May 10, 2010; Weather and Heights

Saturday it was raining—cold, shit-rain—all day so there was little or no chance of meeting up with Cleo. Sunday it snowed! Do you mother-fucking believe it! It fucking snowed! I mean, at the beginning of the April it was fucking 80 degrees and yesterday it fucking snowed! I blame humans for this.

But that, sadly, is not the point.

Last night I was out with Skeeter for my last walk of the day and who should I see zipping behind a building (during the wet snow) but Cleo! I called her over and she tried to pretend I hadn't seen her and then tried to pretend that she hadn't heard me and so I kept on yelling. But it was Skeeter's very gentle, "Cleo, come here sweetheart," which stopped her dead in her tracks and slowly, so very slowly, she came over to us both.

I was not my usual hysterical self because she looked woebegone from the wet snow and the cold. Then I noticed something. I mumbled up to Skeet, "Do you see that?" He sighed deeply and, it seemed, very sadly and said yes and he squatted down as Cleo approached us both very cautiously. "Where's your collar, honey?" I said to her.

"I don't have one."

"But you did have one," I said. And she mewed quietly. "I don't understand."

"She's been turned out," said Skeeter. "Sometimes when people move away, they go to an apartment that doesn't accept animals so they just take the collars off their cats and dogs and let them loose in the alleys and then move away, leaving them to fend for themselves."

"Wha...?" I didn't get it at all.

Then Cleo said, "Yes, he's right."

"BUT THAT'S FUCKING BARBARIC!" I shrieked in Dog-Speak.

Skeeter said, very, very quietly, "Ask her if that's what's happened."

She understood and mewed a yes to me. She was so weak and wet and hungry that I didn't know what to say.

My whole life was exploding right here and now. Nothing was making sense. I wasn't supposed to be a cute dog—something out of those wretched Family Circus cartoons (that idiot Barfy, I think he's called)—and I wasn't supposed to me a nice, movie dog like Tramp. But here I was living something straight out of a fucking Brontë novel or, worse, one of those winter scenes in Dickens that everyone cries at but which are just gross and human and downright bathetic.

"Come home with us," I said to her.

"I can't! No! I'm an alley cat now! I've been one for ten days! Since my family moved away! And I've been eating all sorts of crap in the alley and drinking puddle water and I'm not fit for anyone's home. No!"

"But this can't be. You're too...good for this."

"Yeah, well, they didn't think so," she said. "I hate humans. I hate all of them. I hope I get hit by a fucking car and this will all be over."

"Don't talk like that! It's stupid! Now just come with us!"

Suddenly she was gone. She just tore off and I tried to go after her and was shrieking her name and yelling, "Come back! Come back!" But Skeeter was pulling back on the leash. "LET GO OF ME, YOU FUCKER! LET ME GO AFTER HER!"

But he didn't. He slowly pulled me back to him and then kneeled down on the wet pavement near me and petted me gently. "There's nothing we can do. We can try. But I don't think she wants our help."

"But...but...but..."

And then there was quiet. "Her heart is broken, I think," he said finally. "I can't imagine how a cat feels when its been getting food and shelter and heat and affection and suddenly its just turned out like that. But it happens all the time, Leo, and there's nothing we can do about it."

We slowly walked back to the apartment. "She's right. I hate humans."

He sighed deeply and said, "I hate them too, sometimes. I don't understand anyone who can do that. But it happens all the time," he said again except this time it was just a sad, soft echo of what it had been before. "We'll do what we can for her," he said, "if we see her again—"

"—if?—" I said in a panic.

"—when..."

This morning, with the warmer temperature, I looked for her all over the place. I think Skeeter did too. But we didn't see her. Instead we saw garbage bags ripped open in the alleys and trash strewn everywhere.

Skeeter and I said not a thing as we went back, walking in the sun, to the warmth of our home.

May 7, 2010; Some Enchanted Afternoon

We were just toddling along, yesterday afternoon, enjoying a little sun after the rain-storm when suddenly...THERE SHE WAS! I yanked Skeeter for a half-block and went up to the step she was on outside her building (or what I think is her building, because you never know with her.)

