December 13, 2009; Back to normal?

Things are not quite back to normal at La Maison Mook, but they're getting there.

It didn't take long before I was the subject of ("humourous") abuse. For instance... I have this nylon chew toy shaped like a bone and whenever things get to be too much for me I gnaw away at that thing until the tension passes. There's something to be said for ripping bits off of inanimate objects. The problem is, that being the well-organized canine that I am, I destroy my toys in a kind of order. For instance, when I had that fucking Santa doll, I could have just torn it to shreds, picking it apart all over its little felt body, but that would have taken months. Instead, I found the bottom seam and just kept worrying that with my teeth until I'd literally torn the thing a new asshole and could then yank his cotton intestines out in long white streamers. You see? Organized.

The problem with the nylon bone is that I set to gnawing it on one end, and when I got that end gnawed off it no longer looked like a bone, did it? In fact, Mook A was the first to notice what it did look like. "Hey! Look at that! Léo has made himself a dildo!" Hilarity ensued and then the two of them went at it: "Have you seen Léo's dildo?" or "Time to wash off Léo's dildo!" or "I wonder into which hidden hole Léo shoved his dildo."

Oh! But it gets worse! Yesterday Cate came to visit, after her trip to Florida, and she brought me a new nylon bone. I mean, it was a monster of a thing. But being the organized (perhaps over-organized) dog that I am, I still wanted the old one to finish with first, so I was sort of ignoring the new one. "I guess," says Mook A, "he wants to finish sucking and chewing on his dildo before starting on a bigger one...needs the practice, I guess." Ha! Ha! Ha! A good giggle was had by all.

Later I tried to hump Cate, but my heart wasn't in it. "You see," quipped A, "he's got a taste for dildo now."

I think I shall wait until he, in particular, is asleep, and find a place to hide that fucking dildo. Shouldn't be long 'til the stupid twat is getting daily visits from nurses again.

Meanwhile, Christmas is, indeed, coming and so the snow is piling up on the ground and the wind whips about. What this means is that I'm getting cold and am forced to cuddle up close to one or the other of the Mooks which, of course, makes me look more like a suck than ever. But this must be said: I did miss—while B was traveling and A was in the hospital—the no-questions-asked aspect of cuddling. I mean, I just had to look at the couch, do the sit-give-paw rigmarole and I'm warm—the Mooks get the look. As nice as they were, A's Sis didn't immediately get when I needed the cuddle. Maybe after a little training she would have, but, as I said, training humans can be draining.

A trained human is worth his or her weight in gold. With or without dildo jokes.

December 10, 2009; May You Live in Interesting Times

The things I have seen...

I don't want to sound racist by saying that all slanty-eyed people look alike so it doesn't matter who said such and such, so I'll say I think it was a Chinaman who invented the curse: "May you live in interesting times." Someone must have cast that curse on me and the Mooks recently.

You'll remember that in my last blog I mentioned that Mook B was about to go to a clinic for a cut in his had. Well, yes and no. He went to the clinic a few hours after I wrote the entry, but came back 30 minutes later 'cause the place was closed. Problem was: his cut was no longer just a little cut that my beloved nurse had warned him to have tended to. No, now his cut was huge and red and his wrist had disappeared into his arm and his arm had lost its elbow and these strange red lines ran up from the cut on his hand to the middle of what can only be described as an over-stuffed, dark-red sausage; something a Brit might fry up and have for breakfast, maybe. A started to get sweaty and so he called the special phone number for medical information and was told by the counsellor there to get to an emergency ward ASAFP.

He gathered some things, plunked me in the kitchen and then did something I wasn't expecting. The Mooks don't make a big production when they go out—they don't say bye-bye or give me a hug or make kissy noises; they think by doing nothing when they leave, I am conned into thinking they're only going out to buy cigarettes and am therefore less traumatized and less likely to do something destructive. (Dipshits...destruction has nothing to do with time.) On this occasion, however, as A was leaving, he leaned down to me and said, in a strange voice, "I hope I see you very soon, Little Feller," and gave me a little kiss on the nose and a little skritch behind the ear.

