May 19, 2010; Barking Mad

Things are not happy in Boystown. Skeeter, last week, was told that one of his wounds had healed. Turns out it was just closed, not healed, and yesterday a nurse reopened it (Yeee-ikes!!!). He came home from the clinic walking funny...or I should say: funnier. So it looks like he won't be able to avoid another surgery and he's a pyschological and physical mess. He even barfed at the clinic because of the heat and/or stress and/or fatigue.

The fatigue part is a bit my fault and a lot Boo-Boo's. Skeeter pays me a lot of attention and now, that we're talking, there has been a lot of yammering between us. But Boo—such a basketcase from work that he doesn't know if he's coming or going—pretty much ignores me all the time. He thinks he makes up for it by letting me sleep in his bed but I don't think he's aware of a couple of things: I let him sleep in my bed; we sleep—we don't play, we don't anything, really, that might amuse me.

Well, I got pretty tired of this, Saturday, and insisted on my due. It was morning and Skeeter was still asleep and Boo, right after the first walk, was at his computer. His walks are becoming pretty perfunctory, let me tell you, and now, back home, I wanted play! But he was tappity-tappity-tap-tap-tap on that fucking lap-top. So I started to snerf, then jump, then bark. He said, "Stop it!" and went back to work. So I ran about a bit, grabbing things—shoes, my bone, pillows—and throwing them around. Then I rushed him and barked again. He hissed: "Stop it!"

Well fuuuuuuuuuuuck you!

So I just went mad, barking my motherfucking ass off. Suddenly, from the back of the apartment, came a roar. "LEO!!!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" I had awakened the beast. Yes, well, now it was time to shut up. Indeed it was.

But Boo's unfortunate behaviour persisted. Aside from ten or fifteen minutes of rough-housing a day, there was pretty much just the walks and he was using these for coffee, worry and iPhoning. Hey! I'm a Jack Russell! I'm here and I want your adoration! NOW! So on Monday morning, knowing that Skeeter had been to bed late and was sleeping like the dead, I started to get in Boo's face again. I don't know if it was a lesson from the Dog Whisperer or some damn thing, but this time I could not get a fucking rise out of him. I was frozen out. So I did what any self-respecting dog would do: I started to shriek.

Apparently I am not aware of my decibel level but before Boo reacted the roar emanated from the back again and this time it was louder, uglier and more dangerous because it wasn't words, just a noise, and this suggested the roarer might now come at me. Skeet stumbled out of his bedroom. His eyes were bleary, his housecoat barely on (ick) and he was reeking of rage. Thankfully, he was too fucking tired to kill me or (judging from the direction of his lunatic glaring) Boo. Later, though, with Boo gone to work he grabbed me by the scruff, planted me on his knees and bellowed, "What the fuck!!"

"He's ignoring me!" I howled and did not at all like the whiney, needy tone of my voice.

"He's up to his ears in work!"

"Hey, when you both took me in you knew what you were getting into. So what's this shit with him!"

"Maybe you should talk to him," Skeet said.

"Are you nuts!? Have you seen the state he's in? If I started talking to him his head would explode!"

"Mine didn't."

"You were half-crazy to begin with. You were already talking to me like I was going to talk back. That's nuts," I said.

"Yes, then it was nuts."

"And who knows?" I said, "maybe it's even nuttier now that you think I'm answering you—"

"—think?"

I let a nervous silence pass and then snickered, "I'm fucking with you," I said, paused and added, "or am I?"

"Okay, I'll talk to him. It would certainly do him some good to play with you more or take you for longer walks."

"Oh, he'll have some song and dance about work and the lack of time."

"Listen," Skeet said, "You know the way you manipulate me—"

"—I never!—"

"—puh-leeze. Anyway, that's the way I deal with Boo."

"You just have to know what buttons to push," I said.

"Indeed."

"One more thing," I said, "if you die on the operating table, do you think he'll be able to take care of me alone?"

"Not a chance. You'll starve to death."

