January 13, 2011; The Grim Brother

What a fucking bunch. If Skeeter isn't weeping and requiring intervention, he's bouncing off the walls with this new project of his and rambling on and on about theatre and the wonder of it and the greatness of it and he sounds gayer by the fucking second.

Meanwhile Boo-Boo is going through an unending darkness where he is denying his own existence and drowning in insecurities and self-pity. He was tossing and turning in bed last night and I could stand it no longer so went into the cold, dark kitchen to sleep. But when he got up to pee he saw me and said, "Come on and keep me company." Now I may not have mentioned these two sleep in separate rooms as they cannot abide each other's company at bed time or in early morning. One smokes before bed and on waking, the other is just an old fart who hates talking anywhere near his bed. But I was hoping Skeeter would get up to pee first (it's up and down all night with these two) and I could sleep in HIS bed and thus escape being bounced all over the sheets by Boo's wretchedness.

But it was not to be.

"Come on! Come cuddle with me!"

"Must I?"

He seethed for a moment and said, "Yes." I sighed deeply and dragged my tired ass off the mat. He tsked at the sigh and said, "Move it!" at the dragging. "You know, for a pet you're pretty useless," he added.

"A) I'm nobody's pet and B) even if I was a pet, you'd qualify as a pretty useless master waking up a tired little puppy dog in the middle of the fucking night." He snorted a sarcastic laugh and we got into the bed. I curled up at the bottom and on a corner and he leaned over, grabbed me up and squashed me against him and hugged me until I farted.

"Charming," he said.

"You think it's the Hallelujah Chorus coming out of your arsehole all night long?" I snapped. He laughed tiredly. "So, as you're not going to let me sleep in peace anyway...what the fuck is up with you?"

"Those rotten students last year have shattered my confidence. I used to think I was a good teacher. I knew my material. In the profession itself for three decades I knew how to communicate. My student evaluations were great. Even my students told me—to my face!—that they liked me—"

"—which is somewhat of a miracle if you droned on like you are now—"

"—snotty remarks won't help me nor will they move things along—"

"—watch me shut up."

He sighed deeply before continuing. "The group I have now adores me, but when I get in front of them I feel like a fraud. Even though I KNOW the stuff! All I can remember are those kids before Christmas constantly talking during the class and questioning my authority at every step."

"Have you thought of seeing a doctor?"

"Hm? What for?"

"Depression?"

"I don't have depression."

"Look, the signs are classic. You eat without enjoyment. You watch great movies without seeing them. You and Skeet have a steady diet of sitcoms he's always roaring at and you don't crack a smile. Mind you, he is always roaring with laughter these days—"

"—annoying, isn't it?—"

"—oh yes! But the point is, you have what they call anhedonia. The inability to feel pleasure. Classic symptom. As are your anxiety attacks. As is your falling asleep on the couch and not in bed. You should be on the same pills as the other one. Or electro-shock. Or a baseball bat to the head." He flicked my nose, not finding me particularly amusing. "Depressives never laugh at good jokes," I said.

"When I head one, I'll laugh," he said.

"But seriously; Skeet and I have talked—"

"—you're talking about me?—"

"—of course! You're a big pain in my ass! We have to talk!"

"And...?"

"We all think you should get treatment—"

"—ALL?!?"

"Me and Skeet, Ginger and Benjie, Cleo and Slicer. You don't know how people can really fuck up the lives of the poor creatures who live with them!"

"I'll think about it," he said finally. First he thought about all those animals talking about him—like tourists who know everyone on the streets is commenting on their clothes without actually understanding the comments—and it was clear he did not like that thought but, also, clear that he could do nothing about the chatter. I wondered if I had given him one more thing to obsess about or if he was going to go beyond that and deal with his bullshit before he gave himself a heart-attack and seriously complicated my life.

He sighed again but then, finally, his eyes became heavy—as did mine—and he started to doze—as did I.

There is no doubt there will be an upshot. Skeeter, firstly, is going to break through his haze of silliness soon and confront this (as is his wont) or I will have to kill Boo in his sleep...

...just so I can get some shut-eye myself.

