LuLu's Desperate House Dogs (formerly the Bow Wow Blog)

LuLu's Desperate House Dogs is a blog about an eccentric little Beagle named LuLu, who, along with her sister Sadie (a Whippet/Terrier/Beagle blend), writes the lurid Puppies in Lust series, and absorbs local color in an idyllic, off-the-leash, canine-centered village known as Lincoln Park~

Wednesday, April 26, 2006


Morey the Mutt has a werewolf for an owner and a crush on blog hostess LuLu. Read his column, Lincoln Park Poop, under "comments." (Photo compliments of Beth Javens) Posted by Picasa

posted by LuLu @ 10:41 PM 

4 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Synopsis:

Morey the mutt, a likeable Heinz-57 mix, is born under a bridge and left to his own devices. Taken in by an erstwhile (and alcoholic) college professor, Morey is given an education aside from the School of Hard Knocks, but after the professor dies in the midst of a fit of delirium tremens, he's on his own again. Finally he is "rescued" by a former politician from Columbus, Ohio, who is also a werewolf and a peeping tom.

A strange series of events ensues, and Morey and his new owner, Leander Maserati, become rich, move out of the La Belle Roach Trailer Park, and uptown to beautiful Lincoln Park, where they live in staggering luxury, until Leander falls hard for Brianna, a rental agent with some bite to her bounce. Meanwhile, Morey gets a crush on luscious beagle LuLu, and agrees to write a weekly column for her blog.

Now Brianna has disappeared, and Leander has gone off to look for her. Morey asks LuLu and her owner, a witch, for help. He also gets some advice from two hiphop coyotes named Rush and Randhi, and from a friendly bulldog with plastic testicles.

When we last left Morey, he was looking for a sapient squirrel named Socrates ... in the park at midnight on the night of the full moon. To read more about Morey and his friends, catch the initial installments in our 12/02/2006, 02/04/2006, and 16/04/2006 archives.

11:35 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hello, again. Morey the mutt back to thrill and excite you with more spooky tales about Lincoln Park after dark. Truth is, my column is unlikely to be spooky at all. It's more likely to be horrifying in some places, and smack-ass humdrum in others, meaning I kind of doubt I'm on my way to winning a Pulizer prize in canine journalism, but at least I can joke about it.

Now where were we? Oh, right. On the advice of my two friends, the coyotes, I went over to the park during the night of the last full moon to look for Socrates the squirrel, a wise old mammal I thought might be able to help me dewerewolf my absent owner, Leander Maserati. I first ran into Clawdia the cat, a member of LuLu the Beagle's extended family, who smacked me around the head with her own vicious brand of feline cynicism, before finally giving me the directions to Socrates' digs --the third Catalpa tree from the lake. A ruthless little thing, Clawdia, but I sense some nobility of spirit there. Of course, I could be chasing my tail up a tree on that one. From what I've seen of life so far, I've concluded that the male of any species has little understanding of the feminine mystique.

Anyway, by the light of the moon I found the Catalpa tree, caught a glimpse of the squirrel's nest, way up in the top-most branches, and began barking and howling as loud as possible, until a bespectacled little head poked out through the leaves.

"My dear sir, are you rabid?" asked a voice as cultured a yogurt.

"Are you Socrates the squirrel?" I queried back. "If so, could you please drop down a couple of boughs so I can talk to you? It's important."

"Not for all the walnuts in China," came the not-so-cultured reply. "Go away and leave me in peace with my 'Rise and Fall of the Rodens Empire.'"

"Is that a book or a wet dream?" I asked him.

"Oh, aren't we the clever puppy? No, genius, it's a DVD collection starring Joseph Fiennes and Gywneth Paltrow. Fiennes is not my type, and Paltrow's not even in the running. The two of them strongly resemble chipmunks, though."

"Sounds more like a vehicle for Natalie Portman and Hugo Weaving," I opined, and heard the sound of a door slamming.

"Excuse me! Socrates!" I barked. "Listen! I've got major problems! My owner is a werewolf! Rush and Randhi sent me to see you! Socrates!"

"All right, all right."

I looked up; he was seated above me, a musty old squirrel with a lot of gray in his fur. "Now that you've let just about every predator in the park know where I live, which means I'll have to move again, and my books are heavy -- now that you've managed to brand an "e" for edible onto my forehead, what can I do for you, floppy ears?"

"I'm genuinely sorry to bother you," I lied, "but I live across the street in the Merry Lincoln apartments..."

"...and your owner is a werewolf," he interrupted. "Big surprise! Word has it, he's run off and left you here all by your lonesome. Poor lad! But then, what sort of whack job moves in with a werewolf in the first place. Were you driven by a lack of self-esteem, or are you into extra-kinky S&M?"

"I didn't exactly have a choice," I confessed. "I was homeless at the time."

"We always have choices," he said, "but it's easier to make excuses."

