June 14, 2009; Rendering Accounts

Will freedom ever come?

I was sitting on the balcony, looking at life come and go and dozing, when Mook A started to talk to me. Actually, he was talking to himself. He's the only one who thinks I listen. But this time I paid a little attention because there was a tone of discontent in his soliloquy.

"You're starting to work out, here, but I just wish you had some sense of what you have actually cost us. Idiot dogs like you don't come cheap."

I'm getting used to being called an idiot by him. People always assume you're an idiot if you ignore their blather. But he went on and gave me a kind of shopping list.

"First there was the $200 some odd that the SPCA charged us for you, your chipping and castration." Well, boo-fucking-hoo, I thought. "Then in the first week there was the reward of $100 we gave that woman who caught you when you escaped." She could take that 100 and shove it up her twat, the bitch. "Let's not forget the random damage: $70 for the XBox controller, $20 for the iPod earphones, assorted plastic items for about another $50." Yadda yadda yadda. "Then the toys. The $15 ball you ate on the first sitting, the $15 knotted rope you destroyed, the $20 supposedly-indestructible squeeze toy you squeezed the shit out of and, of course, the replacement toys: two Kongs for $30." Stupid fuck doesn't get it: if you don't want me destroying everything in the house, give me some decent playthings, asshole!

But he went on. "Let's not forget the various food fiascos! Thirty containers of Cesar you loved but pretty much shat all over the place. Two bags of premium dog food you decided to ignore. That's—what—another $80!" Yeah, well, I don't give a flying fuck if you call it "premium"—if it tastes like fucking cardboard, I ain't eating it.

"So what are we talking about here, idiot dog? Some six-hundred-fucking-dollars! For a fucking pound dog! A fucking pound dog!" And on he went and I pretty much stopped listening until: "Sometimes I wonder if we shouldn't have left you there to sleep it off...if you know what I mean." I did know what he meant and thought it was a bit peckerish on his part. "You're lucky you're a funny dog, even if you are an idiot." He concluded.

You're lucky I don't rip your throat out as you sleep, fuckwad.

That's when Mook B came out on the balcony, picked me up and I just continued my nap. I'll show you funny later, asswipe, I thought as I drifted off.

June 11, 2009; Let's see what's on

The white squirrel in the tree outside my place...I wonder if it's an omen

One of the upsides of living with the Mooks is that at the end of the day they settle down to watch TV and I get to cuddle.

But to every upside there is a downside and with these two it's a lot of the crap they watch and which, of course, I have to glance at between naps.

They watch a lot of news—in French, in English, Canadian, British and American—and it seems, from all the shit coming down on the world, that the Mooks—as a species—are finally paying the piper. What does get tedious is that there is so much goddam news about Obama. Now look, if I could trust this guy I would like him. But you can't trust him and, no!, it's not because he's the anti-Christ, it's because he's a Democrat and you know what happens when a Dem is a leader...all the mini-Dems who want to be the next president keep getting in the way and fucking up. Watch. You'll see.

Of the things the Mooks watch which are halfway-decent there's this great cop show called Southland. I know Mook A watches it to see if Ben Mackenzie is going to take his shirt off, but I like it for the fucked-up dog who used to be a drug sniffer. Hi-larious.

But here's the thing...if it was just the news and such, I could sleep through most of it. But Mook A likes his musicals. After opera there is no more retarded form of Mook expression than musicals. When it's good, it's shit but when it's bad, it's shit on toast. I was submitted to Phantom of the Opera the other night which the Mook had gotten at the library. Even free it was no deal. A more redolent, mushy piece of feces was never seen floating in the canals of Venice.

It was so tedious I found myself rewriting the lyrics.

The Phaaaaaaaaaaantom of the opera

Is heeeeeeeeere

Inside your ass.

or

Angel of music

Sit on my face

You'll see it's a

Giggle

Angel of music

Sit on my face

Do it and then

Wiggle.

It helped pass the time between the murders in the fucking thing. I'm pretty sure the Mook only watched it because he kept hoping the Phantom would take off his shirt instead of his mask. I kept watching cause I wanted to see the soprano get her throat slit so that all that fucking trilling would finally stop.

