January 7, 2011; Idiots' Delight

Skeeter is happy and it's getting on my nerves in a big way and not just because his temperament is bouncy and sing-y and is one of those chirpy good moods that drives the sane over a cliff but also because it actually interferes with my life.

Skeeter was apparently some kind of journalist, before his health woes moved in and took over completely. Now that's gay enough but gayer still was that he was a theatre journalist. (And before that he was once of those prancey-fancy actors.) Well, the fat twerp decided a little while ago to pass his time by creating a web site where he and his pals talk theatre, review plays and do whatever a pack of queers do when they don't have actual physical contact.

The thing is, he and Boo-Boo have actually been going to plays! Three fucking plays in the last three nights alone! So I am not only left alone in the kitchen ("We can't trust you near anything we can't wipe the piss off!" Skeeter yelled at me the first night) but—worse!—I am fed and walked later than usual! Do you fucking believe this? All for the glory of a so-called art form that dates back to the dinosaurs and died with the arrival of the wheel!!!

Is that a pisser or what. And it's not, really—because I can't piss in the bed or on the couch and don't want to piss in the kitchen 'cause it's too near my foodbowl and, moreover, the whole fucking house is so crooked that no matter where you piss in the kitchen, it streams down to my sad, little mat. And if I'm going to be forced to be alone I'm going to snooze a bit and if I'm going to snooze it's not going to be on a fucking sodden little mat.

So he's dancing about and t'other is swinging along and I am solo.

"I don't like it," I told Skeeter as he tapped obsessively on his iPad one morning, answering his new business's emails and Tweeting and Facebooking. (Lordie, I hate Boo for having given him that fucking machine.)

"Hunh...?" he muttered

"WILL YOU PLEASE LISTEN TO ME JUST ONCE THIS FUCKING WEEK, YOU STUPID COCKSUCKER!"

He stopped then and said, "I hope you're using the term 'cocksucker' in the general sense."

"Don't start that fucking Queer as Folk bullshit with me, twat-face, when I'm making a point."

"And what is it you don't like exactly?" he said with a wintery voice and sour expression.

"This web site shit; this theatre shit; this leaving me alone in the evening shit," I said.

"You know, other dogs stay alone for eight, ten, twelve hours even—"

"—I'M NOT OTHER FUCKING DOGS!—"

It was then Boo came into the room, "I'm on the fucking phone, could you stop with the shrieking!"

"He doesn't like my work for the web site," Skeet said.

Boo lifted me up under the armpits and, dangling me in front of him, roared in my face, "Listen to me, you little piss-monkey—you are going to adapt to the fact that we have lives outside and away from yours and you're going to do it without pissing on my bed or couch or anywhere or chewing Christmas decorations, or flipping my shoes and slippers about the house or anything! Got it?!?!"

"—may I just say—" I tried.

"—I ASKED IF YOU GOT IT?!?!"

My armpits were hurting a little—the Christmas weight making this position harder than usual—so I muttered, "Got it." He threw me onto the bed and left and Skeeter snickered.

Then I understood this one might be a lost cause. If I fought Skeeter on this, I would probably win. If I went one-on-one with Boo, I'd be victor for sure. But they were presenting a common front and here's why:

When Skeeter was miserable he made all our lives a misery. Boo tried to knock him out of this by buying him iPads and Kindles and what not but Skeeter was still a bit of a mess and Boo was at his wits' end with his own problems too. So suddenly—for a little while—Skeet is happy. In terms of making Boo's life easier this must be worth its weight in high-end consumer electronics.

Sigh.

I am still the king of this household but one king never beats a pair of queens.

January 2, 2010; Happy New Year indeed!

Oh! what a wondrous, wonderful year it will be!

You want to know how well it started? So well! I was walking with Skeeter, pissed at him because we had gone in the corner store and he had yanked me about. As we left the store I hissed at him, "You know, you could stop with the fucking short-leash and the pulling and choking me—"

"—fuck you! I wouldn't do it if you could for one second be trusted in there—"

"—WHAT COULD I POSSIBLY FUCKING DO?!?!—"

"—TEAR OPEN A BAG OF CHIPS! EAT A FUCKING CHOCOLATE BAR! YOUR NOSE IS ALREADY POKING ABOUT WHERE IT SHOULDN'T BE!"

Well, he was right about that, but I thought I had been subtle about it...I guess not. But then...

...then...

...we turned the corner onto our street and I saw something. Movement. A dog? I slowed, slunk into attack position. Skeeter said, "Knock it off, you fucking putz. I think it's your girlfriend."