I was being sarcastic. But was he?

May 16, 2010; Here comes the judge!

Me, him, CNN: never a good combination.

It was after his appointment at the clinic, his subsequent pain-killer and my afternoon walk; Skeeter and I were curled up on the La-Z-Boy watching TV when I said, "I'm glad to see your Obama has grown a pair and nominated that fat little dyke to the Supreme Court."

He sighed deeply and said, "That's offensive—and wrong!—in so many ways."

"Do try and penetrate my darkness," I sniped.

"First, as much as I like him, he's not my anything. Secondly, he's been pretty surly and, well, virile of late—what with BP and health care—"

"—that piece of middle-of-the-road shit!—"

"—whatever! And, though I would like it if she was a lesbian—" he hit the word hard "—apparently she's not—"

"—oh! puh-leeeeeeeeeeeze!" I howled with laughter.

"Well, that's what they say."

"Look, I'm not for queers as judges, but even less so for liars as judges."

"Hm," he said and I could tell he was trying to decide if he wanted to open this can of worms because when it came to political discussion he was not just a pinko but also a retard. I tend to believe a lot of the left's marginals are politically retarded—the gays, the coloureds, the broads—because their sense of victimhood is so key to their identity that they see everything that way; absolute, black and white, we suffered ergo you are wrong.

Hell! I'll never deny their suffering (that fat little dyke has a long row to hoe, let me tell you, being fat, little and a dyke), but I do deny that suffering replaces soundness when it comes to winning an argument. (And in case you're wondering, this also applies to destitute ex-Wall Street stock brokers and white trailer trash who want to sue McDonald's cause they're morbidly obese or because the coffee was too fucking hot.)

Skeeter sallied with: "I'll never win an argument with someone who thinks lesbianism is immoral—"

"That's not what I think!" I said. "Lesbians make me as hot as the next guy, it's when you have someone who is joining the court as a member of a group instead of as a wise person."

"Hm," he said again and I stared up at him thinking: "Wow, he's dumb." He went on, "I almost agree with you but as the court is now made up of Blacks and Hispanics and women a GLBT might be nice—"

"Ah yes, the sandwich!" I said.

"Hunh?"

"The Gay Lettuce, Bacon and Tomato gang."

He laughed and then said, "You know what really bothers me? If she's not one, that's fine, but that they're denying it so vehemently is not. They're denying it like it's an insult. Instead of saying, 'She isn't' the tone they're taking is, 'Don't be stupid! How dare you! She had all sorts of men in Harvard!'"

"So instead of being a dyke she was a slut," I snerfed. "A little fat slut...there's an appealing image."

"You're a pig," he said.

"We all are."

Later, during the evening walk, I ran into Benjie and the nice old lady, "I'm sorry about Cleo," Benj said.

"Now how the fuck do you know about that!" I asked. "I've told no one!"

"I read your blog."

"What!"

"The old biddy has a computer she uses for photos and e-mails to her daughters and grand-children. She doesn't know I climb onto it to read your blog and surf porn."

"Some sick stuff out there, isn't there, bro?" I said.

"Thank God," he said and snerfed.

Yes, we are all pigs. And none are bigger pigs than the senators who will be vetting the fat little dyke. It should make for great TV.

May 13, 2010; Food Wars

Over the next days I saw Cleo all over the place, but mostly far away or in a tree and she wouldn't talk to me. The Boys even talked over the possibility of adopting her, but I couldn't even broach the subject with Cleo.

So, as a result, there came the supper where I was no longer in the mood. "This shit again," I mumbled.

"Excuse me?" Skeeter said.

"This shit you call food. Well, sorry, I'm not eating it."

"Wanna bet?"

"Yeah. Take this shit away." And I moved back from the metal bowl full of "health" kibble doused in store-bought low-salt chicken broth. (The broth was to give it flavour; a hold-over from the last time I wouldn't eat and wasn't talking to him yet.)

"Well, I'm just going to put it in the fridge for tomorrow."