"According to Rush and Randhi..." I began, hoping to get through the conversation without taking the wretched rodent's head off. I didn't like the guy.

He interrupted me again. "Ah, yes, two fine minds working in tandem there."

OK, one Milk Bone for him. The old squirrel had a dry sense of humor, I allowed, but I didn't want to get off the scent. "They have a lot of respect for you, Socrates," I assured him.

"How nice to hear it, considering they ate my last roommate."

I sat down and cocked my head. "Jeesh! I'm sorry."

"Don't be, but heed this, flea-bait, Lincoln Park is an idyllic spot in many respects, but turn over a few twigs in any woodpile, and you'll find a lot of bones -- figuratively and literally. Now tell me about Leander, your roomie."

"Well, you already know he's a werewolf."

"I also know that dead fish float to the top, and the buzzards return to Hinkley, Ohio."

"Meaning what?" I asked.

"Meaning it figured he would move here. Long before I was born, long before I even started studying for my third Ph.D., this area was infested with werewolves."

I cocked my head. "Lincoln Park? Are you sure about this?"

"I'm very sure. My research has never been questioned, not even by Professor Nigel the Woodchuck, who hasn't had a thing published in months, but who has one more degree than I have and will never let me forget it."

"But what happened to all of them?" I wanted to know.

"The werewoles? Oh, a few got jobs in the oil industry, but most lost their human characteristics altogether and ran off into the woods. One or two of them managed to get the curse removed."

"So it's possible? There is a cure?"

"My dear mange carrier, anything is possible," he said.

By the light of the full moon I saw Rockie the Lab walking across the park with LuLu the Beagle by his side.

"A few things might not be possible," I demurred, and let it go at that.

Enough for tonight! But I'll be back again next week to thrill you with more stories about Lincoln Park after dark. Until then...Chow, from Morey.

1:25 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi, Morey the mutt back again to pretty much pick up where we left off last time: I was in the park at midnight, with a full moon overhead, trying to get some information out of Socrates, the sapient squirrel, about curing Leander Maserati, my current owner, of lycanthropy.

"So," I said to Socrates, "there used to be a family of werewolves living here in Lincoln Park. How does that work? Were they all bitten at once, or something?"

The old squirrel shook his head, and his glasses all but slipped off the end of his puckered little nose.

"No, no," he replied, awkwardly readjusting them, so that one lens was higher than the other, which made his face look misshapen. "There are different kinds of werewolves, you see?"

I didn't. "I don't know all that much about them," I admitted. "I grew up in a bad neighborhood, but even amongst the drunks, the druggies, the hookers, the pushers, and the burnt-out viewers of LOST, werewolves were about as rare as a guy using ethanol in his tank getting elected dogcatcher in Dallas."

"Well, first of all, let's ascertain if he's suffering from lycanthropy or is, in fact, a genuine werewolf."

I blinked. "You mean there's a difference?"

"Oh, my, yes. Lycanthropy, you see, is more of a mental disorder. Let us say that a witch, for example that old bat who owns LuLu the Beagle, puts a curse on a person..."

I interrupted him. "LuLu's witch is a nice lady and I can't see her doing that. I think her witch-hood has more to do with worshipping nature and whipping up gourmet meals."

He gave a faint squeak of disgust. "Be that as it may, traditionally a witch can curse someone and make them believe they've been turned into a werewolf."

"But the person really hasn't been?"

Socrates' glasses slipped forward again. "No, there aren't any physical changes."

I lifted my left hind leg and scratched at a flea. "We're definitely not talking about Leander," I said. "A few days before the full moon, he makes Sean Connery look like Leonardo diCaprio."

Now it was Socrates' turn to blink.
"I have little time for pop culture," he informed me, sounding annoyed.

The flea nipped further down. "Let's just agree that there are extreme physical changes."

He nodded. "Well, then, was he born a werewolf or bitten?"

"You can be born a werewolf?" I was surprised.

"Of course. Werewolves, like normal wolves, are highly pack oriented, flea-bait. A male werewolf mounts a female werewolf..."

"I know how it's done," I said. "I just never thought of werewolves that way. How do you come by all this knowledge?"

My question obviously pleased him, and he allowed himself a superior little smile. "My first Ph.D. was in animal husbandry as it relates to the occult," he replied. "Perhaps you read my first book -- 'Sally's Story: From Factory Farm Ewe to Occult Disciple'?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, I missed it. I imagine there must have been long lines in the bookstores, though."

"Do you want my help or not?" he asked with some asperity.

"OK, sorry," I said, "and Leander was bitten by a wolf in the Carpathian Mountains."

"An Alpha wolf or a Beta wolf?" he inquired.

"What's the difference?"

"You have to trace the source," he explained. "You have to find the original wolf who passed on the taint, and that would be the alpha wolf."

"I don't suppose it matters that Leander has tasted human blood?" I asked him, and caught his glasses as they finally slipped off his nose entirely.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" he squealed. "I've completely wasted my time with you, and I have to publish or perish within a week."

