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~

Sunday, April 16, 2006


Morey the Mutt's column appears on the blog every Wednesday night, sometimes without fail~ Posted by Picasa

posted by LuLu @ 10:36 PM 

4 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Morey, a Labrador/Heinz-57 combo, is abandoned under a bridge on the day he is born. Taken in by a kindly, albeit alcoholic former professor, Morey is given shelter and an education, until his owner dies in a fit of delirium tremens.

The resilient pup next takes up with an erstwhile politician (and peeping tom) from Columbus, Ohio, who has been turned into a werewolf at the result of an unfortunate encounter during a brief holiday spent in the Carpethian Mountains.

After witnessing a brutal murder at a convenience store outside Dayton, Ohio, Morey's new owner damns his soul forever by tasting human blood. At the same time he manages to get his paws on a Maserati Spyder and a carrying case filled with money, so things somewhat balance out. He also winds up with a new name: Leander Maserati, and gives Morey his old name, which just happens to be "Morey."

The mutt and the hybrid leave their humble abode at the La Belle Roach Trailer Park for greener pastures in the upscale little community of Lincoln Park.

While ensconced in a luxurious apartment complex, Leander spends his days watching soaps and his nights peeping in windows while awaiting the next full moon.

Morey falls in love with LuLu the Beagle, the hostess of this blog, and Leander falls hard for a zaftig rental agent named Brianna.

When Brianna goes missing, Leander kills a private detective he discovers trying to break into her apartment, and in the bark of time, Morey meets two helpful coyotes, Rush and Randhi, who are willing to bury the bones.

Now the mangled body of a Fortune 500 CEO has turned up at a remote campsite not far from Springfield, Ohio, and the dead man's companion, none other than Brianna, is nowhere to be found.

The action continues on Wednesday, April 5 -- one week before the next full moon.

See you then~

12:29 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi again. Morey here after a brief sabbatical, which mainly consisted of batching it for the past four days.

Leander left on April Fool's Day, which I hope won't prove a bad omen. It's not hard to guess where he went, particularly since I found the following on his computer the night he slammed out of the apartment:

"Jack Sheppard, 48, former CEO of ConJob, once upon a time the nation's largest producer of special diet pet foods, was found dead, the victim of an apparent homicide, three days ago at a remote campsite near Springfield, Ohio. ConJob, at one time a Fortune 500 superstar, filed for bankruptcy in 2005, and shortly thereafter Mr. Sheppard was charged with accounting fraud...."

At the very end of the article, following the part about Mr. Sheppard's recent divorce and the fact he was facing a probable prison sentence, Brianna's name was mentioned. She was described simply as his "female companion." And despite the efforts of seasoned bloodhounds, her body had yet to be found.

I guess it only followed that Leander would take off to look for the bimbette of his dreams, while giving no thought to the welfare of his faithful dog. For instance, I don't suppose it ever occurred to him that while I'm pretty slick when it comes to using a computer, I'm as clumsy as a pregnant Rottweiler on roller blades whenever I try to open a can of dog food.

"You could move in with me temporarily," LuLu hesitantly offered after witnessing my distress on my second day of flying solo, "but you would have to put up with a pair of demons disguised as common house cats. Besides, Rockie wouldn't like it."

Oh, dog-gone it. We certainly wouldn't want to upset the retriever, now would we?

"Tell you what, I'll let you share my food for a couple of days," the fetching little bitch went on. "I need to diet anyway. Rockie says..."

"Sounds good." I accepted her offer
before she could spill out a bunch of Rockie's muddybrained opinions.

Why do females always do that? I wonder. Whenever they fall in love, the object of their affection goes from being an ordinary woofer to the reincarnation of Einstein.

Anyway, LuLu's owner, the witch, was nice enough to me. She heard the rumblings going on inside my stomach and plopped a dish filled with cooked chicken livers down in front of me.

"Fresh out of the cauldron, kiddo," she said. "Enjoy." Then she shook her head. "Werewolves tend to be painfully unstable, don't they?" she asked.

"I know a Bulldog who lives over in Brianna's building," remarked LuLu as she sniffed the air and licked her luscious chops. "He passed the word that Blondie helped to break up Sheppard's marriage. Maybe his ex finally had enough and went all rogue elephant on the two of them?"

"More likely she went all Montecore the tiger and Roy Horn," purred Clawdia, one of the Beagle's feline sibs. "Supposedly the scene of the crime was delightfully sanguinary." And she flicked her tail while cleaning her dainty paws.

"I think I might do some sniffing around over at Brianna's apartment," I said.

"Why?" asked LuLu, eying the few chicken livers I'd left on the plate, to prove to the witch I wasn't an unmannered glutton. "The woman is dead."

"I don't know," I replied honestly. "I'm just curious, I guess."

