March 20, 2010; Health

It was not a pretty sight, two days ago. Skeeter was feeling atrocious as was I. I hadn't eaten normally in a couple of days and he was all anxious about his health and about this new antibiotic treatment he's on—hoping against hope this one would work and close the fucking wound he's had for over 15 months. Let's just say we weren't a happy duo.

He did my afternoon walk, downed his pain killer and then settled down to watch TV. Before he could relax, though, he was up and running for the bathroom and heaving and hurling and making all those oh-so-pleasant noises that make you want to join in for the chorus. He came out of the bathroom looking green and beaten and tried to eat some crackers. As he always does, he handed one down to me. That's when it happened: that cracker did not look tasty, it did not smell yummy and before you know it, I was turning my head away and heaving onto the floor.

After he tidied it up we just both died a little; settling into the La-Z-Boy hoping that the world would stop twirling about and that the winds in our heads would settle down to a dull roar.

"Do you think you made me sick," I asked, "or I made you sick?"

"I don't know if they're connected."

"Or more like: you dragged some hideous germ back from that clinic you go to three times a week and we're all going to die of Ebola or some fucking thing."

"Look, I cleaned up your mess and it wasn't any Ebola. It was leaves and crap and the usual shit you stick your nose into and eat without thinking."

"You should fucking talk," I bitched, "you do the walk with me, take a pain-killer on an empty stomach, then sit there for an hour smoking and drinking coffee, all on an empty stomach. Doesn't sound exactly like a health regime to me."

"Fuck you—"

"—and you with sugar on it." And we were quiet for a while and watched CNN. "You know what I like about the Americans?" I said, "they have their priorities straight."

"Hm?" he said.

"You can get a full insurance policy, in the US, for your dog or—heaven forbid!—your cat. So what the hell does it matter if you can't get insurance for your kids!"

He looked down at me and said, "You're an evil little thing."

Meanwhile, spring has sprung which means it's shorts season and Skeeter is back to walking into trees and lamp-posts as he stares, rather hungrily, at all the guys in their Spandex. "Look," I told him as we walked along and no one else could hear, "I don't mind you noticing every fucking hairy-legged gorilla who runs by, but you have got to control the things you say under your breath—"

"—No more, 'Hubba-hubba'?" and he laughed.

"That's not the one that worries me. I was thinking more when you whisper, 'What's your name, little boy?'"

He laughed and said, "You know, I have no idea how I got into that habit!"

"Well break it, it's creepy."

"Well, just bite my ankle next time," he said.

"Never you fear."

Boo-Boo is all over the place which means when we see him we don't see him. He's a basket case of nerves and end-of-semester hysteria. When he's on a tear, both Skeeter and I know to keep a low profile and just nod and smile. The real problem is he's a pain in the ass to sleep with as he is always tossing and turning and getting out of bed and getting back in, and tossing some more. I sleep as far at the end and on the corner of the bed as I can so that this doesn't bother me as much, but sometimes, when he is trying to settle down, he drags me up to his shoulder in the bed and cuddles me. This sounds nice and I do get a few winks, but before long he's bed-surfing again and all hope of deep sleep is lost.

Hey! That might be why I'm sick!

Or then of course, it could be the plastic, branches, dead leaves and dirty snow I eat, as Skeeter said.

March 17, 2010: They call me Massa.

Watching TV

Skeeter and I were watching CNN—Obama, health reform, fat-cat GOPers, mousey Dems—you know, same old, same old.

But then I had to ask: "I don't know the world of men—all that straight and queer—"

"—gay—" he chimed in as he always chimes in.

"—gay. So tell me: if there are a bunch of men who are at a birthday party, do they ever get into tickle fights?"

"Well, I have seen it."

"Straight men, I mean."

"Well, yes, with straight men. If they're reeeeeeeeeeally drunk or reeeeeeeeally high and there is a subcurrent of horniness with no women available, straight men can work out their frustrations in a number of physical ways and tickling is one of them."

"Really?!" I asked.

