the boss. If I do what they want, they do what I want. Fuck! How long before the transaction includes oral sex and sodomy?

Figure 1.: The Look

Figure 2.: The "Snooze" (with sound effects of sighing etc.)

What makes this especially infuriating is that I had it made. I had two tricks to get them to do what I wanted when I wanted it done: the look (see fig. 1) and, if I was close by or in their arms, closing my eyes (see fig. 2) and snorting in that contented way faggotty little lap dogs have when they're warm. Now the look and the snooze thing don't work. I have to perform some irrational party trick to please their fucking Holinesses.

So I really have to get away. A small dog without dominance in a household is just a bitch.