Clawdia winked at me. "Don't you know that curiosity killed the cat? Who knows? It could happen to a dog, couldn't it?"

LuLu's other feline sib, a large tabby improbably named "Golden Warrior," was curled up next to the kitchen radio, listening to a local jazz station.

"Brianna," he said. "There was one searing flame, dog. You know what I mean? You understand me? An untamed creature. High G. Like a raw wail from a tenor sax. You get what I'm saying?"

"No," I said.

His whiskers curled in disgust. "All dogs are dolts," he explained.

So I left LuLu voraciously polishing off the last of the chicken livers, and padded over to Brianna's apartment. I really had no idea what I was looking for, but it was early in the day, and I didn't have much else to do.

As I approached the building, I saw a woman tethering a somewhat overweight Bulldog to a tree not far from the front door. She was tall and skinny, and wore so much makeup, her face looked like the bottom of a well-licked dog bowl.

She wore tight jeans and an even tighter sweatshirt with the words: "This is what 30 looks like" imprinted on the front.

"Momma be back waiter for her scoogie woogie," she promised the dog, who lifted a hind leg and aimed for one of her dagger-pointed shoes.

"Baaaad woogie," she scolded, and gave him a finger-smack on the nose before plopping her scrawny rump in the driver's seat of a new Jetta, and driving off.

"Yo," I said to the Bulldog.

"Yo yourself," he growled. "What do you want, mutt?"

"To ask a few simple questions," I replied, "but you're about as friendly as a rhino with a hernia."

He sat down, winced, and frowned. "Did you catch the action of the baby-prattling praying mantis who just left?" he asked.

"Well, yeah. Uh, is she your owner?" I asked.

"To my extreme and undying sorrow, yes," he replied. "Miss Head of the Lincoln Park Beautification Committee, which is a big step up from her humble beginnings as Miss Bounciest Lap Dancer of the Month back around 1980. These days, since she's older than the dog in the Peanuts cartoons -- older even than the Sphynx or Sharon Stone, she's also Miss Obsessive Plastic Surgery."

"In other words, don't let the shirt fool you?" I asked.

He snorted. "Take a look at these," he said, rising with effort, then offering me a view of his ample posterior. "What do you see back there?" he asked me.

"Wow!" I declared. "I see the most impressive set of doggie zanies I've ever clapped eyes on."

"Would be if they were real," he went on, "but those golf balls are as fake as a Rolex offered for sale in a Newark Airport men's room."

I was definitely nonplussed. "Huh?"

"My owner had me neutered so I wouldn't become aggressive, but then she worried about my self-esteem, so she had her doctor fit me with a set of super goobers. That was four years ago and I've been miserable ever since."

He sat down gingerly on his magnificent studleys and sighed. "Could be worse, I suppose. At least my owner's not a werewolf."

He saw my look of surprise and barked a laugh. "I have no life," he admitted, "so I read your column on LuLu's blog. Your name's Morey, right?"

I sat down on my less impressive but Dog-given goodies. "Yeah," I said. "What's yours?"

"Believe it or not, it's Scoogie Woogie," he said, "but I prefer to be called Woodrow. It sounds halfway dignified."

"Guess it does," I said, thinking it curious that a dog with plastic whackers and a former politician, who never even had any before getting transformed into a werewolf, both went in for impressive-sounding names.

But the column's running long again, so it's time I packed it in for the night. I'll be back next week to tell you what I learned from Woodrow, and to let you know if Leander comes back.

Until then, here's wishing everybody a big dish of cooked chicken livers, and as LuLu likes to say -- Chow~

1:14 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi, Morey here again, and it's now been two weeks since Leander Maserati, accursed werewolf and my current owner, took off to look for the bleached blonde bimbette who's the love of his life. Uh, Leander, if you happen, by some strange coincidence, to be reading LuLu's blog tonight, how about phoning home? Like, I'm trying to do the faithful dog bit here, but you're not helping matters. Not at all.

OK, I'll admit it, I don't mind padding over to LuLu's apartment twice a day and letting her owner, the witch, fatten me up on delicacies like cooked chicken livers and whatever else she pulls out of her "cauldron," which looks a lot like a convection oven to me. I also don't mind going to bed at a decent hour, or sleeping in as late as I want, and frankly, I don't mind having the place to myself. Your soaps were a pain in the posterior, your howling at the moon got old, and your driving left a lot to be desired.

Anyway, I've had Rush and Randhi over a couple of times, and even let them sleep in the hall when we had a bad thunderstorm and the tornado warnings were up. I sort of feel like we own them -- you know?

Woodrow, a bulldog with plastic nadgers, has stopped by. He lives in Brianna's old building, Leander, and he has quite a tale to tell.