I don't know what it is about queers and musicals and opera. Mook A can sing a vast repertory of show tunes and arias but somehow always comes back to one: I Feel Pretty. 

Gayer than that and you die.

June 8, 2009; Goin' Visitin'

...think I'm gonna heave...

Yesterday began a week of celebrations for Mook A's birthday. I know this sounds crazy given that he's just a Mook, but apparently all of his friends are separate friends and either never meet each other or can't stand each other so he gets a whole bunch of different lunches and outings from each one and yesterday he was off to his sister's for a BBQ. Mook B was going too, of course, and they decided to take me.

I love to get out of the house, but it had been a long time since I'd been in the car (not since they took me home from the pound, actually—and I was stoned out of my gourd then from the operation). But it was an outing and I was excited! Mook A sat me on his lap in the front seat while Mook B drove.

It was slow going because there was some idiot biking event in the city and every fucking street had a detour and the streets we detoured onto were bumpy and windy. It wasn't long before I was getting that feeling.

You know when your mouth starts filling up with saliva and suddenly it's too hot? And then your head starts to get a little zingy—little tiny flashes going off which make you overreact to noises and make you a little hotter? And then the saliva gets to be so much that you start gulping it down and that doesn't feel good, but if you don't gulp it down you drool a lot and then you're gulping and the heat and the little zings in your head...

I didn't even chug—that thing in your stomach which warns you that what went down is on its way back up—it just happened and before you know it, Mook A and a good deal of the rented car was covered with the breakfast I had eaten five hours before. I was sort of amazed that there was so much undigested kibble left in my stomach! The body is an amazing thing, isn't it? Of course Mook A wasn't nearly as amazed as I was, 'cause all of his clothes—shirt, sweater and pants—were covered in used food. Mook B nearly swerved off the road, but by this time we were on the highway and there was not much anyone could do. Mook A said, "Just get me to my sister's!" 

All I wanted to do was get away from the mess cause, let's face it, I'm a white dog and this stuff was sticky and threatening to get on my fur. I don't give a fuck about what the Mook looks like, but when I go a-visitin' I want to look nice. 

But In my attempts to get away from the mess, I got that feeling again. Little belches were coming up, the saliva was backing up again and—voilà! (as the Frogs say)—the rest of what I'd had for breakfast and some odds and ends I'd nibbled off the floor decided to reappear. This time it ran down Mook A's pants.

Then the oddest thing happened: Mook A started to laugh; laugh like mad and "mad" is the operative word. Suddenly all I wanted to do was get out of that car and away from him. When we finally got to the sister's house, Mook B took my leash, jumped me off Mook A and we toddled into the sister's house. Mook A stayed in the car. The sister came to the door, was told what had happened and went out to her brother with towels and such. 

While the Mooks and the sister took care of the car, I met the gang: the niece (whom I've talked about), the brother-in-law, the brother-in-law's sister and the lawn behind the house! The niece held onto the leash but I still had 15 feet of rope to wind around things and people and I just went crazy. I didn't feel sick anymore...this was going to be a blast!

Soon everyone was back outside in the yard; Mook A had changed into some borrowed cloths while they washed his, and I went exploring. But they wouldn't let me off the fucking leash so I figured I had to convince them otherwise.  I wound the leash around a few flower pots, sent them flying and thought that might do it. Nope. Instead they just tied the leash to a post at the end of the yard and let me run as free as the 15 feet of rope would let me; that is: just short of them and the food. So I shrieked, and barked, and started digging up objects in the grass they didn't even know were there and eating them—a block of wood, an action toy, chips of mulch—all of them added to a nice salad of grass.

Finally they let me come up to them, but kept me on the leash as, in their heads, there were a million ways I could get out of the yard. So I just sat on laps—pointy, knee-sy laps which were always kept miles from the food. Worse, though, was that the Mooks had brought cookies with them but weren't giving me any! "No food! No food!" Mook A kept bellowing like some commandant in a work camp.

Then it was time to go, but this time they put a blanket they had borrowed from the sister in the back seat of the car and let me lie down there. That was nice, except I couldn't really see out and the road home was windy and bumpy and...