Oh-oh.

That was the last I heard from him for three days and nights. I set to gnawing on my bone, then fell asleep. When I woke up I had the strange sensation that I needed to pee. It's strange because, normally, the Mooks have fed me and hustled me out the door before the need-sensation sets in. I paced about a little, wondering what I was in for now. Then I started to get worried. Was this serious? Was my Mook coming back at all?

Then there was noise at the door and my little bladdered quivered with anticipation. When the door opened, it wasn't Mook A, B, C or D! It was A's sister (whom we'll call Sis from now on) and her husband (whom we'll call Bro). Sis and Bro hustled about, gathered stuff, then toddled down the stairs with me behind them, now with a bladder screaming for a slash.

I got to pee. I got to shit. But then I was getting into a truck and we were driving off! What was this? A kidnaping or a rescue? I was a stress-case and Sis seemed to know it 'cause she held me on her lap in the front seat and cuddled me and whispered sweetnesses. The last time I had been in a car it had not gone well (barf everywhere) and this time there was the added stress of a missing Mook. I started drooling, Sis said, "Oh-oh!" but then we were stopping. We were at their house—I'd visited it for Mook A's birthday—and food was being served and I was part of a new family.

Well, this had certainly gotten interesting (in the Chinaman's sense). But then I heard from Sis that things were considerably more "interesting" for Mook A. He had been admitted to hospital, post-haste, was being administered massive amounts of last-defense antibiotics, was sleeping in a corridor of the emergency ward, and was in a kind of isolation (even there) because they didn't know if his germs were contagious or just busily eating his arm off. At least he was relatively alive.

And hey! I was in hog heaven! They treated me less like a house-guest and more like the boss. I pretty much got anything I wanted just by doing little dances: going out, a treat, a place on a couch and—without even trying—a place on their bed that night where I found out Bro snores like a sawmill and Sis grinds her teeth like a pitbull skinning a teacup terrier. (Are there any normal people in this fucking family!?)

We all settled in quite nicely. The next morning I had a little accident because Sis and Bro just were not fast enough in getting me out (and had to be taught a lesson, don't you know). I was starting to worry I would have to train them (as I had Frank and the Mooks)—a long and tedious process. But they were picking up the signals fairly quickly and I tried not to abuse the situation (ie: doing the piss dance just because I'm bored and want to go out).

News from the hospital was that A was not allowed to walk the halls without rubber gloves and a yellow gown which announced to everyone he was contagious; sorta like those lepers in Ben Hur calling out: "Unclean! Unclean!" The news was he had run out of cigarettes and was bumming and sharing smokes with the junkies in the emergency ward, who were in a similar situation (although their cuts were from an excess of needles). His iPod had died, he couldn't read in the dark of his cubicle and was quietly going mental.

But hey! I was eating two squares and had a perfectly nice couple waiting on me and fulfilling most of my desires. I liked to cuddle with Sis on the couch for TV and I liked to wander around Bro as he cooked (yes, that is faggie, but I'm not judging).

But there was that gnawing worry: when would I be back with the Mooks, in my place, with my smells and my various edibles (Kleenex in the unemptied garbage cans and food—like dill-pickle chip crumbs— in the unvacuumed carpet). Sis and Bro are a little too anal for my taste, nice as they are. A house is not a home unless there's something to eat under the sofa.

On the second morning, Sis had to go to work. Toward the end of the morning, Bro started to make lunch for the both of them. I wandered about, stretched a bit, and thought I might like to go for a walk. So I did my little show and Bro threw on his coat and took me out. It was gloriously sunny outside and I could have drifted about outside for hours. We were slowly returning to the house when we heard some kind of commotion. As we walked on it started to become clear the noise was coming from our street. When we turned the corner we saw that there were three fire-trucks in front of the apartment and the firemen were about to break down the door with these big axes. You know that cooking Bro was doing before my little dance to pee? Well, he had left oil on the stove as he dashed me outside, it had burned, set off the alarms and the security company (on getting no one at the apartment to answer the phone) had sent out the big guns.