"Oh God!" I said, trying not to weep, "I thought you were roadkill!"

"Simmer down, little fellow," she said and tapped my nose with her paw which, for Cleo, passes for affection.

Skeeter was holding the leash tight so I snarled, "Hey! Dicksmack! Could you give me a little slack here?!"

"You're acting weird," he said, "I don't know what you'll do!"

"You are acting bizarre, sweetie," Cleo purred in Cat.

To her: "I'm in love!" To him: "I'll be calm"

"You better be," he said, glancing about to assure himself no one was watching. "One thing," he said, "if you want favours from me, you might consider omitting 'Dicksmack' from the exchanges."

"Do you have any idea how queer you sound right now?" I snarled.

"Fuck you," he said but finally let a little more leash out of the gadget and I could rub shoulders with my beloved.

"Where have you been?" I whispered, my words a garble of Dog-Speak and the few phrases I knew in Cat. (I can understand Cat perfectly, but it takes a nimbler tongue than this Jack Russell's to get around those diphthongs.)

"They went on vacation. I've been in a kennel," she said simply.

"THE BASTARDS!" I shouted and immediately the loose leash was whipped back into the machine. I turned to Skeeter, "KNOCK IT OFF OR I'M GOING TO RIP YOUR BALLS OFF!"

"Listen, you little peckerwood," he hissed, "stop acting like...well...you! I'll do about anything you want but can't you see you're making her nervous!"

"He's right," Cleo whispered.

"But why?" I said when the leash was loosened and I could sit on the step at her feet.

"There's talk," she began. "Mortimer, the cat next door, is spreading it around that you and I...well...you know." She turned away and the sun shone on her coat just so and her look was so sad and distant my breath stopped.

"I'll go slow. We'll act like friends. You'll see. It'll be fine," I said, with a whiff of desperation.

"We'll see," she said so enigmatically I fell a little of myself die.

"We sat in silence for a long time. She finally looked over and said, "He can sit down too, you know," and pointed at Skeeter with her nose. He was looking away and I was touched by how the big dink was accommodating us—like the Nurse in "Romeo and Juliet". "Sit!" I said and he did, but as far down the steps away from us as he could get.

"I love you," I said finally.

"Oh don't be a tit!" she said and swatted me. I laughed instead of going on talking but she had hurt me and I don't mean with the swat. There was no easy way for us. None.

So we sat quietly, occasionally rubbing up against each other though, if you had watched, you would have seen nothing. Skeeter was looking more and more tired and I knew I would have to wrap this up because, for some odd reason, he wasn't.

"What's his story?" Cleo said.

"He's queer. He's been sick. For a long time."

"Is he alone?"

"No, but he feels alone, I think."

She thought for a moment and sighed gently. "Well, honey, bottom line: at three o'clock in the morning we're all alone." I remembered something I read somewhere: "There is in true beauty something which vulgar souls cannot admire." That was Cleo.

Finally she got up, I did, Skeeter did. I toddled down the stairs and looked back at her and she stretched for me. It was so erotic I nearly passed out. Skeeter and I went on our way without a word.

Later that night, as we were watching TV, there was a terrible sound outside: a clunk and the scream of an animal. I rushed to the window to discover that Bonheur, the black lab mix across the street, had been hit by a car or a bike or something. He wasn't badly hurt and, to be frank, this is the kind of thing he does which is why the rest of the neighbourhood doesn't call him Bonheur (Joy in French) but Boner; not because he gives us one but because he's as smart as one.

Then I though about what Cosmo said about passing on: Poof! And I thought about Cleo.

Nothing is ever certain.

May 4, 2010; The Visitor

It was just a matter of time, I figured, so I was not surprised to see him in the kitchen when I went for my 3 a.m. sip of water. He was sitting in the corner, big as life, and—strangely—had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked only slightly the worse for wear which meant he was still a magnificent specimen.

"So, how you been?" I asked.

"Dead. You?"

"Alive. Anything I can help you with?"

"Nah. Just sniffing around the old stomping grounds. Surprised to see not much has changed except the smells are different...a little more, er, acid, shall we say. Aren't you a little old to be doing that kind of thing?"

