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 02, 2006


Morey says: "I don't know what Spencer has planned, but I'm taking LuLu to the Squirrel Roll. I figure she'll get plenty to eat there! Look for my column on Wednesday."~ Posted by Picasa

posted by LuLu @ 12:35 AM 

3 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Morey, a Labrador/Heinz-57 combo, is abandoned under a bridge 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 as the result of an unfortunate encounter during a brief holiday in the Carpathian 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 full of 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 is days watching soaps and his nights peeping in windows while awaiting the next full moon.
Morey falls in love with LuLu the Beagle, who just happens to be 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 5th -- one week before the next full moon.

See you then~

11:30 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi again. Morey here after a brief sabbatical, which has 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 term, 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, 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 a 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 opined.

"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 a little sniffing around 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."

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 a lot to do otherwise.

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 her dagger-pointed shoes.

"Baaad woogie," she said, 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," I said. "Uh, she your owner?"

"To my constant lack of delight, yes," he replied. "Miss Head of the Lincoln Park Beautification Committee, which is a big step up from her humble beginnings as Miss Hottest Lap Dancer of the Month back around 1980. These days, since she is older than the Beagle in the Peanuts cartoon -- 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 queried.

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

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

I was definitely nonplused. "Huh?"

"My owner had me neutered so I wouldn't become aggressive, but then she worried about my self-esteem, so 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 said, "so I read your column on LuLu's blog. Your name's Morey, right?"

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

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

"Guess so," I said, thinking it curious that a dog with plastic whackers and a former politician --who had 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...

1:28 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi, Morey the Mutt here again, and it's now been two weeks since Leander Maserati, an accursed werewolf and my current owner, took off to search for the bleached blonde bimbette of his dreams. 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, or whatever else she pulls out of her "cauldron" -- which looks suspiciously 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, your howling at the moon got to me, and your driving really 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. And 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," Woodrow informed me the day we first met. "My owner, the Plastic Princess, was jealous, of course. Brianna's goodies all looked to be her own, including that rack of hers like two volley balls, while 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 bingo monkey?"

Woodrow shifted his weight from one plastic walnut to the other. "Don't know," he commented, "but she had a revolving door up there, if you get my meaning. My owner almost popped her Botox when she saw a former city manager -- a dude she used to know 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 an inch closer to the local 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."

I winced. "Yeeouch."

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

I blinked. "Her husband went missing?"

Woodrow shifted his weight again. "Vanished like a sixteen-year-old virgin cousin 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 bed buddy."

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

He wagged his stub of a tail. "Thanks, dog, I'll keep the offer 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, "without the glass, and without any 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 explained, 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 see?" She tried for the bowl again, but I snapped at her.

She snarled and bared a set of white teeth any dental hygienist could admire.

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

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

"How would I know?" she responded testily. "Really! You mght 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, with his eyes closed and his tail twitching, while he purred a tune I recognized: "Lover Man," an old Billie Holiday favorite.

"Dog," he said as I padded by.

"Cat," I retorted, 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 out of the question."

"He's sure not no Mack Daddy," commented Rush, or maybe it was Randhi. "He's a loser with the ladies, so probably likewise with the Big He-Do Dog in the Heavens - the gambo with the 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 find him useful?"

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

"Bite my dewclaw," I told them, but they had little interest in arguing. As a tremendous storm shook the building, they curled up in a corner and went to sleep.

It's now 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 tonight looking for trouble.

Why should they have all the fun?

Until next week -- Chow from Morey.

12:17 AM  

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