Again: Is no one in this family normal? Clearly, early-onset Alzheimer's is running through them all. On one side you've got a guy who's dying 'cause he can't keep a friggin' cut on his hand clean, on the other one who burns the house down for fried onions. Needless to say, the atmosphere within this happy little family iced up a little when Sis found out what had happened and though she was still being nice to me, she did seem to take my little piss-dances a little less seriously.

Meanwhile, back with A, after four or six IVs of massive doses of antibiotics, he was being released from the hospital, but with orders to present himself twice a day to a local clinic to get more IVs. At that same clinic, they would also do the stuff my beloved home-nurse usually does and tend to the new wound on his hand. To give him a break, though, it was decided that I would stay with Bro and Sis for a third night. This made me a little sad 'cause I really do miss the other place where there are so many nooks and crannies where so many interesting things (paper clips, chocolate bar wrappings, socks) can be found and snacked upon.

But here's the other thing (and I may regret admitting this):

I was missing the Mooks. Both of them. I wanted to be with A and I wanted B back from France and I wanted their bickering and laughing and smoking (for a dog raised by a smoker—Frank—the smell is an addiction in itself). I also wanted the messy, routine-less life they seemed to lead where there are surprises almost every day—nurses and friends who don't mind being humped, one-legged ladies, prostate-less barbers and dogs on the street who love-me-love-me-not (ie: Ginger).

And 24 hours later, that's what I had. Back home. Both of them there. Excitement and noise and silliness and stupidity (Mook B got his iPhone pickpocketed during a short visit to Barcelona and A came out of the hospital, not realizing the world had iced over while he was there, and nearly broke his back tumbling down in front of the entrance for the ambulances).

Things are back to normal now. Some things have changed. Because A gets his treatments at the clinic now, I don't see my nurse anymore and this breaks my heart. Also, the Mooks bicker a little less, for now; the guilt of travel and the appreciation of loved ones after an illness plays a role in that. And I have two new good friends, Sis and Bro, and a refuge if I need it.

And Christmas is coming. God bless us everyone!

(And eat a bowl of dick if you don't get I'm being sarcastic.)

December 5, 2009; Vacation Part IV

It's all in the eyes; if they are looking in your cute little peepers, you win!

Frank used to tell a lovely story:

An old man, alone and lonely, would go to the park at the end of his street each day to watch the world go by. Some days he felt at peace, thinking that he was part of this world of people picnicking and children playing. Other days he was restless—wondering if he fit in, if he was still included in anyone's life or if he was just an old man sitting on a bench; a fixture.

But the best days came when he saw a little girl of eight or nine come into the park with her little white dog. The child would play with the pet with such abandon, shrieking with laughter, or the child would simply sit under a tree, holding the little animal lovingly and whispering into its ear. When the little girl and her dog were there, the old man felt that he was part of the world—imagined, even, that he was part of the little girl's family.

One day, the little girl was playing fairly near the bench where the old man always sat and he summoned the courage to call out to her. The little girl looked up from her play with the dog and smiled a radiant smile at the old man and came over to him, without even a whisper of suspicion or doubt. The old man's heart was warmed.

"Hello, sir," the little girl said with all the politeness some parent or teacher had drilled into her.

"Hello, little girl," the old man said. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Why certainly!" she said, with a hint of a lisp and the old man smiled broadly, remembering a child from his own past who had such a lisp...a good memory.

"What's your name, little girl?" he asked.

"My name is Petal."

"My, my—such a beautiful name. How did you get some a pretty name?" he asked.