"No, of course not!" he bellowed laughing. Then he offered an anecdote, as he is wont to do (sigh). "When I was a kid, grade five or six, we had this stupid thing called Fruits Day. Every Thursday guys would go up to other guys and knock them in the nuts and shout, 'Fruits Day!' I mean it was a real knock in the nuts, not something friendly or chummy. Except when it wasn't. You could tell the kids who were working something out by the...er...gentleness of their Fruits Day knock. I knew that very young and one of the kids became my first partner in...'exploration'... if you will."

"Ew. I mean: interesting."

"I suspect it's the same way in athletes locker-rooms with all the towel swatting etc. The ones who are looking find each other by using supposedly über-male bonding rituals."

"Like tickle fights."

"Well, maybe. But if you look at Glenn Beck, it doesn't look like he's buying the tickle fight explanation."

"And Jon Stewart didn't either," I added. Then I was pondering something and finally said, "But isn't he married and doesn't he have kids?" Skeeter made that noise humans make that is like a snerf. I think they call it a scoff; disdain, incredulity, horror at the ignorance of others.

"You know," he said in a tone that suggested he was about to share something juicy, "I almost got married and had kids. I thought I had to. 'Til I didn't."

"Close call for that girl," I said.

"Indeed."

"But what about 'snorkeling'?"

"Well, that's a navy thing, I think. Or maybe a navy myth—"

"—that straight guys do?"

"Straight guys do way gayer stuff than queer guys, sometimes. Wrestling, for one. One of my brothers told me that there was this thing guys did called Shoot the Biscuit where, at parties or on camping trips, the guys would have a circle jerk around a cookie and tried to shoot onto the cookie. The last one to shoot would have to eat the cookie."

"Ack!" I couldn't help exclaiming.

"I'm with you on that one," he said.

I thought about it for a while and said, "That hardly sounds like good training to be any kind of decent lover...I mean HURRY HURRY HURRY!"

"Well, I don't think that was entirely the point, do you?"

"Hm." There another silence and I said, "Though it does sound a lot like a tickle fight."

Skeeter laughed his head off and said, "Now you get it."

"What a very odd world you people live in," I said, "nothing sexual is ever black and white. No wonder you're all such a mess."

"No wonder," he said.

And I fell off to sleep as he continued to watch the congressman's transgressions parsed every which way on the 24-hour news network.

March 14, 2010; Big Bad World

It's a big bad world.

Word has gotten out to all the dogs in the 'hood that I was canoodling with Cleo the cat and it's not difficult to guess who is spreading the word: Ginger. Even when I'm inside I can hear her yap-yap-yapping to whoever will listen to her. "Hey! You! Idiot lab! Yeah! You! Across the street! You know that little white Jack Russle with the brown ears! Yeah! Leo! He's fucking a cat! Yeah! Spread the word!" Because Ginger is a yappy dog and extremely territorial, none of the humans are taking any notice but their dogs are. "Oh my God! That's disgusting!" one of the dogs yowled back at her two days ago.

When I go out for my own walks I pray like mad I won't run into anyone I know and so far, so good. I did see Benjie but Benjie being Benjie (a nice, old-lady's dog) he just snerfed and said, "Things will be all right."

I even tried to talk to Ginger but she raged at me: "Don't you talk to me, you little pig-dog. I know what you do! I know what you are!"

I even got a little pissed with her and said, "If you'd given me so much as the time of day, this probably wouldn't have happened, you evil cock-tease!"

"Don't you dare use that tone with me!" she snarled. "You know you're in the wrong! You know it! You know it! You know it!"

Her "You know it!" was still ringing in my ears when I was snuggling with Skeeter, yesterday.

He looked down at me and said, "You look perturbed."

"It's not a good thing to be a dog, right now," I said.

"It's Ginger, isn't it?"

"How did you know?" I asked.

"She's shrieking more than usual. Spreading the word, I imagine."

"Yes."

We were very quiet after that. But last night...