"It's become a bit of a trademark. You must have had one when you were here?"

"Mine was pretty much just getting in their faces. You'd be amazed how easy that is for someone as tall as I am."

The tall comment smarted. I had always felt just a little inferior to even the memory of Cosmo, but now, here, with his ghost standing in front of me, I felt all the littler.

He spoke tiredly: "Let me tell you something about life: Poof! It's gone! I was eating dust bunnies one day, the next I couldn't get up the stairs and the third it was the shot and the big sleep. So celebrate, little guy."

Again with the "little" and I wondered if I should put the big goomer in his place. "I celebrate! My whole life is just one big fucking party! Everyone loves me—"

He snerfed; a big masculine sound that sounded so much richer than what I was capable of—in fact, his snerf made mine sound a little like Benjie's. Then he talked in this wonderful, rumbly, ghostly-with-a-little-bit-of-cigarette voice. "Listen, Toto—"

"—it's Leo!—"

"—whatever, You're like the second wife: you might get some nice used jewels and dresses but the love of the family is interrèd with her bones."

"Well," I responded, "kudos on the Shakespeare paraphrase—"

"—thank you—"

"—But here's one for you too: 'I like long life better than dog's arse.' You lived 11 years, right?" He nodded. "Chances are good I'll go to 16 or 17. Moreover, I may bury one of these two myself—"

"—probably the fat one—"

"—probably the fat one. So the likelihood is that in that long life of mine I will find a hundred ways to out-cute you and—guess what!?—replace you. Already they have only one picture on the wall of you and you look like a goof. Skeeter has taken hundreds of me and hours of video and I have replaced you in the hearts of all the neighbours...except the retarded on—"

"—who called me Cosmos—"

"—yes, that one."

There was a silence and he finally sighed and it was the sound of the dead and tired. I felt sorry for having lit into him. He puffed a little on his cigarette and then said, "So everyone in the neighbourhood loves you?"

"Yup!"

"Wow."

"Un-hunh," I said but was less cocky 'cause there was something in that "Wow" I didn't like.

He snerfed, and repeated, "They all love you. Jeez. How sad." He let that hang in the air for a bit and then went on. "So you're like—what?—the class clown? No dignity at all? Jumping about and making everyone laugh? I didn't know dogs like that existed anymore—"

"—dogs like what?—"

"—Oh, you know: village circus dogs. I suppose they give you a treat every time you do a little dance? Do you wear a little tutu?"

"IT'S NOTHING LIKE THAT!" I roared.

"Hm," he said. "I feel sorry for you. Don't you feel a little sorry for yourself, Toto?"

My head exploded at this and I hissed in his face, "IT'S FUCKING LEO, GET IT! AND IT'S NOT LIKE THAT! I AM THE FUCKING KING OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD! I OWN THE TOWN! GOT IT! GOT IT!"

He looked me straight in the face and then licked me on the nose. "That's all right, little one. Calm down. I'm yanking your chain." I sat down and we stared at each other a moment. The cigarette was still there, but it wasn't getting shorter despite all the smoke. It much be some kind of celestial thing.

"Let me tell you the truth," he said. "They love you to pieces. But they couldn't love you so much if they hadn't loved me first and they still love me and miss me."

"I know," I muttered. "They call me Cosmo sometimes."

"Well, they called me Buddy sometimes too. He was the one before. We don't go away, in their lives. We're like a smell. It clings. From what I've seen you're doing an okay job here. Though I gotta say, my singing was better."

I snerfed a laugh and the two of us decided to lie down. We were both looking out the window, at the stars. "They still never wash these," he said. "Not that I've seen," I said. "Just as well," he muttered, "feels like home."

We both fell asleep. I woke up later and he was gone and I toddled back to Boo-Boo's bed. Just before I fell asleep, far, far off, I heard a big dog howl.

Cosmo was singing in the trees. Life never ends.

May 1, 2010; Pomes

Limerick

There once was a man from the city

Who cringed at the sight of a titty.

He'd walk with his Jack

Checking out every sack

While whistling a gay little ditty.