"Well," she began, about to tell a story often-heard and beloved, "when I was born, and my mother was in the hospital, my father came to visit her with a huge bouquet of pink roses. As he put the vase of roses on her bed-side table, one single petal fluttered in the wind and floated onto her bed, falling onto the white sheets. My mother took this as a sign and said to my father, 'We shall call our little girl Petal' and my daddy smiled and knew that it was the perfect name."

The old man's heart was near bursting with emotion and he thought he might shed a tear at hearing such a fine story. He brushed his eyes surreptitiously so as not to worry the little child. At this, the little dog let out the smallest and sweetest bark, vying for attention. The old man smiled and said, "And, dear Petal, what is your little friend's name?"

"Porky," said the child.

"Porky! What an odd name!" said the old man. "And why does the charming little being have such a name?"

"Because he fucks pigs."

WAKE UP PEOPLE! FRANK WAS INCAPABLE OF TELLING A "LOVELY" FUCKING STORY!

Yes, yes, yes he had moments where he was a little softer than usual—exactly like the moment I had with his ghost the other night—but mostly he was a funny, foul-mouthed old coot. So, no, I am not going to turn into the Saint Léo just because Frank asked me to cut the Mooks some slack. I will, however, do as he says: hold off for a while and see how things turn out.

To that end, I have not yet killed Mook A though we have been alone for ten days (since Mook B went off on vacation) and I am, in the parlance of humans, behaving. No shitting on the floor, beds, or carpets. No peeing. No barfing. Just to add a little variety and to remind A that I am in the house with him (and to tear him away from the fucking TV and/or computer) I skipped a couple of meals. He became adequately concerned and things got back to normal (ie: I ate and became the boss again).

It's not like the whole time has been without incident. I was nearly killed during yesterday morning's walk because this idiot cunt backed out of her driveway without so much as a glance back and I was right there. That extensible leash sure came in handy with A yanking me hard enough to go flying into his arms. The lady nodded sorry and A nodded back. What he should have done is break her fucking windshield, stupid twat.

Also, there is a stray cat that has decided to cozy up to A. I made the mistake of being nice to the fucker and the fucker was nice to me and A turned all gooey and it was all sweetness and light. Then A said something to the cat that curled my hair: "If I could, I'd take you in, poor thing, but I don't think this one would have it." "This one" was, of course, me and there is no way I would have it. If he gives that meowing piece of shit so much as a bowl of milk, I'll spray the walls with urine and shit.

A cat....do you fucking believe it? A fucking cat...in my fucking house.

This is another sign of Mook A quietly going nuts from boredom and lonliness. As you know Mook B and Cate are off who-knows-where having the time of their lives while the two of us rot in this crumby apartment. Also, this weekend, The Straight Guy is out of town and he was supposed to come here to watch movies (and hopefully break up the monotony). A's other confidante, some chick he talks to long-distance a lot, is also out of town for the weekend. So the next 48 hours should be the real test.

At least there are the nurses and, luckily, my beloved is on weekend shift so I won't have to deal with strangers (who don't get me like she does). Problem is, with nurses each day nothing medical gets ignored. A got this itty-bitty cut on his hand and the damn thing got so infected that he was having trouble moving his entire right wrist and lower arm. The nurse didn't like it. So, off he goes, tomorrow morning (the nurse is coming by at 8:30 especial), to a clinic. It will be the longest time we are parted since B left. Part of me is relieved to have some alone-time, but if he's gone too long...well....shit happens.

December 2, 2009; Vacation, Part III

Been sleeping during the day...a lot.

No one dead yet.

Well, yes there is.

Two nights ago, it all came together. After a decent day of watching movies, walks, and eating off the sidewalk, Mook A and I retired and, after him toodling around the television dial for a bit, it was lights out. He was soon asleep and, despite the nervousness I feel about what's in that kitchen, his snoring next to me made me drowsy too. Yes, you can sleep virtually all day, every day, but when there is a warm body next to you and it's breathing relatively steadily, you either fuck it or you nap.

