Morey the mutt has a werewolf for an owner and more problems than the average dog. Catch his columns every Wednesday (usually)~
posted by LuLu @ 2:14 PM
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~
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Morey the mutt has a werewolf for an owner and more problems than the average dog. Catch his columns every Wednesday (usually)~
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~
About Me
- Name: LuLu
I am a single five-year-old female Beagle, shown here by myself, while my mix-up of a sister sings the praises of mutts on my blog. Well, let her. I have a most intriguing (one might even say lascivious) past, at least according to my autobiography. In a former lifetime I was Queen Elizabeth the Ist of England, and later on (among others) I was Nell Gwynn, Pauline Borghese, Louise Brooks, and eventually just lovable, neurotic, adorable ME. I have a perfectly charming, albeit very annoying, sister named Sadie. She's rarely plagued by conscience, possibly because she's a Sagittarius. To date she has attempted to steal most of my boyfriends, meaning we're quite used to fighting over bones. Sadie and I are the same age, although she's the adopted one. We do have a fair amount of things in common. For example, she was once Mary Queen of Scots, and later on both Barbara Villiers and Marlene Dietrich. Amazingly we get along -- at least when we're before the public~
Previous Posts
- The Story Thus Far...
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- "Cluzo can't tell his tail from a feather duster!"...
- Annoying author Shamus O'Possum has also vanished ...
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A brief synopsis:
Morey the mutt, a dog of humble birth, is taken in off the mean streets by an alcoholic former professor, who educates him, then drops dead during an attack of delirium tremens. Morey soon finds a new home with an erstwhile Columbus, Ohio politician who has been turned into a werewolf.
Leander Maserati tastes human blood, is forever cursed, gets rich, and moves with his faithful dog to the upscale village of Lincoln Park. Once there, he spends his time howling at full moons, watching soap operas on TV, and peeping in his neighbors' windows. But all that changes when he meets a zaftig rental agent named Brianna and falls in love.
Meanwhile, Morey falls head over hocks for writer and blog hostess LuLu the Beagle, but since she's leash-locked to Rockie the Labrador, poor Morey doesn't stand a chance -- even on four legs.
When Leander disappears, Morey vows to find find him, cure his curse, and bring him home to Lincoln Park. (For a full review of Morey's columns, please enter "Morey the mutt" in our search blank.)
And keep a close eye on the dog walking beside you during the next full moon.
Hi, Morey back again. And yet another full moon has come and gone with no sign of Leander. I suppose I ought to follow the advice of Socrates the squirrel and look up the ghost of the Indian he told me about.
I suppose.
The fact is, I just can't seem to get motivated. Maybe it's because it's spring. Maybe it's because Rockie the Lab is as gone for the summer as two-bucks a gallon, and LuLu has been letting me hang out at her place so often, it's become my second home. Maybe it's because her owner, the witch, cooks up such delicious meals. Maybe it's all of these things.
Dog! Maybe I just like having my own place to park it and prefer living alone. Or at least prefer living without Leander.
Unfortunately, the situation, however appealing, can't go on forever. Our rent's paid up for a year in advance -- or it was when Leander took off with visions of Brianna's babylons bouncing in his brain. The egg-time is losing sand as I type, and once the year is up, I'll be back out on the street -- or sent to the pound by a "well-meaning" neighbor.
And that would be a real slap in the muzzle for a dog so comfortable with his life, he was ready to vote Republican in the next election. If dogs could vote, that is, and from what I've seen, a lot of them have.
But I digress. I find myself doing that a lot lately, too. A few days ago, I was over at LuLu's, when her sib, Clawdia, an avenging spirit in the form of a tiny tuxedo cat, pranced in my direction, tail high, and settled herself about a foot away from the tip of my nose.
"Are you planning to ever go looking for the ghost?" she purred. "If you're afraid of shades, Canis Major, I'll go with you. I don't mind talking to the dead, you know?"
"Is that a jab at me, babe?" asked Golden Warrior, LuLu's other sib, a large orange tabby. "Better watch out, or Morey'll nail you with his crumb crunchers."
"As if," retorted Clawdia, moving slightly closer to my nose, until I was ready to sneeze. A Russian Roulette kind of dame, that Clawdia.
(Story continued below...)
...story continued:
LuLu came out of the kitchen, licking her chops. The witch was out shopping, so LuLu was dipping into the cat food and intentionally wrecking her diet.
"I don't want to lose all my curves while Rockie's away," she said. "I'm being slowly starved to death, you know?"
"You've got more flab on your hips than most Richard Simmons rejects." hissed Clawdia -- and LuLu lunged.
"Oh, those sweet sisters," murmured Golden Warbler. "Where are my Miles Davis tapes? I hate it when their screeches reach mondo-armstrong level."
Clawdia and LuLu do like to fight.
"I think I'll go over and see my buddy Woodrow," I said to no one in particular, although Golden Warbler whispered, "Man," as I padded past him.