"Which one?"

"Pig. It looks like Twiggy."

"It can't be—I haven't seen her in months—"

But then...

...then...

...gallopping towards me—a vision of sharp bones, nose and tail-out-of-control—came my beloved whippet! "What the hell is she doing out without a leash!" Skeet murmured stupidly, like that was even vaguely important. While he puzzled over that, though, I took off and before I could get to the end of the extensible leash and before Skeet could think of reeling me back Twiggy and I were hopping all over each other. It was the first real contact we had ever had except for our nose-to-noses on her balcony.

"My Love!" she shrieked.

"I adore you!" I barked. And soon my leash was tangled around her long, twiggy legs and we were falling into the slush and frollicking towards something nice and nasty.

Skeeter came rushing over and as he unwound the leash from around us he chirped, "Nice to see you Twiggy! How have you been?" She was just shrieking with joy and gallopping about. "What are you doing out without a leash?"

Then our answer came toddling over to us: Babette. "Her people are off on holiday and she's staying with us," the little rug-dog said. Suddenly Skeeter was verrrrrrry interested. Babette belonged to two extraordinarily handsome young men, one of whom adored me to death (and for whom Skeet had the roaring hots).

"The door of their apartment is open," Skeet said, "do you think we should take them home?—"

"—yeah, and maybe he'll be wandering about in his skivvies," I snerfed. Babette giggled and Twiggy gave a laugh so hysterical it was just a little bit scary. Then she went gallopping into the apartment, screaming, "COME ON IN, LEO! COME ON! COME ON!!"

Twiggy went in and out the open door, yipping like she was on crystal meth. Babette toddled up the steps to her apartment saying, "You want to come in?"

You bet I did and I tore off but with one, sharp pull I went flying back. "No!" Skeeter yipped himself. I yanked, I clawed on the ice, I dragged myself up the steps and because Skeet was on ice, he was being dragged along. I have to say there wasn't much resistance on his part, almost as if he might just get to see his pretty boy in his skivvies or even, maybe, in the altogether. But the thing with Skeet: he thinks things to death and as much as he would like to see that guy starkers through the window—like any other common voyeur—the possibility of suddenly being face to face—or beezer to beezer—with Cutie McCutiekins scared the bejeezus out of him.

But us not going in did not prevent Twiggy from going in and out and in and out, begging—pleading with me!—to follow, follow, follow, follow. But, no, Skeeter would have none of it and started pulling me home. In a replay of our Romeo and Juliet scene of the summer, Twiggy stood on the porch, singing out, "Leo! Leo! Belovedovedest! Come back! I love you!"

"I love you too!" I called back.

Skeeter laughed and said, "I don't have to understand Dog Speak to know you're lying your little arsehole off to that poor bitch."

"I'm not! I DO love her!"

"You just want to bury that fat nose of yours in her cootch, you little swine. Admit it!" As we moved out of sight and sound of the whippet I had to snerf. He was, of course, quite right again.

But the full body contact! O...M...G!!! That was bliss and would inspire hours of obsessive dick-licking in the future. And who knows—Kwansaa miracle?—maybe sometime in the future I'd see her and we'd seal the deal!

Happy New Year!

December 21, 2010; A Dog's Christmas

The Smell Carol

I smell the smells

Where are the smells

They seem to say

Eat me today!

Christmas is good

Everything's food!

Smells in the pan

Smells in the can

Pong Pong Pong Pong

That is there song

Quiv'ring my dong

It can't be wrong!

One seems to hear

From those who're near

Don't touch the meal

That is the deal

But smells compel

Eat! Go to hell!

Feast on the trash!

Then make a dash!

Hairy, hairy, hairy, hairy food ball

Hairy, hairy, hairy, hairy food ball

Under the chair

Just waiting there

Smelling so good

It gives me wood

Pong Pong Pong Pong

I'm Dreaming...

I'm dreaming of a tight cooter

Just like the ones I used to know

The ones that glisten

Or used for pissin'

And got my dog balls all aglow.

I'm dreaming of a ripe pussy

With every bitch I smell in heat

May her thighs be hairy and right

And may her howling always be a fright!

O Christmas Tree!

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

Your are so great for pee-ing!

It's like outdoors has come inside

And soon you'll smell like something died!

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

You are so great for pee-ing!

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

It's also great for eating!

The candy canes that hang from it,

And bark and needles in my shit!

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

You're also great for eating!

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

Your baubels taste delightful!

