July 4, 2009; Dogz in the 'Hood

The idiot thinks I am staring at him in adoration...it's usually because I want something.

Everyone knows that a cute dog is a great cruising accessory but did you know that an old queer can be a great one too? I am finding that out more and more with Mook A.

I like Mook A's walks, despite the discipline he thinks he's imposing on me. All the "slow" and "short leash" and "sit" stuff is so easy to ignore and the rest of the time I can pretty much do what I want (except when I try to eat something and he goes just a little medieval on me). But doing what I want almost always involves a little of doing what he wants and that is cruising. We're a great team for that.

He slows down whenever there is a guy sitting outside with his shirt off, and this gives a chance to scope the 'hood, sniff the piss and set my targets. If it's a good day we'll get the double-play: a cute guy walking a cute dog. Queers have a thing for cute little dogs and, except for the two I live with, a lot of them go in for the bitches (they could do studies, I think). So the Mook will get to talking with the guy while I get to some serious arse-snorting. If I'm lucky she's into it and isn't some tarted up little cocktease. (Dogs who live with queers are almost always sexually frustrated; take it from me.) While the two queers are queering it up, we're down there doing everything but passing the batwang. (Like I said, I might have no balls, but the drive, if not the dribble, is still there.) Before long, the queers giggle like queers are wont to do when they see what the dogs are up to, separate us, and go on their merry-fairy little ways. This is fine with me; who wants long-term?

And then it's on to the next bitch. On hot days, I can semi-score with at least two and sometimes three. Of course, the Mook doesn't score anymore, he just flirts (which is more than Mook B does—his walks are all business). Beauty.

Meanwhile, A and I have finally reached a sort-of-truce about the nurse's visits. For one thing, because my Beloved is on vacation, we have a replacement nurse for two weeks and this required another tack. The Mook knew I wouldn't tolerate a stranger in the house, so I was introduced to her and she is a spitfire! She played with me for a bit and got me all jizzed up and then I was bum's-rushed off. But this time it was to the balcony and that was not a bad place to be. From the kitchen window I could see the arrival and departure, and through the bedroom window the atrocities being done to the Mook on his bed. So compromise all around and no confinements involved.

Peace reigns.

They are at last bending to my will.

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.