April 15, 2009: The Presidential Pooch

Do you suppose I could eat...like...NOW, MOTHERFUCKER!

Hey! I know, faggots, and that fucking dog is a faggot! Even the name—Bo—is faggotty, don't you think?

Why do I have a chip on my shoulder about this? Well, I met one of those dogs in the pound; a Portuguese Water Dog. The only water he into was water sports (if you know what I mean and I think you do). He tried to come on to me in the pen, being all nicey-nicey with that fruity accent and everything and then—boom—he was on me like fleas in heat. I thought he wanted to play but soon I was fighting for my life and my male virginity (if you know what I mean and I think you do). Had to take a piece of the fucker's nose and ear, I tell ya!

PWDs are not faggots like my faggots—the Mooks—who are more old sissies than faggots. PWDs are hardcore. Maybe faggot is the wrong word; maybe psycho is more the word. They don't hump legs like most normal dogs do; they go straight for the orifii—male, female, animal, vegetable or mineral. Imagine poor Malia, Sasha, Michelle or even the Prez playing hide-the-toy, innocently enough, and suddenly one of them has a face full of dog bone! What does the secret service do then? Envision the next day's Washington Post: "Bo shot dead for attempted rape of First Lady." (Well, it would certainly give the nation something to talk about besides the financial crisis.)

The thing is, all the reports on this animal talk about him as high-energy, high-maintenance, or (my favourite) frisky! Yeah...frisky like Jeffrey Dahmer was frisky. Cause PWDs not only do the nasty; if you deny them the nasty, they get violent. They play hard, at first, and then the game turns ugly and people (or other dogs) get hurt.

You watch. Photo ops now. Secret burials in the Rose Garden later. And suddenly, the First Dog has morphed into the First Budgie. 

March 19, 2009; They have their uses...

I have finally found a use for the Mooks: saving my life.

At last they gave me a little liberty and allowed me to go out onto the balcony to watch (ie: hunt...but they don't know that) squirrels. There was one playing in the yard, two floors down, and I stuck my head through the balcony railing. Mook B said, "Shouldn't we stop him?" Mook A: "He can't get his shoulders through." It was true then, but a little while later when B was working inside and A was reading his paper, smoking, drinking coffee and not paying any attention (there is always that moment if you wait for it), I got my shoulders through the railing. 

The problem? That's all I could got through. So there I was hanging out there, my front feet floating above 30 feet of nothing, and my ass not getting through the railings so I could jump or fall, as the case may be. So I started to push this way and that and now my shoulders weren't coming back to terra firma and it was nuts. I guess I was making noise 'cause A threw down his paper, bellowed and grabbed me by the ass and yanked me back. 

I was relieved except by what he was saying: "You are the most retarded dog I have ever met; truly the mind boggles at how stupid you are." I bet he wouldn't say that to Neil Armstrong or Vasco da Gama or any human explorers. However, the fact remains that if I had fallen through the railings there was nothing to stop me becoming yard-kill, unlike other times I've done it. (Like once before with my last slave-owners where I dropped into a gutter just below the balcony and toddled along all around the house before coming back in...dogs can do that if you let them.)

What I get to see of the balcony now...from inside the door

Later, Mook B also saved my life...sort of. I like to meet other dogs but I also like to fight other dogs. B is trying desperately to "socialize" me so he lets me, during our walks, go for a sniff if we meet a pooch on the street (they're all pooches and dandiesand Lassies out there...no real dogs anymore. Usually I don't like what I sniff and go straight for the idiot's jugular (a snarl at this point always helps the drama). Most times, the other goomer backs off; big or small, they're almost always cowards. But sometimes they don't and...well...I could get killed. That's when Mook B yanks hard on the leash and I go flying back out of danger. Just to show I'm no pussy, though, I do continue to snarl and if the two of us are still kept apart I let out one of those blistering SAVE ME SAVE ME I'M BEING BEATEN TO DEATH!!! screams. Yeah, Mook B may have saved me, but he's not allowed to be proud of it. 

So, slowly, I'm developing a nice rep in the hood for being the crazy fuck who jumps off balconies and beats up dogs ten times his size or just screams like a lunatic off his meds.

I like it.

Vikki with some fat married pervert with a cheap watch

PS: Received an e-mail from my cousin Vikki and she's not doing well. She's a spirited old bitch who's easy to love. My thoughts are with her.

March 9, 2009; Walkies!

Yesterday the Mooks had a friend over—not a bad person, as persons go—and Mook A thought it might be nice to go for a walk with me and his friend.

I don't know what he had in mind—maybe some nice little sylvan thing with picnics in the park and the sun shining over a scene of peace and joy—but I know what I had in mind: staking out my territory.

At first it was the same-old-same-old of "sit" and "heel" and "short leash" and "behave." Leashes mean nothing to me. They're short, they're long, I don't give a shit; I run. Keep up. Mook A wasn't keeping up and fell on a patch of ice and nearly broke his neck. Sadly it was only nearly. 

The Mook was trying to be nice about it, with his friend looking on, but I could hear that he was getting pissed at me as we went into the park. Being a Sunday, the park was dog heaven. Being winter/spring, the park was a sea of water, mud and the emergence of piles of dog shit released from their coats of snow. It was beautiful! I was running all over the place! Burying my nose in a pile of shit here, running over to a pile of garbage there, dancing in the mud, splashing in the water. 

But then there were the other dogs. I don't know why the humans don't get that I'm not fucking around. This is my park and those other dogs are guests in it if I feel like having them there. With the constant tugging on my leash and yanking on my collar, I didn't feel like having them there. Some couple came up to us with some black pile of fur on a leash and after sniffing him out for a bit, I thought it might be wiser to take the hair-pile's throat out. The Mook yanked me back so hard I went flying and he started apologizing to the other couple saying, "We just got him and we're still learning about his temperament." What an submissive, ingratiating asshole he is sometimes. Then there were the squirrels. There was one tree-rat who was begging to get shredded and I went after it and the Mook pulled me back. I went mental. Keeping me from a squirrel is just wrong and I just kept yanking and yanking and screaming and barking and because I was being strangled it looked and sounded like murder in the park. 

Feeling self-conscious about how he was treating me, we left the park and went to Starbuck's and the lady went in for coffee while I sat outside with the Mook. Dogs everywhere and they all wanted to get in my fucking face. What is it about house dogs and this insane need to be warm and fuzzy. Don't they know anything about territory? Were they all lobotomized? A lab came up to me and the Mook pulled me back. The lab's owner said, "He's very gentle." Listen, you silly bitch, your blond ass-kisser might be gentle, I am not—back off! She didn't so I had to rip off the lab's nose...or try to because once again I went flying back on that fucking leash. The Mook, now, was just one big ball of nervous and attentive energy.

Just before the lady came back with the coffee, a guy with a pug came over. This was one butt-ugly dog and it didn't help that his tongue was hanging out of the side of its mouth, lashing about like some fish he had caught and was trying desperately to hold to. This wasn't so much about invading my territory as about get that arsehole passing off as a face away from me. The good thing about pugs? Being small they get it. A snarl from my guts did the trick. 

When the lady came out with coffee (nothing for me...they never think I might like something) we went straight home. "That was fun!" the Mook said sarcastically and for the last bit of the walk he was yelling, "Heel!" the whole way.

As if.

After a walk like that you need your rest.