The prezzies wrapped, beneath a bough -

They almost scream, "Come drench me now!"

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

You baubels taste delightful!

December 17, 2010; The Fink

Again things were quiet. Again I knew he was pissed. I said nothing because I knew, knew, knew Skeeter was going to break the silence. I was crammed into the La-Z-Boy next to him but there was no warmth and comfort in the atmosphere. "You are starting to remind me of a teacher I had."

"Because of the way I impart vast wisdom?" I snarked.

"Because of your wide streak of cruelty—"

"—Cruelty! That's going rather far, isn't it?—"

"You distracted poor Shutup on the stairs again!" he said of the idiot dog up the street who was scared of the stairs to his apartment and sometimes, big as he was, had to be carried up them. Skeeter spluttered as he went on, "You fucking KNEW the stairs were icy!—"

"—ass over motherfucking tea-kettle!" I said yodelling with laughter at the image of that white moron sliding down half the flight before losing it the rest of the way. All because I had barked up at him, "Hey! Reject!"

"IT'S NOT FUCKING FUNNY!" Skeeter roared so hard my ears flapped back.

"May I just say this," I said, staying calm, "you do not understand the world of dogs."

"There you go...just like my teacher. He was an acting coach when I was in theatre school and everything he did that was just downright cruel he justified by saying, 'People, if you think this is mean, you are not ready for the theatre where things are so much harder.' But it's simple. He was a prick and anyone who had a brain smelled his special brand of bullshit a mile off. He was just a bastard who made people cry—"

"—sissies, probably—"

"—I WAS NOT A FUCKING SISSY!"

My ears flapped back again but I was not so thick I did not realize I had touched a nerve and—how odd is this?—was sorry about it. And—again odd—sorry because I had struck a nerve; not sorry because of what the repercussions might be to me. (Something awfully strange was happening in the dynamics of Skeeter's and my relationship and I was not sure I liked it.) There was a long silence as he, quite obviously, slipped off into memory-land and I considered how I would approach this. Finally I said, "What did he do to you?"

He sighed deeply and began: "I was playing a role in a play he was directing for the school and I had this long-ass speech in the middle of the play and I could not, not, not do it. So he started cutting the speech which was a-okay with me. I don't know how I did it, but I survived opening night. After, though, the cunt took me aside while I was at the premiere party and asked me to get my script. He cut the speech some more...to its bare bones. After opening night!" He sighed again.

"That doesn't sound so bad," I said.

"That's not the clincher."

"Oh?"

He sighed again and continued, "After we'd scribbled all over our scripts he said, 'I'd like to cut the whole character but the play wouldn't make sense.'"

"Ouch!" I said, holding in a shriek of laughter.

"Yes, ouch." And it was clear it still hurt a little. "It set back my development as an actor for ages. And I want you to think about that and what you did to that poor mutt in the name of being a dog."

I said nothing. My thoughts were all confused: sudden undoglike feelings of pity for Shutup did battle with the hi-larious image of him trying desperately to grip onto the icy steps as he slid, slid, slid and then tumbled to the bottom. I also had an image of how Ginger used to snot off at me and make me sad. Was this possible? Human feelings? This was not supposed to be! Nor was what I said next! "I'm sorry." There was a moment of silence...stunned silence.

"A Christmas miracle!" he said and hugged me hard.

And peace reigned, once again, in the land.

December 12, 2010: Christmas Past

Finally they removed the snow on the sidewalks but then they put down grit and salt. What is wrong with these people!? They don't remove the snow and my dick is dragging in the it; they remove the snow and I'm hopping about with grit between my pads and salt burning my tootsies! And then where they don't put the shit down it's a fucking ice rink and if I don't grab my claws right through to the pavement, I'm falling on my arse and one of the two assholes I live with finds this just hi-fucking-larious!

I didn't notice this before? Why?

"I know why," said the oh-so-familiar voice as I came into the kitchen for my late-night sip of water.

"Hello, Cosmo," I mumbled.

As usual, the phantom Dalmatian was smoking an illegal-smelling cigarette and was splayed out on the kitchen floor contemplating the ceiling as he spoke. "Having a harder winter, are you? Feeling colder, sleeping more, that kinda thing?"

"Yes."

"It's 'cause you're older," he said.

"I'm not even four, goddammit!"

"Four is not three. Three is not two. Two is not one. One is not a puppy." His voice drifted off into the ether and, for a bit, so did his shape.