"She went out with a bunch of different guys," he informed me the first day we met. "My owner, the Plastic Princess, was jealous, of course. Brianna's goodies all looked to be her own, including that rack like two matching volley balls in a hammock. There's nothing real about the Plastic Princess except maybe her dark hair roots and the fungus under her toenails."

"So this CEO who got killed, Jack Sheppard, he wasn't Brianna's top dog?"

Woodrow shifted his weight from one plastic walnut to the other. "Don't know," he admitted, "but she had a revolving door up there, if you get my meaning. My owner almost blew her Botox when she saw a former city manager -- a dude she knew real well, show up at Brianna's for sugar time one night."

"The Princess and this guy work together."

Woodrow wheezed out a gabble of bulldog laughter. "Oh, yeah. They worked together. They did the doggie waltz a couple of times, and it got her a silly inch closer to the park beautification committee. Come to think of it, I suppose it was work on her part. He was no looker, pal, and his wife was even worse. Picture Eminem in drag."

"Yeeough!" I shuddered.

Woodrow nodded. "Yeah. I got a glimpse of the grieving missus when she came around here to confront Brianna after her husband went missing. Id' rather see road-
kill walking."

I blinked. "He went missing?"

Woodrow shifted his weight again. "Vanished like a sixteen-year-old virgin at a redneck family reunion. Aliens, maybe? The police never found a trace of him I think they were suspicious of the wife, but they could never pin anything on her. Too bad for the Plastic Princess; she was hoping to blackmail her old buddy."

"Thanks for the info, Woodrow," I said. "By the way, if and when you can escape from your owner, my pet door is always open to you." (Actually, my pet door is pretty much open to anybody), but it never hurts to let on you're doing a dog a favor.

He wagged his stub of a tail. "Thanks, dog. I'll keep it in mind."

"The witch says you need to dewerewolf Leander," LuLu greeted me when I padded back across the street in hopes of a tasty dinner. "He's in over his head where Brianna's concerned. Only you can save him, she says."

I looked up and saw the witch spooning something that smelled delicious into a large bowl. "Pheasant under glass," she announced with a wink. "But it's without the glass and even without bones." She placed the bowl on the floor in front of me.

"How come she's being so nice?" I asked LuLu, who whipped a slice of pheasant out of the bowl while I was still savoring the aroma and dripping saliva.

"Your owner intrigues her," LuLu replied, licking her lips with her smooth pink tongue. "Besides, she thinks you might be a good influence on me. I'm such a flighty girl, you know? She tried for the bowl again, but I snapped at her.

She snarled and bared a set of white teeth that would have impressed the most discriminating of dental hygienists.

"Consider your girlish figure," I teased her, and fought back a snicker as the witch placed a plate of Science Diet on the floor in front of her.

"So, how exactly do I dewerewolf Leander?" I asked the magnanimous Beagle after wolfing down my dinner.

"How would I know?" she responded testily. "Really! You might have at least saved a little bit of the sauce for me."

I thought it best to make myself scarce, so worked a fast out past Clawdia, who was happily ripping apart a catnip mouse, and Golden Warrior, who was lying on the back of an easy chair, his eyes closed and his tail twitching -- while he purred a tune I recognized, "Lover Man," and old Billie Holiday favorite.

"Dog," he said as I padded by.

"Cat," I muttered, for no particular reason.

Later that night I repeated my question to Rush and Randhi, who had stopped by to get in out of the rain.

"Just how do I dewerewolf Leander? I know he's losing it over Brianna, but he's also damned for all eternity, meaning an appeal seems useless."

"He's sure no Mack Daddy," remarked Rush, or maybe it was Randhi. "He be a real loser with the ladies, so prob'ly likewise with the big He-Do Dog in the sky -- the gambo with top-o-the line grillz on his canines."

"Bein' a werewolf does give him a certain cachet," put in his clone. "Dog, you need to talk to Socrates the squirrel. He knows..."

"...the Shiznit," concluded coyote number one.

"You two are friends with a squirrel?" I was incredulous. "You eat squirrels for breakfast!"

"Ah, well," said Randhi, or maybe it was Rush, "we do have some respect..."

"...for members of..."

"..the rodent intelligentsia."

"In other words," I said, "this squirrel, Socrates, has some brains and you like to pick them."

The two coyotes rewarded me with pirate smiles. "Like you, dog," they said in unison.

"Bite my dewclaw!" I told them, but they had no interest in arguing. As a tremendous storm shook the building, they curled up in a corner and went to sleep

It's two nights later, and probably about time I went looking for Socrates the squirrel. It's also the night of the full moon and I still haven't heard from Leander. Rush and Randhi will be out looking for trouble.

Why should they have all the fun?

Until next week -- Chow from Morey~

2:08 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Greetings, canine readers. Morey the mutt here again with his eclectic column about Lincoln Park after dark. And while I'm woofing, I hope everybody had a great Easter.