"Well, I won't eat it tomorrow either."

"Suit yourself. It'll be there, waiting for the next day."

"Watch your fucking shoes if I get peckish," I said. He didn't know how to answer.

The next day I wasn't too hungry. Here's the thing: I'm a lazy dog, for a JRT, and I sleep much and walk little. But there are other ways of getting food too and during the morning walk I breakfasted on some pizza on the sidewalk. Morning is a good time for al fresco nibbles because it's Boo-Boo who walks me and he's busy drinking coffee and trying to cure his zombiehood. The pizza was all I needed.

When supper came, Skeet put down the food again. It was no more appetizing and even a little less so because it was cold, congealed into a grayish slop and Skeet had added water to make break it up and make "gravy." I sniffed disdainfully and said, "You're a funny old fat man, aren't you?"

"Can it with the fat comments. It's a hernia."

"Yeah, like every fat fuck in the world says it's thyroid."

"Eat shit," he said.

"Not tonight." I pushed the bowl with my nose and said, "Take me out, I need a dump."

The third day I was a little hungry. But here was a new problem: the night before fuckwad Cesar Milan had been on, dealing with a massive Newf who was a picky eater. Cesar found out that the hound only got 45 minutes of walking a week. Though I get an hour a day, it's lazy Boo-Boo/Skeeter-talk-to-the-neighbours-smoke-buy-junk-food walking. Not exactly the little Mexican riding a bike with me running beside him. After the Cesar show, Skeeter was more determined than ever to get me to eat what he put in front of me, when he put it in front of me. But like I said, there are other strategies.

The weak link in this home is Boo-Boo. In the dog alpha-system, Skeeter and I do battle for alpha spot while Boo-Boo wanders around aimlessly in another alphabet entirely. It's one reason I don't talk to him; to Boo I'm a dog or even a doggie—a baby...vulnerable, protectable. I knew he would protect me from Skeet and, sure enough, while the cruel cunt was at the clinic, Boo started popping me a bunch from a pile of crackers he was shoving into his face as he worked at the computer.

Skeeter came home, catching us both unawares and lost his mind. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!!!???" he roared at Boo who jumped, knocked some crackers to the floor and I moved in for the kill. "LEO! EAT THAT AND I'LL KICK YOUR LITTLE WHITE ARSE OFF!" I knew he meant it and slunk back to the kitchen.

"Stop screaming," Boo yelled.

"How many did you give him?" Skeet roared.

"One," Boo said very, very quietly.

"Fuck! We are in a battle of wills with that little bastard and you are letting him win!"

"Maybe he's sick," Boo said.

"HE'S NOT SICK!" Skeeter shrieked and came into the kitchen. He picked me up and hissed in my ear: "You...are...not...going...to...win." My mouth went dry, my heart was pounding and my dick shriveled. He had never been physically violent with me but his life was crap right now and if he was going to snap, I wanted to be sure I was splashed with his or Boo's blood, not my own. I said nothing. It would have been madness.

So...the slop came out again. I mumbled, very politely, "I'll eat, but could I have some fresh, please?" I felt like Oliver and I nearly retched on that word I never say: please.

"Fine," he said. But he went a little farther, narrating the whole while. "I'm throwing this away and I'm even going to make some fresh broth!" (The broth was usually made in advance and kept in a Ziploc in the fridge.) "It'll be nice and warm and—oh!—it smells so good!" I hated him more because he was talking to me like I was a Special Olympian. When it was done he set it down with a flourish and said, "Dinner is served!"

I went over to it. Sniffed. Said: "I'm not hungry."

Skeet's eyes rolled back in his head and he stopped breathing. I thought: This is it—he's dead.

But for good measure I added, "Boo lied. I must have eaten about 20 crackers and I...am...stuffed!"

As he recovered and threw on his coat and got out the leash for the evening walk he whispered, "I'll kill him in his sleep."

It's not about winning, you see; it's about the other side losing.

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.