....you know when your mouth starts filling up with saliva and suddenly it's too hot? And then your head starts to get a little zingy—little tiny flashes going off which make you overreact to noises and make you a little hotter?...

Up came a block of wood, an action toy, chips of mulch and a lot of grass.

Then we were home and I was soooooooo tired. 

But—boy!—it had been a fun day.

June 6, 2009; Cats

The fucker on the roof next to my balcony

Mook A's niece lost her cat this week. Rather, it was "put to sleep." Rather, the cat was murdered as we are all murdered if we're not hit by a car; as even the sainted Cosmo was murdered. Given the choice between an operation that would save our miserable little lives—a couple of thou, don't you know?—the Mooks, as a species, will almost always opt for the trip to Disney or the plasma TV.

Anyway, that's neither here nor there. What I wanted to discuss was cats. (Even the word makes me barf a little in my mouth.) Fuck they have it easy compared to dogs. You see, no one expects a cat to do a motherfucking thing.

First, they can shit and piss indoors; I'm expected to freeze my spotted little prick off outside if I need to go. Moreover, I get punished if I have a fucking accident—cats can stink up the whole house and the owners don't seem to notice the spray stains halfway up the wall.

Second, I'm expected to do tricks, whore myself for a measly fucking cookie—dance, sing, sit pretty like some faggoty, pinheaded circus animal...everything short of sucking cocks and bending over to take it like a man. Cats? Nada. You can say, "Sit!" and they'll yawn, fart and walk away. "Lie down!" and they show you that tight little asshole as they walk away.

Third, I chew on a piece of cardboard littering the floor and the Mooks lose it. Cats? They sharpen their claws on the Chippendale secretaire and—well!—that's just what they do, ain't it?

Fourth, I eat whatever cheapo slop they stick in my tin bowl and if I don't like it, tough tits! Cats? Even the fucking commercials tells you what twats they all are about food. Finicky, we're told they are, like that's some kind of cute trait. Jesus H. Christ! If your own fucking kids were as "finicky" as cats, you'd beat them like gongs!

And they're fucking everywhere! I get walked on a leash, they're wandering about tormenting me like the squirrels do, except the squirrels run from me and cats hiss and spit and arch their backs. What kind of demented behaviour is that!!!??? If any other animal did that you'd blow its brains out for possibly being rabid!

And don't forget the platoon of semi-insane cat ladies who protect these fiends. Even on my own street there are these biddies who actually put out fucking bowls of food for the alley cats! A dog roaming around free is gathered up and hustled off to "sleep." But cats? They eat the birds, strut about, and when they're good and fucking horny shriek through the night like a baby in a scalding bath!

So, yes, I grieve for the niece's late cat. But let's face it: it's only in those final moments at the vet's that cats and dogs become equal.

June 4, 2009; Healer in the Wasteland

Mmmmmm....rubber glove

By and large my life is a vast wasteland: eat, sleep, jump around, play with my toys, walk, dump, pee, eat, jump around, mangle the cloth toys, rape the rubber ones, eat, barf, walk, pee, dump,  barf, sleep.

But...

Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings are heaven. Mook A had surgery eight months ago and he has a wound that is healing slowly and so on those blessed three mornings a home nurse comes to tend to him.

Ohmyohmyohmy. Look, just because she's a different species doesn't mean I don't know she's gorgeous. (Hey! They say some guys fuck sheep!) She's little and has this wonderful, smooth, white skin—unlike the Mooks who are huge and hairy and lumpy. She's got this great hair she ties back but which still falls a little in curls around her face. Such a waste...not only because she's not a dog and married and has kids but because she does intimate stuff on the Mook and the idiot faggot doesn't have the wherewithal to pop a boner!

Anyway, when the nurse comes I get to cozy up to her and she smells good and skritches my head. But then the Mook jams a cookie up a Kong's arse and pitches it into the living room and shuts the door. Sure, I'm distracted for a bit but then I hear him and her talking and laughing and I go nuts.

'Til yesterday.