Song

A cat is a cat and a dog is a dog

And a bunny is funny to babies;

But a dog with a cat is abnormal, they say,

And a bunny's less funny with rabies.

So cats pop their kitties and doggies their pups

And no one seems keen for a dottie;

But please listen to me as I sing of my love:

A black and white feline, my hotty.

Please let me my sweet and go on with your lives

And remember that love's always glorious.

Allow me my puss without all the fuss

And romance shall rise up victorious!

There are people you call "fister"

And some play at naked Twister,

Then why?—oh why!—can't I just have my cat?

If my master has his mister

And a hillbilly his sister,

Then why?—oh why!—can't I have my puss twat?

Haikus

A small, cluttered home;

Two men, a dog, and a mess

They all call their lives.

Oh! Piss in the bed!

Tragedy at morning's light!

Must we shoot the dog?

They once were "queer boys,"

Now, of course, they're "gay" and

Jughead gives blowjobs.

April 28, 2010; Skeeter's Weirdness

After jumping onto the La-Z-boy with him and waiting for Boo-Boo to go to work, I asked Skeeter, "What happened!?" He had just come home from a visit with Straight Guy (SG), his best platonic male friend for the last 25 years. (Fuck, don't these humans ever die!)

"What happened?" he repeated disingenuously.

"You were going to ask him something intimate, something personal, something—"

"All right!" Skeeter bellowed. "How the fuck do you know all this?"

"Little doggies have big noses and you did discuss it rather at length with Boo."

"From, now on, cough when you're in the room. There are certain things you shouldn't be hearing."

"What the fuck! I'm not some toddler with Mommy and Daddy lowering their voices when they discuss the divorce!"

"There's not going to be a divorce, Little Man, it was just something I got into my head."

"Big head; must have been rattling in there for a while. I wonder why I didn't hear the echo."

"Ha. Ha. And, yes, I have been obsessing about this and losing sleep and for some unfathomable reason it started to feel like a sane idea."

"How does SG figure?"

He sighed deeply and then he spilled his guts. "He's straight, so Boo and I agreed he wasn't dangerous to our relationship; he's sexy; he's my best friend...I thought he might pose for some pictures."

I don't know if you've ever heard a dog shriek with laughter. You may have but probably didn't know what it was. For instance, we run around like mad, get you chasing us like mad, then we stop the game and when you look at us we let out a sound (like a yodel with me). You think we're over-excited and want to play some more, but it's really us laughing our mother-fucking arses off at how fat and wet and red and...human you look.

That was the noise I made when he said, "pose for pictures." I could not stop laughing—I even got off his lap 'cause I thought I might piss a little. I could barely get out, "What kind of poses?" and, of course I knew but shrieked some more anyway.

"Shut up," he growled.

"And your request was hanging out there, the big, farting elephant in the room—"

"—the café—"

And I exploded with laughter again.

"It was the most difficult thing I've ever done since coming out to my father!" he wailed. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to ask him that?"

"I know how hard it must have been to ask him, if you know what I mean and I think you do." Now I was just giggling and so I jumped back up on his lap. "Poor little Skeeter," I said and licked his nose. "So what's going on with you and Boo?"

"Nothing. It's all me." Then he ratcheted up the tone a bit and yelled, "You saw the thing! You saw how hideous and big it was! I can't let anyone close to me anymore without freezing up! I turn rigid—"

"—and not in a good way," I piped in, trying desperately to simmer him down.

"And there was Brian—that's his name, by the way, not Straight Guy...I mean, I wasn't asking to blow him! Just pictures!"

"Wow, that's sad."

"Well, it was sad. Now it's just humiliating and silly."

"Did he handle it well?" I asked.

"Short and sweet. No. Change the subject real fast."

"Well...yeah!" Skeeter was calmer now, thank God. "And the friendship? Will you be able to look him in the eyes?"

"Yeah, but he'll probably be thinking I'm looking him in the crotch."

"Which, of course, will be the case." I snerfed a laugh. There was more quiet for a bit and then I said, "It's kibble."

"Hunh?"