January 11, 2010: Yogi's Cat (Redux)

"Oh no!" Skeeter suddenly yelped. I was curled up beside him on the La-Z-Boy, trying to sleep. I opened my eyes for a minute and woke fully because he looked really upset.

"What is it?"

"Yogi's cat is gone!"

"Where? Who's Yogi?"

"You miserable little fucker! My friend who had the sick cat! I told you all about it!"

"Oh right! Your imaginary friend and her—ick—cat."

"You're such a shit. You have no idea how difficult it is—"

"—a cat—"

"YES! A CAT!" Damn he was mad. He calmed a bit and said, "You know, people who don't have pets don't understand. When Buddy and Kitoune and Cosmo passed on, it was hell."

"Yeah, but they were dogs."

He ignored me and went into nostalgia land. "Even Boo...when Buddy had to be put to sleep Boo drove me to the vet's and stayed in the waiting room. I stayed with Buddy and the doctor. But as I was holding my old boy I started to cry and when the doctor said, 'It's done,' I lost it. I mean wailed like a professional mourner. Boo came running into the examination room and tried to help. He didn't realize Buddy had gone and patted him on the head and the look on his face when he realized he had patted a dead dog was priceless—he wasn't much of a dog guy back then—and I laughed a little but then I started wailing again. Boo took me out of the vet's office and everyone in the waiting room looked down and held their cats and dogs close to them and that set me off even more!"

My God, he was shedding a tear at the memory! Yeej, what could I do? I tried to change the subject. "So Boo wasn't a dog guy—"

"Not 'til we adopted Cosmo together and he fell in love with him and they were a match made in Heaven until the end. Boo couldn't even handle being there when..."

And Skeeter stopped talking. Lordie, he was really not very manly! A cat? A cat named Taffy? A cat named Taffy had started all this? I'll never understand people.

Later that night, after bedtime, I got up for a sip of water and before I even got to the kitchen I could smell the opium...and something else. "Hello Cosmo," I said as I went over to my bowl. He was curled up on the kitchen floor, turned away from me, cigarette dangling from his face as he flopped his head back.

"I want you to meet someone," the big, dumb, stoner Dalmatian said.

I looked over at him as I sipped and from the curl of his body emerged the chubbiest cat I'd ever seen. He was a concoction of light brown and white and I could tell from his eyes he was a little "happy" too. I realized that was the other smell: catnip. I knew right away who it was.

"Yeah, you stupid mutt—I'm Taffy." I snerfed a little at the name and he hissed and said, "Something funny, meat-breath?"

"I'd be careful, little feller," Cosmo said, "he may be a little round, but he's not sick or old here. A cat on this side, even a house-cat, can be one mean mofo." The cat laughed and Cosmo laughed and soon the two were rolling about on the floor together in stoner-doofus hilarity.

"So why are you two here...? The holidays are over so I know you're not the ghosts of Christmas." And again they roared like the laff-track on an 80s sitcom.

Finally they simmered down and Cosmo said, "Cats, my friend, are part of the Great Family, on this side."

"Yes," Taffy said, "and on your side, the lucky among us—not like your Cleo or Slicer—are part of people's families...more, we're part of their hearts. So, yes, our people get upset too."

"Okay, fine," I said.

"No! Don't be dismissive," Cosmo said solemnly, "what he's saying is true. I know. In my travels I've seen it."

"Okay, then I'm sorry," I said.

"That's fine," Taffy said, "besides, I'm better now. Those last months were not fun. And the best thing: in my people's memory I'm still a kitten."

"And I'm still the galumphing goof that made Boo and Skeeter laugh," Cosmo said.

"And we're still the pair that could play tug-of-war for hours," said Buddy and Kitoune, Skeeter's dogs before Cosmo, slipping out from behind the Dalmatian.

"We never go away, Leo, because memories..."

There was a long silence and then Taffy said, "Don't worry, I won't be doing the song from Cats." The four spectres began to shriek with laughter together and, I gotta say, it was a funny sight.

But

But

But when I laughed all four of them disappeared. Poof!

As I toddled off to bed, far, far in the distance came Cosmo's familiar howl, "Goodnight Leo!" followed by a yowl from Taffy, "Gooooooodnight!" I chuckled and, from the smell of th opium and catnip in the air, I fell asleep.

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.