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).

March 2, 2009; Lassie, Go Home

Exotic Léo

The problem with all adopted dogs is that the new masters all have an image in their head of what they want. It ain't what they get. 

For one thing, most masters want a Lassie. That is dog code for dogs who are slavish to their masters. It comes from a TV and movie dog back in the 50s and 60s who was always solving problem for the retarded humans. A real dog would have left Timmy drown in that fucking well, but not Lassie. Lassie was played by a guy 'cause, as everyone knows, bitches are dumb as posts. But even though it was a guy playing her, Lassie/Laddie was still the kind of sissy who probably squats when he pees and then licks the master's hands for the privilege.

Lassie was a collie. No one really wants a collie anymore. They're long-hairs and hard to keep clean. I only knew one collie and she was in the pound for a long time; a dog as mangey as a whore's beaver.

Though Lassie behaviour is what people want, they want different looks now. A while back it was dalmatians because of that idiot movie. Now it's Marleys. Everyone wants a fucking Marley and everyone soon gets rid of their fucking Marleys. There were eight labs in the pound, each one fucking crazier than the last. When the pound dog-walkers would come in at the end of the afternoon, they labs would start to shriek like a chorus of Wagnerian sopranos shitfaced on schnapps. That's how I got adopted, really. The Mooks came and while they were there, looking over the other dogs, the walkers arrived and all these Faux-Marleys went bananas. 

Group barking is beneath me and the Mooks noticed and figured I was a "good dog." That's when I should have crapped on the floor and had dinner or some damn thing like that to keep from the subsequent enslavement. 

So here's to the Lassies and the Laddies. May they rot in their little garden graves for having made life impossible for the rest of us. 

Fundamentalist Léo

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 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.