March 22, 2009; Toy Story

I finally turned fucking Mr. Snowman into an amputee. He's the "toy" the Mooks gave me, sure that it was indestructible. It still had the late Cosmo's slobber all over it and I'm sure the smiling snowy jackass was in one piece because the great dalmatian didn't have the killer instinct. I've been working on that white bastard hard. Next the other arm and the prick's head.

Mr. Snowman—not so smiley now, are you, Motherfucker!

The Mooks don't get that a toy, for me, is whatever I can murder. It's not fun. It's survival and nourishment. Like that squeaky think whose screaming I stopped for good. Or that rubber thing that kept me out of that room and off the bed; it's in doorstop heaven now.

The doorstop before burial.

I am so tired of being held back, told "no" and picked up to keep me from killing and devouring something—squirrel, dog or garbage. My spirit is breaking. Thank God for pillows.

A pillow thingy. Did you know these things have guts you can eat and they're tasty. Problem is they don't stay down (or in, as the case may be).

February 23, 2009; The Legacy

Bohemian Léo

It has been five days since my last "accident", I am constantly reminded, and see that the Mooks are getting pretty complacent. Might have to shake things up soon. 

Meanwhile, got my stitches out and dared to have a look at the catastrophe between my legs. A sadder sight you have not seen: that little empty sack flapping about in the breeze below that wondrous thing which used to do other things besides just pee. Lordie, there will come a day of judgement for this vile race and all they have done to us.

When I arrived here, and even now, from time to time, the Mooks call me Cosmo instead of my slave-name, Léo. I wondered who this Cosmo was and have gleaned from conversations that he was the last poor beast who inhabited this place. I knew there had been one—his smell is everywhere—but I knew nothing about him except that he peed high (and I, as you can imagine from my puniness, pee low).

The late, great Cosmo

As it turns out, the pictures placed around the house are of this famous Cosmo. Let me just say this: if I was to swing that way, I'd do him. A fine specimen not just of Dalmatian but of glorious, masculine dog. I wondered how he survived in this place full of homo-sickuals; his butchness must have been tested on a daily basis. I mean the size of him screams "virile" where as my size doesn't scream anything—more like it whispers and the whispers ain't nice. 

Anyway, from what I have heard Cosmo did his job as all pound dogs should when he arrived: he annointed everything (especially soft furniture), but slowly he was domesticated, especially after he too was mutilated as I have been. He soon became the subject of the humiliations I am already enduring, though his abuse was more public and took the form of him modeling for Christmas cards.

Christmas Cosmo (the poor fuck)

I wonder what fate awaits me now...what sissification program they have in store for me. I have nothing against their "lifestyle" as long as they don't want to recruit me. Sean Penn can give all the solemn Oscar speeches about "them" that he wants, but that doesn't mean I want to become a boy in that band. 

I take a moment of silence and grieve my late brother, Cosmo, who gave so much. I hope he comes back in a better, happier life and pees on both their graves.

Amen.