We were walking along, enjoying the brisk spring air and were almost done for the evening when there she was, running at me like she always runs at me, except this time it wasn't to flirt but to continue her tirade. Her mistress was off talking to one of the neighbours and didn't notice that Ginger was berating me because her noise is such a constant around here that it's not even noted anymore. That's when Skeeter swooped her up in his arms—something he has never done—and pretended he was making nice-nice with her. Skeeter waved at Ginger's mistress who waved back.

"Listen to me you little bitch," he hissed at Ginger, "and I know you understand me, so don't play dumb and don't say another fucking word...just listen." Ginger froze in his arms. "If you continue trash-talking Leo all over the street, I am going to tell your lady what you are saying. She's 'different' too and she wouldn't like it one bit."

Ginger snerfed a laugh because she knew this wasn't going to happen. Refusing to speak English she said to me in Dawg, "Tell him the whole fucking street will think he's crazy." I did and he nodded at this.

He thought for a moment then said, "You know all that running around off leash you do that everyone finds so charming? How about if I spread it around that you're a biter—tell every woman with a carriage or a toddler to keep away from you because you're dangerous? How soon before you're back on a leash, or worse, kept at home? That would sure keep your little gossip's tongue from wagging about, wouldn't it!"

The worst thing in the universe had just happened to Ginger: she had been bested by a human. That can ruin a reputation and I told her so. She snerfed, but not so light-heartedly this time. She toddled back to one-legged Gingerlady like nothing was wrong, but she was grumbling the whole way. My, my, my that little bitch was some pissed off.

There is no way this is over. Whispering campaigns can sometimes be worse than yapping campaigns. But it looked like the lid was back on the boiling pot for a while and that was good enough for me.

When we got back to the apartment I was full of piss and vinegar and started to tear around. Boo-Boo asked, "What's with him?"

"He has energy to burn off, I suppose. We ran into Ginger and things got crazy."

I yodeled for Skeeter without him even asking me too.

March 11, 2010; Queer Questions

Boo-Boo was at work, so I went over to Skeeter, sitting in his La-Z-Boy, and asked to come up. He pulled me up next to him and went back to his book. But I didn't want to cuddle.

"When did you know you were a faggot?" I asked.

"The word is gay," he said.

"Forgive me for not being PC—when did you know you were a gay?"

"I think I've always known. When I was a very, very little boy—even as young as five, I think—I used to have dreams about wrestling naked with Ron Ely, the guy who played Tarzan on TV."

"Yeah," I said, "that's gay alright."

"Why are you asking this?" he said.

"Just curious." And he went back to his book. Then I asked, "And how long before you came out of the closet?"

He looked up impatiently, but when he looked at me the impatience faded and he said, "Well, I was from a Catholic, military family so it was not something you did. So I didn't until I hooked up with Boo-Boo and there was no hiding it."

"But you had a life before Boo-Boo?" I said more than asked.

"Oh, yes..." and his eyes went a little weird, and he smiled strangely and I could tell he was thinking of dirty, dirty things.

"HEY! SNAP OUT OF IT! We're talking about me here!"

"Oh?" he said and looked at me. "I thought we were talking about me. You don't think you're going queer, do you?"

"Ick! No!"

"'Ick?'"

"Sorry, I mean: Hell! No!" There was a long silence which Skeeter had the good sense not to fill. I didn't know exactly what I wanted to say. Finally I said, "How was it, back then, when you knew but didn't tell anybody?"

"Well, when I was very young I knew no one would handle it, at all: not my siblings, not my parents, not society. I knew—without knowing it as a fact—that I would be pilloried. So I kept quiet, even for a long time after I had to be quiet."

"Had to? You see that's the thing: there was a time when you had to be quiet. When it wasn't safe because it was so bad, or wrong, or taboo—"

"Yes, that's how it was."

"Jeez." And my head was exploding with questions but instead I said, "It's about me and Cleo."

"Cleo?"

"THECATTHECATTHECAT!!!!!!"

"Okay, simmer down. The black and white cat, down the street...?" I nodded. He went on, "And the problem is that it's bad? It's unacceptable? And to who; other dogs...?"