"Life is like kibble. It fills your stomach, it's supposed to be good for you, but it often tastes like shit." He laughed wearily. "You're a bit of a freak, you know that?" I said.

"You think?"

"Well, you're nearing 60—"

"—I'm nearing 53—"

"Whatever. On top of that you're human wreckage...facing yet another operation—"

"—does this have a point?—"

"—Yes. All that and yet you're still got a spring in your step. You're like a dog. For us sex is life and life is sex."

"Yes," he said tiredly, "maybe so. But sometimes I wish I was one of the normal 50-year-olds who didn't care about anything but food, liquor and TV."

"No you don't."

He smiled—a real smile at last. "No I don't."

"Hey! Here's a question: would you rather be straight?"

"Hm." There was a long, long silence and the longer it lasted the more interesting I became in the answer. Finally: "No. I'd have not met Boo."

I snerfed. "It's an odd little love story you got going there, you two."

There was an easy, relaxed quiet at last. But then it came: a snerf, a giggle, a laugh and then I was yodeling and managed to howl, "In a café! I can't believe it! What a fucktard!"

He laughed too.

April 25, 2010; Pissbizz

I pissed in the bed again.

By the time Skeeter got up, Boo-Boo was once again accepting blame, saying he was late getting me out for the morning walk yadda-yadda-yadda. That was fine with me, but I could see it wasn't flying with Skeet who glared at me so violently my butt clenched and my asshole puckered.

He was bellowing, "HOW IS IT EVERY FUCKING DOG I'VE EVER HAD HAD BEEN ABLE TO GO 14, 16, EVEN 18 HOURS BEFORE THE FIRST WALK OF THE DAY BUT THIS LITTLE FUCKWAD NEEDS TWO WALKS BEFORE FUCKING NOON!"

When Boo went off to work, the fat one lit into me, "What the fuck is in your head!?"

Okay, what was really in my head was that I needed to pee—not urgently, mind—and the bed was warm and Boo wasn't even dressed yet so I did it and I changed places away from the wet spot and went back to a pleasant slumber. I couldn't very well say that to Skeeter who would tear me a new asshole from the inside out.

My head went click-click-click and—poof!—lightbulb!

"You don't know what my fucking life is like," I howled.

"YOUR LIFE!? YOUR LIFE!!!!????" he shrieked.

"Think about it! I'm a basket case. I'm worried about your health, Boo is a ticking time bomb! If he doesn't start bleeding from the mouth from ulcers, he's heading toward a coronary! Think about how that affects me, goddammit!"

He immediately shut up. He calmed. He said, "I see," and sat down.

Good-fucking-Jesus, I'm brilliant! Fact is that humans and their woes can be a pain in the ass, but ultimately all animals are like turtles: we pull our heads in and go to sleep as soon as the moaning starts; we don't even hear it most of the time—it's like bug noises. I realized this talking out loud stuff, after all, was a very, very good idea on my part. Humans have reason, you see. Too fucking much of it. This means you can get around them if you're smart enough and can out-reason them.

And—Lordie! Lordie!—right then, right here, I was not only smart enough but oh-so-much-smarter than Skeeter!

He took me into his arms and curled me up to him on the La-Z-Boy and said, "I guess it's been rough for all of us."

I sighed pitifully.

"Poor baby," he said.

I sighed again.

Then he took my nose between a finger and his thumb and squeezed it ever-so-slightly and gurgled with rage, "Just how fucking retarded do you think I am!"

"Whud?" I said, now nostril-less.

"I've been sicker, he's been crazier, and you've been a much better dog before and now you're trying to tell me that you peeing on the bed is about your stress!" He squeezed my nose a little more. I wasn't dying, but the suggestion that I might was in that little squeeze. He went on: "Here's what's going to happen: if you ever, ever, ever pee in the bed again, you are going to sleep in the kitchen, in the dark, alone, on the mat on the floor, for three nights. I don't think you liked that much, the last time, did you?"

"Nerp," I said, shuddering.

"And from now on, when he gets up, you get up. No more napping while he rushes about getting ready. If you really, really, really need to pee, then you do it on the floor. But I warn you," and he was looking into my eyes, still squeezing my nose, "we're not going to take that for very long either."

