Couchzilla; and the discussion of my weight seems germane as not all of me fits on this hideously huge thing.
The seasons are changing; you can feel it in the air. Though it's only the end of August, the leaves are already falling and I can remember walks I took in the autumn with Frank to buy him cigarettes, the paper, a little smut and the canned food of which he never seemed to tire.
And that's why I've been writing about sex and fucking so much because a change of seasons, for a dog, also brings a change in our coat and for some reason this makes me horny. Because my fur is getting thicker and it's still not frigid cold outside, I am toasty warm and, on the warmer—Indian Summer-like—days, even hot which makes me...well...hot,what can I say.
But this time I will try to write about other things like what's around me instead of what's down there, staring at me in the face over and over again, with it's big red eye. I simply thank Dog that I can toddle out of the room, now, without the Mooks being on my ass every fucking second, and take care of business.
But like I said, I won't harp on that but it is sort of like saying: Don't think of a pink elephant. Try it. See if you don't think about that big pink fucker every time. (If you know what I mean and I think you do.)
And I think I am so confused because all the relationships in my life (mine with other people and other people among each other) are so nebulous and difficult to pin down. The Mooks, for instance, have an odd thing going. They have been together for over 16 years and seem to have a strange warm glow around them. They talk sometimes, but most of the time they just hum along—Mook A lost in World of Warcraft or his books and Mook B at his laptop obsessing about work or some such thing. The Mooks have their drives and little fantasies which have nothing to do with their couplehood (A, for instance, can't look at any other man in the entire world without sizing him up like a slab of prime beef and I suspect none of his male friends and associates are safe from his dark little illusions/delusions about them). They also have their common interests—never stated explicitly—which include food, arty movies and travel. None of these things, as you can see, involve me. However, I have no doubt that I am somewhat important in their lives because they often talk about me, hold me, fight with me and, Dog knows, walk me. But am I a convenient third wheel which can be discarded when necessary or am I a vital cog in the machine of this household? That isn't clear.
So we drift along, now entering our fourth season together. Then will come Christmas and birthdays. The heating will be turned on and I will artificially shed my coat because of it and then freeze my dick off outside. They might get me a little sweater for Christmas and it will be something butch—as butch as these things go—but I will still look like a gay dog, walked along in the slush by a gay man, trying desperately to convey the message to all the other dogs on the street that if they mess with me, I will rip them apart.
Except...
Except comfort will set in, as it did with Frank, and I will start to insist on the sweater before going out 'cause—Christamighty!—it's fucking cold out there! Before you know it I will also be hobbling about because of the salt on the street for the ice, and the gravel which will get caught in the clumps of frost between the pads of my paws and I will actually like it when the Mooks buy me those little booties to protect my tootsies. And I will get fatter, and more complacent, and fall asleep during dumb movies and every night, when I curl up in Mook B's bed, let out a sigh of fatigue and contentment that says something very specific...that says too much...that says I am satisfied in this strange, nebulous world of pomo faggots and girlfriends who are not girlfriends and male friends who are male friends. And all will have settled down and heat will not be heat as I knew it, it will be warmth.
Well, well, well.
Shoot me. Shoot me now.