"I'm a dog, Golden."
"Dog," he corrected himself, and I left.
Now, Woodrow the bulldog has a halfway sensible head on his shoulders and a set of plastic testicles, compliments of his owner, a skinny skank of a woman with the compassion of Lucretia Borgia.
He was seated in his apartment, at a front window, watching the world go by, when I padded up.
"Morey."
"Woodrow."
"What's going on?" He cut to the rabbit chase. I like that about Woodrow.
"Do you want to come with me to see a ghost about a werewolf?" I asked him.
His expression never changed. "When?"
"I'm not sure. Clawdia the cat wants to come, too."
"LuLu's eerie step-sister?"
"The one."
He shrugged. "Sure. As long as we don't have to run or anything. My problem..."
"I understand," I assured him sympathetically. "By the way, do you know anything about an ancient Indian ghost?"
"Do you know anything about a man seeing another man about a dog?" he asked me.
"Uh, no."
"My tush hurts," he complained.
And thus ended the conversation.
But not to worry; I'll be back next week to relate more thrilling tales about the underbelly of Lincoln Park. Until then, this is Morey saying -- CHOW.
It was a dark and stormy night, and the moon hid its face while the she-wolf, Mother Nature, shrieked and ranted. And there I was, along with Clawdia the cat, and Woodrow the bulldog, making my way across Lincoln Park in order to have a conversation with a ghost.
Morey here again, and I've got to report that visiting a ghost can be a lot more harrowing than hanging out with a werewolf -- at least that's the way it felt in the beginning.
"Why do we have to go out there tonight?" I asked Clawdia, LuLu the Beagle's twisted step-sister, as I stood in LuLu's apartment, staring out a window at the pelting rain.
"Full moon, eccentric ghost," she replied. "Listen, Canis Major, I practically had to offer up my soul to the devil -- again, in order to set up this meeting between you and the ghost of the old Indian. So don't bark me over. Do you want to talk to the ghost, or not?"
"Or not" would have been the sensible reply, but I figured the ghost was my last chance. "Do you think he might really know something that will help me cure Leander of his curse?" I asked her. "Or is this likely to be an end as dead as the Republican party in the next election?"
Clawdia flipped her tail, which is one of the ways she shows annoyance. Another way is slashing out at whatever is in her path with her box-cutter sharp claws. "What? So now I'm a psychic? Look, Canis Major, I'm doing you a favor here..."
Which was someting else that made me nervous. Don't get me wrong. Clawdia the cat -- tiny, feisty Clawdia -- just might be on my side, but I can't for the life of me figure out why. I can understand why Rush and Randhi, the coyotes, might be on my side. I give them a place to sleep on cold and rainy nights. But Clawdia? She has a game I just can't figure. As for offering up her soul to Satan, something told me that might not be a joke.
"Are you in a coma?" Clawdia prodded my leg with her paw. "LuLu is sound asleep, no doubt dreaming about her beloved Rockie, the hottest dog on the block. It's almost midnight, the perfect time to visit a ghost."
Since Clawdia is fully aware of my feelings for LuLu, I'd say she really knows how to hurt a mutt. "Let's get this over with," I said.
Now...my friend, Woodrow the bulldog, is impervious to almost everything but his aching tush. His harpy of an owner had him fitted out with a set of plastic nadgers right after she had him neutered, and Woodrow finds it impossible to sit comfortably on his haunches. As for rain, hail, gloom of night, ghosts, etc., nothing bothers him in the least.
We padded over to his apartment building. I barked three times, and watched as he neatly knocked a screen out of a first-floor window and managed, despite his bulk, to scramble out. "It's tonight then?" he asked.
"No," replied Clawdia. "We were just passing by on our way to a Misery Index concert. Of course it's tonight!"
Woodrow barked a laugh. For what it's worth, he seems to like Clawdia. Not that I don't, but I recognize her for the predator she is. He seems to regard her as a pussycat.
While lightning flashed across the night sky, the three of us left the Merry Lincoln apartment complex, plodded across the street, and headed down toward the lake.
"There it is," said Woodrow, as we circled the lake. "There's that dog's breakfast of a sculpture the local beautification committee had the audacity to erect. Dog! It's awful. It's got more flaws than the Da Vinci Code." He hung his head.
"I hate to think my owner was responsible for that blot on the landscape," he stated mournfully.
"Don't sweat through your paws about the small stuff, Woody," Clawdia told him. "From what I've seen of your owner, I'd say the top of the thing looks a little like her crooked rack."
I stopped in my tracks. "Her rack is crooked?"
"Well, yeah. You mean you've never noticed?"
"I'm not interested in human females," I replied somewhat tersely.
"You're just not very observant," said Clawdia. "You've become too comfortable and lost your edge."
I yelped as I stepped into a rabbit hole.
"See what I mean?" she asked, a smirk in her voice. "You'd never survive on the streets these days."