"Dogs, cats, some humans, rats, snakes...you name it. Worse then queer—"

"—how do you know?—"

"—well, queer dogs and cats are okay with us."

"Really?" he said, sounding like the queerest little street gossip you could every want to meet. "Are there queer dogs in the neighbourhood?"

"Yeah, probably. Benjie. Anyway, that's not the thing. I'm about to be ostracized. Ginger saw me with Cleo and this could get ugly."

"Well, you always have me." I snerfed a laugh which I guess sounded insulting because he didn't take it well. "Is that not enough?"

"You don't know how it is." Then I stopped. "Well, maybe you do."

"Yes, maybe I do." And then he hugged me really hard and I dared to enjoy the hug and then we settled back to watch TV. "Thank you," I said so quietly, I was hoping he wouldn't hear me.

"Anytime," he said as quietly.

March 8, 2010; The Oscars

My Oscar gown

So last night, for endless hours, we sat through the Academy Awards. I'd done this before, with my last master, Frank, and last year I had not been interested in doing it with the Mooks—preferring to sleep in the kitchen. But this year there was going to be food and they were going to have—in their own, sad little way—an Oscar party. It was the food that attracted me, but also the possibility I might learn some more stuff about these two oddballs.

With Frank, the Oscars was one long rant. He hated Hollywood, thinking it was part of George Bush's Axis of Evil but more evil because it was full of socialist propagandists, homos, dykes and twats. When he watched, he didn't comment on anything going on, just watched, fuming and getting drunker and drunker until he passed out, well before the best movie was announced. It's a good thing the old codger is dead because if he had been watching, last night, just seeing Barbra "The Red" Streisand would have given him a stroke.

With the Mooks, though, it was a whole 'nuther kettle of fish. First, Skeeter just got more and more annoying because he has a thing for George Clooney and as they showed the actor (over and over again) the stupid goof couldn't help exclaiming, "My God, he's so gorgeous!" If we had been alone I would have told him to SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY—HE'S GORGEOUS, YOU'RE QUEER! WE GET IT! Boo-Boo was being very polite about Skeeter's ejaculations (so to speak) and agreed with him once or twice that, yes, George was cute. Indeed, everyone was cute: Colin Firth, Alec Baldwin, Matt Damon and on and on and on. How gay is that?

Well, maybe as gay as Boo-Boo noting, "Why is it that the young actresses are dressed so badly?" Well, indeed, the youngsters did look like drag queens, but that's neither here nor there: it's not something a man should note. But noted it was as was the sexual orientation of many of the recipients. "Oh he's so gay!" Skeeter would hoot. Jayzus...you'd have to be blind and deaf not to know that some of these guys were gay, so it's not exactly like we were dealing with finely calibrated gaydars, here!

But here's what I gotta say: Meryl Streep looked edible—looked like the kind of older broad who loves dogs. And I'll bet you dollars to donuts that Helen Mirren gets down and dirty with her dogs too—and they're not little purse dogs but energetic, mad things who romp about her estate while she laughs wildly with the wind in her air.

So there you have it: I appear to have a thing for women over 40...waaaaaaay over 40. You learn all sorts of stuff during the Oscars, don't you?

Meanwhile, I ran into Cleo while walking with Skeeter and he gave me all the leash I needed to go and say hello to her. I was cool, she was cool, we were hot! "I'm glad to see you've simmered down," she said. The she looked at Skeeter with no little suspicion and said, "Why is he staring at us?"

"'Cause he knows I like you."

"How the hell does he know that?" she purred.

"I told him."

"Ah...you're talking to him then. Interesting." She licked her paws for a bit, letting me hang on her observation for a minute. "I find the humans fascinating," she said at last. "What's he got to say?"

"Not much."

"Ah." She looked up and said, "He's still staring at us. Is he a pervert or something?"

"Well...he's queer."

"Aren't they all..."

I don't know what that meant so felt it best to say nothing. Skeeter said, "Wrap it up, love bird, time to go home."