"You've got to be kidding," I said.

"Oh, yeah? My editor is a real wolverine!"

"But Leander...."

He ripped his glasses out of my mouth and scrambled back up his tree. "If he's tasted human blood, he's damned for all eternity."

"There's nothing I can do at all?"

He paused. "You might try talking to the Indian," he said.

"And how do I find him?" I barked.

And then I heard a door slam.

Well, that's it for my column tonight, but I'll be back next week as usual with my ongoing tale of the dark side in Lincoln Park. Until then, readers, as LuLu likes to say: Chow!

12:47 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Greetings, everybody. Morey here to tell you all about what goes on in Lincoln Park after dark. Wait. Let me put it a better way -- I'm here to tell you what goes on with ME in Lincoln Park after dark.

Now I'm sure most dogs, and people included, are sound asleep at three a.m. The dogs are dreaming about chasing rabbits they could never catch, and the people are dreaming about making love to celebrities who, in all probability, would never even look at them.

I'd like to be in bed and dreaming about rabbits at 3 a.m., but I'm not always so lucky -- and on the night of the last full moon, I found myself on all fours, over in the park, staring up a tree. A squirrel named Socrates had just slammed a door in my muzzle, and I was feeling more than a little annoyed.

If you'd care to check out our archives, you'll find that I've got an owner named Leander Maserati, who happens to be a werewolf. Not long ago he took off after the bimbette of his dreams, and left me to fend for myself in our very nice, but not entirely dog-friendly apartment. I need to get him back here, but first I have to find him and get his curse removed.

The reason I was ready to Russell-Crowe Socrates the squirrel is because he had just given me the news that Leander could never be saved because he had tasted human blood. This was not what I wanted to hear.

"Give it up, Canis Major," murmured the voice of a cobra.

I turned around. Not a cobra, but the next best thing. Clawdia the cat was back, her green eyes sparkling maliciously in the moonlight.

"Reading my mind, are you?" I asked her, and she rumble-purred a cold chuckle.

"You'd like to make tasty bits out of the senile old rodent," she remarked pleasantly, "and he is so not worth it."

She stretched her long back in that graceful, utterly boneless way only cats can. "His roommate, now, made a yummy enough treat, but he was much younger and so easy to spot. He always wore a little gold earring."

My stomach gave a lurch as I recalled a desiccated pile of bones which LuLu once managed to unearth. There was a little gold earring in the pile -- and suddenly I felt a deep sadness for the old squirrel up in the tree.

Then I remembered that I was a dog.

"Socrates thinks Rush and Randhi killed his roommate," I told her. "I should have guessed it was you."

"Why?" she asked. "Is it because Rush and Randhi are so dumb it's amazing they don't starve to death? Do you know, when they can't find a dog who's willing to share his dinner, they raid bird feeders? I ask you! They even look for those corn cobs people throw out for the squirrels, and they eat garbage." She shuddered. "Great Bast! I'd rather sit through an entire season of 'Everybody Loves Raymond' than live the way they do."

"You have a home and get regular meals," I pointed out. "You're LuLu's sib..."

"OOOOO! Lucky me."

"You have a home and get regular meals," I repeated. "You don't have to hunt for your dinner, Clawdia."

She switched her long black tail --a perfect liquid motion in the semi-darkness. "I LIKE to hunt, Canis Major. All cats like to hunt. If we give it up, we stop being cats. Dogs are different. You're too much like the people you serve. You're domesticated. We cats don't serve, and our souls are our own."

"Would you call Leander domesticated?" I asked her.

"The werewolf?" She hissed a laugh. "I would call him a moron who got exactly what he deserved."

I was not about to argue with her, mainly as I was afraid she was absolutely right.

"Look, Socrates mentioned something about an Indian. Do you have any idea what he might have been talking about, Clawdia?"

She looked demurely down at her paws. "Maybe."

"Oh, come on. It's late, and I don't feel like playing games."

She licked at a blade of grass. "Well, maybe I do."

I sighed. Is it any wonder dogs and cats have traditionally been mortal enemies?

"Oh, all right," she finally conceded. "I'm feeling generous tonight, probably because I enjoy watching you suffer."

"You obviously have a future as a network TV program scheduler," I told her.

"Do you want to hear about the Indian?" she asked me.

"OK, where can I find him?"

"He usually hangs out across the lake by that awful piece of sculpture that looks like a smashed SUV."

"Why doesn't he have a house?" I wanted to know. "He's human, isn't he?"

Her sharp white teeth flashed in the darkness. "In a manner of speaking," she said.

I groaned inwardly. "Meaning what, Clawdia?"

"Meaning, Canis Major, that the Indian has been dead for at least two hundred years. He's a ghost, you see."

And this is Morey, saying CHOW for this week, but I'll be back again next Wednesday, with more thrilling tales about Lincoln Park after dark.

1:58 AM  

Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home