My eyes were just closing when the noises started in the kitchen. This time there was no doubt. Something was in there. It was not a mouse because I've heard mouse noises before and they're little and, in the main, just aggravating. These noises were bigger. Like bumping into furniture. Like something was in there that was unfamiliar with the layout of the place.

Every one of my hairs stood on end. My bladder was aching, I wanted to pee so bad but I had a pretty good notion what would happen if I peed in the bed: I would be banished, until Mook B's return, to the kitchen each night and considering what was out there, that was not option. So I held it in, trembled like mad and tried not to weep. Right there, in that bed, at midnight, I was turning into every dog I have ever despised. I was a chihuahua. I got up and crossed to the other side of the bed—putting Mook A between me and the kitchen—but this woke him up, pissed him off, and in half-sleep he tossed me about with his legs until I was back where I started. There is one side of the bed that it his, period, end of story. It's not like with Mook B where he pretty much sleeps where I let him.

I don't really know how much time passed. The two alarm clocks A had set up (he's not a morning flower, let me tell you) did not have luminescent faces so all I know was that it was night and that it was the worst night of my life.

Aside from the thumping about, the ghost did not make any other noises. It did not moan or rattle chains or anything. (Despite what you may have heard or read, ghosts—once present in a space—have substance; they do not wander through walls. They have solidity and have to deal with other solid objects.)

An hour must have passed and my fear—coupled with lack of sleep—was slowly turning into pissedoffedness. I may not like this place and I certainly don't like the others who live here but—fuck-shits!—this is my fucking place! I no longer had to pee, but thought that a sip of water might be nice and also decided that the endless nights where I didn't get up to have a drink and didn't wander a little to stretch my legs had to come to an end.

So...

I got up. I sniffed the air. There was a smell. It was familiar. Garbage? I moved forward. I sniffed again, rolling the flavour of the air around in my mouth and sinuses. Something. Something. Old? Finally, after a long, long walk to the center of the kitchen, I could see the thing. Just an outline without an outline—very hard to describe—but like a light-cast with more shape. Like mid-daylight—with it's harsh lines and shadows—but fainter. It was definitely a ghost, now looking out the window. And then I saw.

"Frank?" I snerfed nervously.

"Hello, Little Fellow," he said, turning to me. The fear rushed out of me but then there was sadness. He knelt down on the floor, with more agility then he ever had, and said, "Yes. It's happened. I was a little confused when it did; pretty sudden and all—while watching the twats and homos on Survivor. I stayed around to see how the daughter and her fuckwad would handle it and, I am glad to say, there were lots of tears. Then I was done at her place. Then I came here."

"You knew where I was?"

"Yes." And then it hit both of us. We understood each other. We could talk. He laughed. I snerfed. And there, on the floor, we cuddled a little. He lit a cigarette, sighed and said, "I can smoke as many of these as I want now. It's fucking wonderful. I was wondering when you'd come here to the kitchen to see me. It took you long enough." And he laughed and scratched my ears. It felt like lace being drawn gently over my fur and I trembled a little like with the cold but it was not from cold 'cause the lacy feeling was warm.

"How have you been, Little Guy?"

"They're not you."

"Well, no. And they're homos. And from what I can tell, artsy homos. And, Jesus Fuck, liberals."

"Yes."

"But they seem okay. Let you sleep in their bed. Feed you—"

"—but not the good stuff you fed me—"

"—yes, well...if you'd continued eating that shit, you'd be floating about with me right now." He laughed again and again he scratched me and I moved in closer and lay down across his legs like the old days.

"I miss you," I said.

"I miss you too. But we were good together and that's the most important thing. That we had that time, right?"

"I wish I could come with you," I said and it came out a little...well...chihuahua.

"Look," he said, pulling me closer so that we were one thing...a big shapeless cuddle. "Look," he said again, making sure I was going to listen to him and understand that it was important. "You were the best thing that happened to me. You are the best thing. Don't let anyone ever tell you differently. You're a pile of nutsy wonderfulness...ah! I'm blithering."