"Will I see you again?" I asked.

"I'll be here." As I was being dragged off I was thinking we were like Bogie and Bacall, Newman and Woodward, Taylor and Burton. We were perfect, perfect, perfect together.

Then, from across the street, I heard a high-pitched bark/shriek: "YOU'RE A SICK FUCK!" Oh, Lord! It was Ginger and she was pissed and was jumping up and down in rage. This was going to be bad. Very bad. Dogs and cats...well...many, many don't like the idea. "Looks like you have girl problems," Skeeter said.

"Big ones," I muttered. Skeeter just laughed and laughed and laughed, all the fucking way home! God, what is wrong with me? Old actor broads, cats...what next? Was the level of immorality in which I was living tainting me? Turning me, too, into a degenerate?

Or was it?...could it be?...dare I say it?...liberating me?

March 5, 2010; All Hell...

The other night things got a little wild and wooly at La Maison Mook. I was bored out of my skull and the Mooks were in the office yadda-yadda-yadda-ing and I wanted to blow off some energy. But they just kept ignoring me!!!

So I went into the living room and dragged a pillow off the sofa and thought I'd just beat it up for a little. But—hey!—what's this? A zipper? So, very carefully, I pulled the zipper down and exposed the guts of the pillow (snowy white cottony something or other) and I went to town! It was a blast! It was like winter in the house! Soon the living room was festooned like a drunk tank on Christmas Eve! But then...they noticed. No one went ballistic, marvelling, rather, at the fact that I had found and pulled down the zipper (people really think dogs are tards!). But I could see the little vein in Skeeter's forehead throbbing a little. He stopped working, picked me up and bellowed: "So you want some attention, do you! WELL, I'M GOING TO GIVE YOU SOME ATTENTION!!!!"

And off we went, playing a rather simple but always-fun game of chase. The apartment is full of doors and walls and corners and I'm little and he's humongous so it's always a noisy, mad event. It finished on Boo-Boo's bed where I was going ballistic because Skeeter was approaching and he knows not to come near me (in the game, I mean). But then he did this sneaky thing and slid his arm under the covers and grabbed my legs and nose with his hands from under there. I was hopping around like mad, working up a good sweat, and evading/attacking/evading to beat the band. Soon, of course, Skeeter got tired (being the huge, wrecked hunk o' human he is) and went off to prepare for bed.

But here's the thing...

I needed to pee something fierce and then I couldn't stop myself and then I peed in the bed. It was Boo-Boo who discovered it, with a wail of horror, as he was coming to bed. As he changed the sheets, Skeeter picked me up by the scruff of the neck (not my preferred form of travel) and slapped me down on my little carpet in the kitchen where it looked like I would spend the night. Skeeter was enraged, I could tell, and would have said something but Boo-Boo was just in the next room.

However...

The next day, the moment Boo-Boo left for work, Skeeter exploded. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ALL ABOUT!" he screamed.

"Calm down. I'm not talking to you when you're like this," I said. His face went white and then a little red and I thought a bit and said, "Okay, I will talk to you when you're like this but only to explain what happened."

"MAKE IT FAST!"

"Well, the pillow is easy: I was bored to death, had gotten hardly any exercise and you two were yacketty-yacking and ignoring me completely."

"WE WERE BUSY!" he roared.

"No you weren't. You were talking about what you would watch on TV if you were going to watch TV and on and on and on."

"So what you're saying is we can't leave the little princess alone for two minutes—"

"—it wasn't two fucking minutes it was all fucking day! When are you assholes going to learn that I need entertainment!"

"When are you going to learn that we have lives!"

"Well you shouldn't have adopted me then!" Lordie, I sounded like a twelve year old in an after-school special.

But then, on a dime, Skeeter changed the subject, "And the peeing in the bed...???!!!"

"Well, I was just all hopped up from playing with you and needed—"

"—IN THE FUCKING BED, YOU LITTLE FUCK!!!"