I took luscious LuLu to the Squirrel Roll but wound up not having much fun. She got into a snarl-and-snap with Spencer over a miscount, and since you can read all about the incident just about anywhere else on the blog, I'm not going to get into the sordid details here.

I ran into a cute little Cocker named Belle and also met LoLa, a Shih Tzu with a sassy strut. Both beguiling bitches were highly entertaining, and since sex symbol Rockie wasn't around, I hope I made LuLu just a little bit jealous.

But back to the night of the thunderstorm when my friends, the coyotes, suggested I look up a sapient squirrel named Socrates to try and figure out how to dewerewolf Leander.

Now usually I'm a patient dog. I've had to be as patient as a Dalmatian waiting for his spots to change in order to survive the life I've led so far. And I don't particularly miss my current owner, Leander Maserati -- but I need to get him back here. The fact is, I can't stay in this apartment much longer without him.

Granted, Leander paid an entire year's rent in advance, but other bills are piling up, and I can't keep eating my meals over at LuLu's. I have to grasp the leash in my teeth and run with it -- and I would have run with it on the night of the thunderstorm, but it was cold and miserable outside, and frankly I didn't feel like it.

So, anyway, a few days later, on the night of the last full moon, I set out to look up a squirrel named for the famous Greek philosopher who offed himself by drinking hemlock. (And, yes, I learned that from the professor, who died pretty much the same way, when you think about it.)

The search did not take long. While enjoying the intoxicating aromas of early spring, and showing my appreciation by hoisting a back leg next to a dogwood tree, I heard an angry shriek, looked down, and realized I had just sprayed one of LuLu's feline sibs, Clawdia the cat.

Clawdia is a tiny thing who couldn't weigh more than eight or nine pounds, but she has a vocabulary equal to that of any junk-yard dog at Dirty Dewey's Refuse Dump, which is just down the street from the La Belle Roach Trailer Park, where Leander and I used to live.

I let her rip for a couple of minutes, but finally interrupted her colorful invective to apologize for pissing on her. "It's dark out here," I stated the obvious, then neatly bounced the ball back into her litter box. "What are you doing in the park so late anyway?"

"I'm a CAT, genius," she replied, bristling all over again. "Like, I HUNT at night, and tonight there's a bright full moon. What are you doing here? A hot assignation with a bitch who's even more of a tart than my hound of a stepsister?" Having hissed her piece, she sat down and began to frantically clean herself.

"Watch your verbiage," I said. "You know, you're awfully uncivil for one so young, even if you are a cat."

She flipped me a claw and continued with her tongue bath.

Finally she said: "You did just piss on me, after all. Besides, my lack of civility is in the blood. I was born in an alley, Canis Major, and I ain't no pussy cat."

"Well, I was born under a bridge," I revealed. "Not everybody has a pedigree, Clawdia."

"Oh, be still my heart. The big mutt is trying to reach out and forge a bond with little old me. Cut the crap, cur!" she hissed.

"All right," I said. "I'm over here looking for a squirrel named Socrates. Ever heard of him?"

"Oh, sure," she said, rising to her feet and stretching in one long, boneless motion. "Third Catalpa tree between here and the lake. He's a half-whacked old pedagogue and way too ancient to make good munchies. Why do you want to see him?"

"I want to dewerewolf Leander," I replied, "not that it's any of your business."

Her green eyes shimmered like emeralds in the moonlight. (At least they shimmered the way I imagined emeralds would.)

"Take my advice, Canis Major," she said, "and forget that freak with the constant bad hair days. He's got more problems than three blind mice standing in front of a fish market on delivery day."

I sighed. "I can't forget him, Clawdia. He's all I've got."

"But you haven't got him, have you?" she pointed out with ruthless feline logic. "Then ho-hum. What do I care? Just remember when the time comes, I told you so."

"Thank you, Clawdia," I said. "I'll remember.

She flicked her tail. "Now I'm off to look for some defenseless sleeping birdies, although between you and me, I'd prefer something with a little more bite."

"The coyotes are around here somewhere," I teased.

"Those jerks don't bother me," she said. "They tend to choke on their own braggadocio."

"Well, try to be a little kind to the birdies," I suggested. "One day it will get you a better place in cat heaven."

She rewarded me with an evil smile.
"Thank God I'm an atheist," she said, and sprinted off into the night.

And that's it for my column this evening this evening. A few blog readers have accused LuLu of cheating on the retriever and having a pup out of harness, meaning she needs a shoulder to yelp on. I'd like to have a pup out of harness with LuLu, but I thought she was spayed!

Ah, well. I'll be back next week to continue our story. Until then, Chow from Morey.....

12:02 AM  

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