"Er-key," I sniveled. He finally let go and there was a long silence. There was something I really had to say but I knew I would have to be verrrrrrrry careful. "May I add one little thing?" He puffed out with what was left of his anger but then nodded. "Why is it you two can go and pee and shit any fucking time you want, day or night, and I'm expected to hold it in."

"Interesting point," he said. "Yes, interesting indeed." But the tone was odd and the atmosphere in the room stank of danger so I did not press it any farther. "Well, for one thing, we're middle-aged men and these things happen. When you get older, certain allowances will be made for your age too. But, and here's the most important thing: YOU ARE OUR FUCKING DOG!"

Hell! that didn't seem fair at all but, as I said, it would have been unwise to press any more points at this particular moment.

This is for cogitation, later discussion and debate, even. Let's just say that right there, right then, I was just glad to have a nose and I was also might happy to be able to slap my tongue up to it to make sure it was still there.

April 22, 2010; Kaffee Klatsch

The Boys were getting to me. I mean, normally I'm a happy-go-lucky, live-and-let-live, decent little dog nice to people and other animals (except the tards and fuckwads, of course), but between Skeeter's medical problems and Boo-Boo's work-stress, we're talking major buzz-kill. So I needed some advice.

I was out walking with Skeeter when we ran into Ginger (and her Babs) who was already having a chat with Benjie (and his old biddy hen). Skeeter joined in the human conversation and before you know it, it was a chorus of aches and pains and whining about age and ailment.

I asked the other two how they dealt with all this and before you know it the three of us dogs decide to have a good old-fashioned chin-wag. Ginger was being civil to me since Cleo had disappeared from the neighbourhood (and, I prayed, had not been hit by a car or something equally atrocious).

"Listen to them," Ginger snerfed disdainfully, "you'd think they're the only one with problems."

"Yeah," Benjie chimed in, "especially since their problems invariably become our problems."

"The way they sweat," Ginger went on. "Do you know when it's really hot outside, and after we've had a good long walk, this one has to take off her leg and empty it like a bucket—"

"—ewwwwwwwwww!" Benjie said.

"Like I said," Ginger went on, "humans and their sweat."

"Well, mine farts," said Benjie. I snerfed a laugh. "But she's very delicate about it. She gets up, opens the window, hangs her rear-end over the sill, and lets it fly. I know it must be bad because you can see the birds dropping from the trees." Ginger and I howled with laughter and the humans looked down and the old lady said, "Look at that, they're all singing together." And they went on with their conversation as we did with ours.

I could have shared my invormation about Skeeter and his appliance, but somehow that felt wrong. So instead I told them about Boo-Boo. "Not this one, but the other one," I said, "can't drink a glass of water without some kind of major digestive disruption—heart burn, or upset stomach—and then, suddenly, during the best part of a movie or program he will let out these blasting belches that go on and on and on. Sounds like a camel yowling!" And once again the three of us fell into a fit of merriment that drew the attention of the masters. Skeeter looked down and I could see from his face he was suspicious of the conversation, but he went back to his.

"But I'll tell you something," Benjie said, "I like it when Mommy's daughters come over and it's like a little party with cooking and baking and cleaning and even some knitting and singing the old-time songs."

"Oh for Christ's sake, Benjie," Ginger bellowed, "could you be a little less fruit-flavoured for once!"

"Fuck you, yah horny bitch," Benjie sniped back.

"What's going on here?" I asked.

"Ginge, shut up!" Benjie growled warningly.

"Oh Fuck, Benj, if he hasn't figured out you're queer by now, then he's a bigger imbecile then I thought!"

Benjie was hanging his head, trying not to look at me. "Nice going, Ginge," I said to her, and to him: "I suspected, Benjie, and it doesn't bother me at all." Benjie leaned over and licked my face. The three humans were looking down at that moment and all went: Awwwwwwwwwww. If a Korean nuke could have hit us right then, I would have been happy.

The three duos went off on their separate ways. Skeeter murmured to me, "Do I hear wedding bells?"

"Shad-up."