Finally I barked, "Life is crap! I cannot believe it's so hard! Salt and grit and snowdrifts and fucking heat in the summer with things floating in my water bowl and never getting food when I want it and sit! and heel! and sit-fucking-pretty! and yanking on the leash and the assholes telling me where to sleep and when and when to play and when to be still!"

"Yeah, those whiney Haitians don't know what real misery is," Cosmo said, sighing.

"Yeah, fuck!"

"Shshshshshshshshshshshsh!" Cosmo whispered and the Cosmo Effect took over. I don't know if it was him, actually, or lack of sleep or his opium-laced cigarettes but he had a way of getting me to simmer down. I splayed on the floor, looking up at the ceiling with him.

"I wonder what Christmas will be like this year," I said.

"You had Christmas with them last year, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but things have changed. We talk now, for one thing, which means we all have secrets which can explode at any moment and from what I've read in books Christmas is often a time for family strife."

Cosmo snorted and said, "That's funny."

"What?"

"You just called them family."

There was a long, horrified silence. Family...oh! my fucking stars! Talk about different from last year. "Well," I said, "it's not your normal family."

"There is no such thing as a normal family. Before I moved in with the boys I was the 'baby' of a young professional couple who just adored me. I mean I was being groomed for a professional life because I was show-dog material—"

"—sure you were—"

"—no, really! I was already in training and I was still their favourite thing. It was a cuddle-fest!"

"So how come you ended up with these guys?"

"She got knocked up."

"Ah!"

"And all the books said Dalmatians and babies don't mix. So off I went to the SPCA. I thought I was in a family, but I wasn't. Then I came here, to the homos, and thought nevernevernevernever...but—"

"—yeah, but..."

"Funny how things work out, isn't it?

"Not fucking funny at all."

"Hey! Gifts...turkey...laziness...cuddling..."

"And snow and grit and salt!"

He chuckled drowsily and said, "Into each turkey a little grit must fall." He dozed off, then, and soon the Cosmo Effect kicked back in and I did too. When I awoke he had gone, as usual, and I toddled back to Boo-Boo's bed.

As I was drifting off to sleep the word "family" rolled about in my head. Finally I thought, "Nah!" and giggled at the stupidity of it all. Boo woke up a little, pulled me close to him, gave me a peck on the top of the head and went back to sleep and soon, warm as a baby, I was out too.

December 9, 2010; Where are the Snows of Yesteryear

The minute the door opened I jumped back. "What is this shit!"

"Will you keep your voice down, the neighbours are going to hear!" Skeeter hissed.

"I don't give a flying fuck! You are not taking me out in this crap!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, will you stop being such a pussy." And the door shut and we were in it. We were out there, in the mountains of fucking snow which had fallen in the mere six hours since our last walk.

"I'll hold it in. I swear. Just let me go back in!" I yowled, barely heard over the fucking wind which was now slapping my ears against me head.

"You haven't been able to hold it in since you've been with us...down the goddam stairs!" he commanded. And off we went into this shit, the first storm of the season. I don't hate winter, but there had been nothing in the way of snow removal and we were plowing through about two feet of powder. "Please, please—"

"—just do your business. Stop acting like you've never seen a winter—"

"—but normally I get to ease into it. This is one big pile of shit for the first storm of the year, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he said, no longer worried about people hearing because the wind was so loud and the mind-boggling amount of snow falling was muffling all sound. We continued to struggle on but all my favourite places to piss were under the snow and so I had to really bury my nose in to even get close to an interesting spotting. "I can't do this!" I yelled.

"Just do it!" he roared. "It's freezing!"

"I'm dragging my dick in this snow! My dick is actually dragging in the snow!!! Do you know how that feels?!?! Of course you don't! You don't give a shit about me! Why don't you just fucking leave me out here to die!?!? That's what you want, isn't it? You're a cruel, cruel man!!! Do you have any idea how hard it is to piss in this!"

"Oh! Stop your whining, you big baby," someone else said, "and don't you dare piss on me!" Suddenly, crawling out of the snow, as if by magic, came Cleo, and close behind her came Slicer. They had been hiding under a porch, under the snow. In the time it took the two to stretch, they became completely white from the snow falling harder now. But they looked good! Healthy and well-fed and there was a sparkle in Cleo's eyes and a warmth in Slicer's I had never seen before.

But then Slicer let out one of those incredible shrieks that turned my blood colder than it already was. I'm sure that he thought that noise from hell was a laugh because Cleo tittered along. Then Slicer howled with the wind and said, "Isn't this great!"