"No!" I said.

"Yes, yes I am. Just 'cause I'm dead doesn't make me any smarter. But listen. I know one thing: the sick one...that homo over there...he won't ever say it but he needs you. And the other one...the one on the trip...his heart was so broken when his last mutt died that he thought he would never be the same. But you helped him—"

"—yes, but—"

"—no buts...It's the truth. I've been here for a while watching and that's how it is. And it could be worse for you, couldn't it? A lot worse. Like at the puppy mill—"

"—how do you know about that?—"

"—now I pretty much know everything. All the answers. Anyhoo, that's not important. Just listen to me: make do. Even if you hate them (and you can hate them all you want) make do. It's not all about you."

I snerfed because, if he knew everything now, he certainly knew that the guiding philosophy of every single dog in the universe is: It's all about me. He laughed, as if he was reading my mind. Then he said, "Did I give you a good life?"

"Oh! yes!" I said, my voice going chihuahua.

"Then you owe me a favour and this is the one I'm asking. Just stick it out for a bit. Then, in a while, if you really, really, really don't like it, then do what you have to do."

"A while?"

"No sense in not finding out what Christmas is like here, right? My guess is if they're like all aging fags who've been together for a while, they channel the sexual frustration into decorating, gifts and a big motherfucking turkey with all the fixings!" I drooled a little.

Then there was quiet, the room filling with the cigarette smoke that was not cigarette smoke. His warmth wrapped around me and I was nodding off. "Sleep well, Little Fellow," he said quietly. "I love you."

"I love you too," I said and off, off, off I went.

I awoke to the sound of the two alarm clocks. Oh! I had slept so well. So, so well. But I was in the bed, with Mook A, and he was yawning and stretching and trying to find the fucking clocks to turn them off. He pulled himself up to sitting position and I moved in closer for warmth and because I didn't want to get up just yet. He laughed and gave me a kiss on the nose and said, "Time to get up; we both need to pee." I realized that, yes, I needed to pee something fierce.

The day was ordinary but comfy and easy. Last night, after lights out, I waited for a bit but the only noises coming from the kitchen were the sounds of the fridge gurgling and the floor settling and the gentle, gentle winter wind outside.

Before long, my eyes were closing. I was out.

November 29, 2009; Vacation, Part II

This fat fuck is on my fucking balcony! Is there no respect!

There are a few things that are worrying me with Mook B in France and me alone with Mook A. I'll start with the lack of sleep I'm getting. I'm now in Mook A's bed for the duration of the other one's vacation and though it is as cozy as you could want, it gives on to the fucking kitchen and—worse!—he leaves the kitchen door open all night in case I want to walk about and get some water. But I'll be damned if I'm moving from the fucking bed in the night hours as, I tell you, there is a ghost in there.

There's one thing you should know about dogs. We know our ghosts. When you see us pricking up our ears or hear us whining or growling at nothing...think again! It isn't nothing. We not only hear and smell the spirits which roam about, we can sense them even when they're barely around. You've seen dogs reacting strangely to places which seem perfectly banal...well, it's the ghosts. Yes, yes, yes we know that you humans think it's all bunk but that's because you're stupid.

So, for now, I live with the damn thing and dread that it will try to make its presence felt even more. I'll tell you this...I get awfully thirsty at night and I'm really happy when the sun starts to rise.

Meanwhile, there is other craziness here. Mook A is starting to talk to me. I don't mean: "Get off the fucking couch!" or "Go lie down!" I mean chats. He has taken to watching two or three movies a day and although this used to keep him fairly docile and let me sleep (curled up beside him) lately he's started to get mouthy. He always talks at the TV (losing his mind when some right-winger shows up on CNN), but this is different. We were watching Appaloosa and he said, "Do you like Westerns, Leo?" (Note: he pronounces my name in English, Mook B in French.) I glanced up at him, thinking he was just jabbering, but he was actually looking at me, waiting for an answer like. "I don't usually enjoy Westerns," he went on, "but this one has Viggo Mortensen and Ed Harris and that is a whole lot of eye candy." Well, I should have known. I thought he'd shut up, but he went on. "I like Ed Harris for his eyes, which I noticed for the first time when he was in The Right Stuff. And Viggo...what to say about Viggo..." He sighed like a teen girl reading Tiger Beat. "I fell for him when he took off his shirt in Psycho. I was hooked. And I don't think he's married."