"Well, these things happen," I said and snerfed. It was a nervous noise but might not have been heard that way. He stopped. There was silence.

Then: "Leo, I am very, very disappointed in you—"

That's when I exploded. "Don't try that kiddie-level pop-psych shit on me!"

The throbbing vein on his head looked like it would just burst. "I ought to kick your little white ass up and down the fucking staircase."

"OH! YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME, MOFO! YOU WANT A FUCKING PIECE OF ME!" I yodeled and to make the point started jumping about on my hind legs, begging him to come at me.

He laughed cruelly and said, "What's a pipsqueak like you going to do to me!"

"I'd rip your mother-fucking balls off, for a start!" I said, still bouncing about.

What we had was a Mexican stand-off.

Actually, it was worse: what we had was two sissies who had no intention of hurting (or, especially, of being hurt), one of whom was still dancing about on his hind legs like a Super-Dog on crack. What we had was an old married couple—the kind who make threats and press each other's buttons but stay together anyway.

Fuck, we were The Ropers.

A few hours later, we were on the La-Z-Boy, watching our shows. I was curled up next to him as he sipped his coffee. He said, "Just try not to do it again. Give me a sign."

"It's not like you're Helen-fucking-Keller," I said, "you only have to look."

"Yes, well, sometimes I don't pay attention."

"You said it, sister."

He giggled a little as I nodded off.

March 2, 2010; Wild Things

Here's the thing:

You take a chihuahua at the pound and you say, "Look, we're running out of pound space, so what we're going to do is put the chihuahua with the pit bull. They'll have fun. The chihuahua will teach him some tricks and soon they'll be friends." So then you go to the pit bull pen and, just to get things started, you put the chihuahua on the pit bull's back—like an animal trick!—and then move back from the pen. Well, tell me, what do you think will happen?

Or better: you have this milquetoast accountant who has been arrested for tax-fraud, and he goes to the penitentiary and when he gets there the warden says, "We're running out of space and we only have these little cells, but we have an idea. We're going to put you with Max the Ax and here's why: we want you to train him...tame him, if you will. After a while, when you've done that, we want you to, like, ride on his back in the annual prison rodeo! How does that sound?" The milquetoast would be doubtful of success, but what choice does he have? Well, tell me, what do you think will happen?

Easy, ain't it?: the chihuahua would get flung in the air by the pitbull and caught in his mouth, crunched about a bit and then swallowed only to reappear as a slightly less yappy turd a few days later. The accountant, meanwhile, would become a rodeo ride himself, having every hole on his body crammed in some hideous way before Max the Ax sprayed the milquetoast's bodily fluids around the tiny cell like a Dali on amphetamines.

So please, tell me, why did anyone expect anything any different from a whale know as a "killer" who lives in a pool which, to an animal of this hugeness is the size of a toilet bowl, when a person starts riding on his back, standing on his nose and then leaping into the air to dive into his little body of water? Why did anyone expect that the whale and the so-called trainer would be "friends" when, in any animal's mind, the trainer is not a friend but a warden; a slaver, if you will. Of course some little human is going to end up dead as surely as Milquetoast ended up dead in that cell with Max.

But here's the other thing.

It is surprising to me that you, the humans, find it hilarious. I mean, didn't this dead woman mean anything to anybody? Didn't she have a family? Don't you care? Yet the running gag on television is the broad who got eaten by the whale. We, in the animal kingdom, rightly find this whole fiasco insanely funny (I'm telling you, whenever we meet each other on the street we only have to say "Sea World" and we're doubled up with laughter), it is odd that you do too.

I mean, I even asked Skeeter what this meant and he said, "In situations of moral ambiguity, human life becomes a punch line."

Now I don't know if he was being wise or just trying to shut me up because he was reading. But I did think about it. Perhaps, ultimately, human life is just a punch line. Maybe that's as it should be; 'cause, let's face it, human existence is like a bad joke—it goes on and on and on without an obvious point and ends with a splat. If you're lucky, that splat (or chomp/thrash/drown) merits a giggle.