The room adjoining the living room is also closed off but only by something jammed under the door.  This time it was a wadded up New York Times Magazine and I worked it and yanked it and got it out and shredded it for good measure (it being that Commie paper, after all). Then, once in that room, there was a folding room divider; a couple of whacks of my nose and paws and—bingo!—I'm in the kitchen. And there's the door and she's behind it and that door is shut. But here's the thing: in this apartment, where everything is crooked, nothing ever really shuts. So I took a run and biffed into the door and there she was! My beauty!

But what the fuck was she doing!!!???

It was something that involved bending and spreading and naked arse and rubber gloves and her lovely face waaaaaaaaay too close to something ugly of his.

Well, this required further investigation up close. "We've got a visitor," she cooed and, "We have to keep this sterile." The last time I heard that word it was bad and my legs crossed reflexively. But I had to see—its a dog thing—so I nuzzled up to the bed which was serving as an operating table. 

My beloved nudged me aside! Playtime! "LÉO! LIE DOWN!" the Mook roared, "NOW!"

Judging from his position, hers and all the medical paraphernalia all I could think was: Make me.

She worked on when I noticed—ohmyohmyohmy!—on the other side of the nurse was a little trash bin full of used bandages and gauze pads, rubber gloves and plastic syringes! Lunch time! And it all smelled so divine!

"He's in the garbage," she said to the Mook's arse and she nudged me again. Food and fun! The Mook was shrieking at me now but in a cute way so the nurse wouldn't know how monstrous he really is. I finally settled under the nurse's chair because, despite the food and her intoxicating presence, I was utterly fascinated by what she was doing to the Mook. I suddenly thought about the sheep-fucking guys. If my sweetheart could get up close and personal with this atrocity in front of me, maybe—just maybe!—I had a chance.

And then she was done and quickly the Mook was dressed and hauling me into his arms (not for love) and emptying the trash in the bin outside. There was the goodbye!-goodbye!-see-you-next-time! thing and I was left alone with the Mook and my thoughts.

My life is bliss! Giner! Nurse Angel! Sure, there's that naked Mook-arse messing up the image but that's like a fart: a stink that blinds but eventually dissipates to make everything else smell even more wonderful.

June 1, 2009; Something to share...

This you have to see. Some think it's cruel, I laughed my ever-loving ass off 'til I was howling.

What a tard...

June 1, 2009; The Watchers

Sleeping with one eye open

Though I had an "accident" three days ago (which the Mooks admitted was their fault for making me wait...) it's been eight, almost nine, days since the last big incident and the two of them are still watching me like hawks. I don't quite get them; we even speak different languages—I speak English, French and Dawg (yes, that's how the language is spelled!), and they speak Mookinese.

I've slowly started to decode it. For instance, when Mook A says, during a walk, "Short leash, now go slowly," it means: "Strain every muscle in your body and pull that short leash 'til you choke." When he says, "Come!" It means: "Sit and wait until I come over there." When I do those things he lets out a deep sigh which is a lot like the one I release when I'm falling into delicious slumber. So he must be happy.

But do whatever I can, they watch me. You know how much they watch!!!??? I HAVE A MOTHERFUCKING CHIP IMPLANTED IN MY BODY!!! Do you believe it!!! What kind of Nazi world are we living in when, as I'm asleep having my balls scooped out, they jab a foreign object under my skin to track my comings and goings? How soon before they're doing it to children...or maybe they're doing it already! I wonder if they're hacking the tots' goolies off too for "population control" or some such high-minded principle! How many ethnics or demi-tards are born and then sterilized before getting a chip in their scalp to track their politically deviant activities?

I'm telling you—it's not the Mooks who should be watching me but me watching the Mooks...all the Mooks!

I'll tell you which Mook we keep a close eye on, for starters: Bono. He's up to no good. Sure, it's the environment-this and Africa-that, but I know...I...know—he's covering up a more sinister agenda that includes eugenics, chip implants and world domination. Just listen to the songs! "I can't live with or without you." (Translation: You can't be killed, so I'll control you with sterilization and a chip.) Or: "Where the streets have no name." Get it? No name...no name...(Bo)no name!

See! See! You just have to decode the Mookinese!