Well...a: Too much information and b: You can dream on about Viggo and you. But A went on telling me he didn't usually like Westerns 'cause the guys didn't take their shirts off but I can tell you this about Appaloosa: it was the gayest film I've seen since Brokeback Mountain. If Mortensen wasn't in love with Harris, I'll eat my Harley Davidson collar!

There is one good thing about Mook A's talking. When we're out walking, and because it's late autumn, the squirrels are everywhere and getting more aggressive and snotty with me. They've taken to taunting me on the street, running up a tree (just out of reach) and chittering at me...mocking me. That's when A steps in. "You fucking little coward!" he bellowed at one this morning. "Come back down on the sidewalk and face the music, you fucking tree rat shit. You'll be making all sorts of different noises when Leo's finished with you!" Then he turned to me and said, "Right?" I snerfed that he was quite right and he laughed his head off. You gotta like that about him, at least.

Meanwhile, we're hearing nearly nothing from Mook B in France. Apparently his sacred little iPhone is a piece of shit over there and that's after he paid to get it unlocked; a whole 250 Eurines or whatever the fuck those commie faggots over there use to buy their scag and child prostitutes.

Anyhoo...

Five days together, alone, and no one is dead yet...so I suppose that's good.

November 26, 2009; The Vacation, Part I

This is the Straight Guy (SG). Of course, he isn't sitting very "straight", in any sense of the word, but he's not far if I need him.

Mook B is away in Paris and it is the third day I have been alone with Mook A.

It started badly with A giving me a bath the first day. If you watch CSI or those shows, it seems to me that rapists sometimes force their victims to bathe before doing bad things to them. But as it turns out, in A's own charming turn of phrase, "If you're going to sleep in my bed, I don't want your filth and your nasty arse in there with me."

The first night was the worst 'cause I found out there's a ghost in the kitchen. A's bedroom is right off the kitchen and he left his door open so that I could wander or drink water in the night, but I didn't move from that fucking bed 'cause all through the night there were sounds—bumps, clunks and skitters—coming from there I had never heard before and I don't think I slept a wink. A finally got annoyed with me jumping up and down in the bed in consternation and yanked me over to the other side of the him and forced me to lie down and curl up.

The best thing about the time so far is that I almost got away. It was the third or fourth walk together and as we came out and when I usually sit as A lights his cigarette before starting, I decided to see what would happen if I yanked as he did this. Sure enough, the leash-handle flew from his hand and I was free. But here's the thing: this is a new leash (one of those extensible ones) and it all snaps back into this really heavy box. So as I ran down the stairs to get away, that fucking box was smacking me in the ass and when I got to the sidewalk my only concern was to get it away from my butt. Needless to say A caught up to me and what made it all so much worse was that Ginger was a few feet away watching this spectacle. She snerfed with disdain and I knew that my wooing of her had taken a giant leap backward.

So, just to assure A that he had not reacquired the upper hand, I decided to add something totally new to my repertoire! As we walked along this lady came over to pet me. At first I did my usual joyful song and dance for her but as her voice hit some level of delight, in octaves only a dog can hear, I decided to bite her. Not a playful bite, but a good little nip on the end of her fingers. She yelped and A pulled me back, apologizing profusely. As we walked away he was completely confused—as was the plan—and was saying, "What the fuck was that all about?!" It was soon forgotten, however, so on a later walk he wasn't expecting anything when this huge, hysterically happy and opera-soprano-high-voiced lady shrieked from across the street how cute I was and made her way towards us. I, again, did the little dance of joy but then, again, bit her too adding a series of maniac snarls for effect. The lady jumped back and said, "Is this normal for him?! Is he angry?! Is he happy?!" A just grinned stupidly, dragging me away, and said, "He's never done such things before." Heheheheh...