"It's dark and raining," I reminded her huffily, while worrying that she might be right. And if I can't find Leander and get him back home soon, I will be out on those mean streets again.
Woodrow nudged me. "Look over there," he said, lifting a leg and pointing.
I peered through the rain at what at first looked like a puff of smoke.
"Show yourself, spirit," commanded Clawdia, who seemed quite at home with the situation.
The smoke swirled and slowly assumed a shape. The rain stopped and a streetlamp flickered. I found myself staring at a ghost who looked like a cross between Alec Baldwin and Geronimo.
"What the hell did you get me out of my grave on a night like this for, you trio of dimwits?" the ghost demanded.
Clawdia hissed and the spirit recoiled. I stepped forward. "Oh, great spirit," I began.
"Great spirit? What the frig are you on, man? I'm just another dead guy, and my name is Steve."
"Steve?" I turned to Clawdia, who had enough decency left in her bones to look chagrined.
"Aren't you the Indian who's been haunting this place for a couple hundred years?" she asked the ghost.
"Noooo," he replied. "I'm the spirit who's been haunting this place since 1968, when I odeed. You're looking for Dasing Feather, but he's gone on to the light."
I stared hard at Clawdia, who sat down and uttered a string of expletives, while I uttered only one.
"My ass hurts," Woodrow complained.
And it began to rain again.
Guess that's it for this week, readers, but I'll be back again next Wednesday with more thrilling tales about Lincoln Park after dark. Chow!
Hi, gang. Morey the mutt back again with my eerie weekly column about what goes on in Lincoln Park after dark when the night creatures creep out from the shadows, where they hide from the sun, to play wicked games beneath the cold and indifferent moon.
When I concluded my column last week, my buddy Woodrow the bulldog and I had agreed to accompany Clawdia, a Goth pussycat if ever there was one, to meet an old Indian ghost over by the lake.
As luck (or maybe Clawdia) would have it, the specter we encountered instead turned out to be a deceased hippie who dropped too much acid back in the Sixties, and wound up drifing around Lincoln Park Lake in non-corporeal form.
"Thanks a pooper scoop, Clawdia," I growled as rain drops swacked my nose. "This guy's really going to be a big help when it comes to dewerewolfing Leander and bringing him home."
Woodrow shifted his weight off his plastic nadgers (and you can look up the explanation for this one in our archives) and nudged me with his paw.
"Now, Morey," he said, "I believe Clawdia is truly trying to help. She did find a ghost for you. It's not her fault it isn't the right one."
Clawdia switched her long tail through the air like a scimitar.
"Yeah." she said, "Who am I? Sylvia Brown?"
"Uh, whoa there, boys and girls," spoke up the ghost who'd said his name was Steve. "I'm not sure I'm getting all of this, but I did pick up something about a werewolf."
"My owner, Leander Maserati, is cursed with that affliction," I told him. "He ran off looking for his girlfriend, Brianna, a while back, and I'm hoping to find a way to rid him of the werewolf curse and bring him home."
"Far out," Steve allowed, wrapping his misty shape around a park lamppost. "You say his old lady is called 'Brianna'?"
I nodded. "She's a rental agent over at the Merry Lincoln apartments, or she was. It seems she was dating a former Fortune 500 CEO, kind of a bad guy, from what I understand. Anyway, he wound up dead, and she's gone missing."
"Wild as ever, the babe-o," said Steve, "and bad to the bone into the bargain."
"You knew her?" asked Clawdia.
"I sure did, puss," Steve replied. "She and I used to hang out in these woods together when we were spaced-out kids stoned out of our minds."
Clawdia flipped her tail in annoyance. "And you're still stoned after all these years," she hissed "You're more of a holdout than Nick Nolte."
"Brianna," explained Woodrow, "is still in her twenties -- in human years. You must have known somebody else."
The ghost laughed, an odd sound but not an entirely unpleasant one. Sort of like listening to Gwyneth Paltrow try to sing.
"Brianna is a member of the Romularum clan," said Steve the ghost, "and they've been around these parts forever. She was my old lady once, until she sprinkled a little bad candy in my stash of goodies."
"She pulled a Lucretia Borgia on you?" Clawdia began to look truly interested.
"Let's just say she made a full confession to me one night when I was higher than Twiggy's mini-skirts. Next thing I knew, I woke up without a body."
"What sort of confession did she make?" asked Woodrow. "I still say there's no possible way Brianna can be pushing sixty."
"Pushing a hundred is more like it, dude," insisted the ghost. "Brianna confessed to me that she and all the Romularums were werewolves -- so, if nothing else, she and your accursed friend ought to get along great."
And that, dear readers, is it for tonight...but I'll be back next week with more of the same.
Brianna a werewolf?
Ah, well, as LuLu likes to say...Chow~
I apologize to psychic Sylvia BrownE for misspelling her name.
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