"He likes winter," Cleo said. "And now I do too. It's amazing how kind people around here are—leaving out food and clearing spaces for us to sleep." Slicer yowled in assent and if I had balls, they would have climbed out of my scrotum and up to my neck.

Skeeter was being very patient, considering how cold it was. Mind you, he was dressed for it and I was not. But here's the thing: the two cats came over, wrapped themselves around me, shielding me from the cold if not the snow. I suddenly understood how these two not only survived but seemed to be thriving in this! He was an alley cat and had always been, yes, but she, too, was so well-coated that it was as if she had become fully feral since last summer when she had been abandoned by her people. But something else... They were exuding an almost supernatural heat. I don't know if it was sexual heat or something else...something evolved, maybe? Was that possible? Cats?

Nah.

Finally I said, "I better get the sissy home." Slicer made that noise that made me so glad I was leaving. As we walked away, Cleo and her beau crawled back into the snow and back under the porch. The rest of the walk had me climbing into snowbanks for spots to relieve myself and freezing my arse along with my beezer.

Finally we were home and soon curled up in the La-Z-Boy. I was toasty warm, now, and content but still thinking about the cats. Skeeter said, "That was odd."

I looked at Boo-Boo who was watching Old Christine as he slept, and then looked at Skeet who was watching Old Christine as he surfed the net on his iPad. I thought: 18 years, these two.

Let's talk odd.

December 6, 2010; Dage Advice

I realize that I have been yammering on about my blog and internet friends and quoting letters from Ceecee without pointing out that in the world of hounds I am rather a celebrity. Not because I have keen wit—not JUST because I have keen wit—but because of a recent development too. That is my news! The Council of The Canine, in their last meeting of the year (which doubles as a Christmas party), decides which dogs will advance a level within the community. Because of my blog and the advice I hand out, I was made a dage.

A dage, for the ignorant, is a dog who is a sage and a mage—working magic through wisdom. When you are recognized as a dage the giving of advice and succour now becomes a vocation. As a result, and moreso than before, much of my e-mail is from those who need help. To shorten the process I will share some of this mail now as there are lessons to be learned by all.

Dear Leo
I live in a city where they use any fucking excuse to have fireworks and these scare the shit out of me...literally. It always sounds like a war breaking out. My people think I'm a big pussy and laugh when I shake and scream at me when I shit. What can I do? (I am a three-year-old male, though, mutilated, boxer, living with a pair of lesbians who have scary wall-hangings which they call ohkeaps).
Nervous

Dear Nervous
They are actually called O'Keeffes and they scare all males. As to the fireworks, it doesn't just sound like a war, it IS actually a war—people's war on Nature; piercing the sky, filling the air with chemical smells, blinding the wildlife. (Nature fights back with lightening, picking off the Humans—a few at a time—with forest fires and on golf courses). Here's the thing: if we don't fear death we don't fear big noises. Sure, we jump, but we don't have an ongoing fear. So embrace the noise. Love the noise. It is nothing. Now big winds...those are fucking scary.

Dear Leo
My people fuck a lot and everywhere and there is nothing more annoying than hearing (or worse, seeing!) people having a good time when they've cut your balls off. What do I do? (I am a seven-year-old male pug/poodle mix living with newly-marrieds.)
Pissed

Dear Pissed
A pug/poodle, eh? You must be one ugly mofo. Anyway, you have to cut newlyweds some slack as doing it often and doing it everywhere is what they do. Soon, you'll see, she'll be sucking the mailman and he'll be pulling late nights at work which means he's porking his assistant. It is a dog's duty, if the newlywed foolishness goes on too long, to stop it. I find shitting in her Blahniks or chewing up the condoms brings a couple back to the real world rather fast.

Dear Leo
I am an unspayed bitch who had a litter about a year ago. My people kept one of my pups, a male, and now the little bastard spends his time with his nose up my cooter. I know in our world this is okay, but it's getting on my nerves because he's snorfling about down there even when I'm not in heat. Help me please. (I am a beagle/jack mix. The little one is a Heinz 57. Our people are a family of six in the suburbs.)
Poked

Dear Poked
A Heinz 57 and a family of six...lots of sluts in that household. Here's what you do (after you give me your home address): wait until Christmas and as your people are sitting down for a fine, big, fance dinner (this works better if grandparents are invited), go into the dining room (scooting a trail of scent for your boy all the way). Then lie down on your back in full view of all, spread your legs, and let Sonny go to town. Before New Year's Day he'll have another home or a little less meat between his own legs.

So you see? The profound wisdom is everywhere. No wonder I am now in the élite.

I take my own breath away.