Except...

When we were out of view of civilized people he got insanely angry, knelt beside me, bellowed in my face and, for good measure, clomped me in the head with the leash-box. From then on, 'til today, he did not let me approach other people and when a little girl in the schoolyard begged to pet me he told her, in grave tones, "He's a mean dog, sorry."

Now, as I've said, there is a thin line between being the neighbourhood dog who's got 'tude and the neighbourhood dog who's out of his fucking mind and only the truly sick dogs want to cross that line, so I'm going to have to be careful about this or I see in my future short-leash walks and—save us all!—a muzzle. I wouldn't put that past A.

However, I am examining possible escape plans. Winter is coming and I really don't want to do the whole alleys and parks thing again so I thought that—should I get away—I'll run over to Straight Guy (SG)'s house. You know: the one who had the fire and lived here a couple of days? He owes me for taking up my space and maybe he'd keep me safe 'til Mook B gets back or until I can find another place to live. I don't want him to adopt me, no, 'cause I've seen his place (when Mook A was watering his plants this summer) and this guy is way too much of a clean-freak to want a dog around him permanently.

So, as you can see, except for the ghost in the kitchen (I wonder who it is!), nobody is dead and there haven't been any natural disasters.

Yet.

November 23, 2009; Better

Now what?

I am much, much better. But, just for good measure, after all the nausea and diarrhea had passed I took a dump on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night right in front of the fridge. I was hoping Mook A would get up for his midnight pee and glass of water (which he gets from the fridge) but no such luck. However, because I had been sick, I wasn't even punished for it. Must remember that.

I suspect you wonder why dogs eat crap on the street which makes us sick. Well, first: we don't know it's going to make us sick and it all smells good. But, most importantly, second: being a dog is an art and we must suffer for our art.

Meanwhile, my appetite is still not what it was, I'm lazy, the weight is coming back from sheer inertia... Oh! my fucking Christ! I'm turning into Mook A! Before you know it I'll be nerding out online with people named Mouse and Yogi!

I suppose that it's just as well that I'm turning into the Mook as in a piddling 36 hours or so it's going to be him and me alone as Mook B is off to Paris with his fucking iPhone (the better to keep tabs on the battle of wills between me and A). Worse, my other buffer, Cate, is now in Florida and is paying the price of abandoning me—her e-mails report the resort she's staying at is a deadzone. (Which, in Florida, means there's no one around who can wipe his or her own arsehole for the blubber, wrinkles or arthritis).

Right now Mook A and I are enjoying a kind of détente. We spend a lot of time cuddling (for warmth not love, fuckwads!) and watching TV. Thankfully, A is feeling so brainless these days we don't have to slog through his usual favourites—art films—we're getting lots of explosions and blood which is the way I like it; nothing like watching humans blown away or being devoured by zombies to cheer up a condemned dog.

Mook B keeps asking A what he wants from Paris. Indeed, between Cate and B, A is being drowned in solicitousness. I have apparently become invisible. No one asks me what I want from Paris or Florida or fucking anywhere. B has stocked the freezer with all of A's favourite foods but I continue to survive on a diet of crap kibble soaked in store-bought broth. You know what that tastes like? A Floridian's arsehole is what.

The only consolation is that Mook A's own asshole still looks like it belongs to the head cheerleader for the prison football team, so my beloved nurse visits five times a week now with a swing nurse on weekends. I wonder if their code of ethics requires them to report if I'm starving to death, being beaten or have a bladder that's about to explode. Mind, if their code of ethics requires that, I suppose it certainly requires them to report when I kill Mook A in his sleep and eat his fucking face off.

Pray for me.