How faithful can one dog be? Read our latest entry. (Photo by Beth Javens) See comments section~
posted by LuLu @ 10:16 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~
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
How faithful can one dog be? Read our latest entry. (Photo by Beth Javens) See comments section~
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
- Where, O, where have these two little dogs gone? (...
- HERE COME THE BRIDES! Dacia the legal maven says "...
- The Asp wins the heart of a noble dog and becomes ...
- Adorable Miss Gracie, the Paris Hilton of Lincoln ...
- General (Lord) Mondo Simba maks a Lady out of Dixi...
- Handsome Dan exchanges vows with Dacia. (Photo by ...
- Handsome playboy Buddy Pepper wins Miss Gracie's v...
- Blue-eyed Sydney says, "Down with love!" (Picture ...
- Welcome to LILY FEST, a special week-long edition ...
- In the cold and dark of winter, Lily dreams of a v...
Subscribe to
Posts [Atom]
20 Comments:
"Nobody in his or her right mind would enter those toxic waters," protested Socrates the squirrel as he clung to the limb of a beech tree which jutted out over Lincoln Park Lake, a reeking body of what smelled like sulfuric acid and sparkled in the morning sunlight like a vast oil slick colored a preternatural shade of turquoise.
"Just hold your breath and let go of the tree branch," coaxed my buddy Woodrow from the rowboat we were both seated in. Then he turned to me, his wet dark eyes filled with grave misgiving.
"Morey," he said, "I can't go along with this plan we came up with. Socrates might be a pissy old pedagogue who's as hard to get along with as the women on 'The View,' but we're about to commit out-and-out murder here."
I heaved a sigh while trying not to breathe. The stench from the lake hadn't been too awful during the rain the night before, but the vapors now rising from its acrid depths were scorching my lungs and scrambling my brains.
"We need the magical golden foot," I protested, "and I thought we agreed that Socrates was expendable."
Woodrow shook his massive head. "Fumes and moonglow," he muttered. "As the poet John Donne once wrote: 'Any man's death diminishes me.'"
"Donne stole that line from a famous squirrel named Lord Sidney Chitter!" Socrates shouted down from his precarious perch. Lord Sidney wrote: 'Any squirrel's death means a diminishing in the supply of winter walnuts.' Donne was a plagiarist, pure and simple."
"I would debate that statement," Woodrow shouted back. "In fact, Lord Sidney stole plenty of his stuff from the sagacious Beagle Bede of Mangeley."
Socrates began to chatter annoyingly and Woodrow to bark incessantly. "Cut it out!" I howled, "or start hosting competing talk shows on Animal Planet."
"Sorry, Morey," said Woodrow, "but we're going to have to come up with another plan. I realize you want to get your paws on the magical golden foot, if such an object even exists, in order to free your owner of his curse. But we lied to Socrates about his book being in the lake..."
"My book's not in the lake?" the old squirrel shouted down.
"I thought you were hard of hearing!" I bellowed back up.
"The fumes from the lake have melted the wax in my ears," he retorted, "and they've jump-started my brain. If my book on the history of voles is in the lake, it's no doubt a soggy ruin. So what am I doing here?"
He removed his tiny rubber goggles and blinked. "What AM I doing here?"
A splinter from the floor of the boat got me in a bad place, and for the first time ever, I envied Woodrow his plastic nadgers.
"All right, Socrates, we lied to you!" I hollered back. "Come on down out of the tree, and we'll figure out another way to rid Leander of his lycanthropy."
"You dogs seriously fell for that old suburban legend about the magical golden foot?" The squirrel shook his hoary head and tittered with laughter. "What a pair of canine fools you are!"
"He's right, you know," said Woodrow. "Now I feel like a thug and a hangdog."
"We're sorry, Socrates," I barked up his tree. "What can we do to make this mistake up to you?"
"You can find out what really happened to my book on this history of voles," he fired back, "or you can Vladimir Putin me and kiss my tummy."
I saw Woodrow's hackles rise.
"Dogs don't kiss," I informed Socrates. "We lick. And neither one of us is willing to lick a horny old squirrel like you."
"I'm more than willing to lick a squirrel," said a voice as silky as a Mandarin's sleeve and as deadly as a cyanide capsule.
"Clawdia, no!" cried Woodrow, as the little black-and-white feline rushed up the beech tree and took a vicious swing at the startled and petrified old squirrel.
"Clawdia, stop!" Woodrow implored, but it was too late. Socrates lost his grip on the tree, slipped and fell headlong into the poisonous waters below.
"My Dog!" cried Woodrow, as we sighted a glabrous little head momentarily surface before sinking like the flag amendment.
Without hesitating, Woodrow heaved himself off his plastic testicles and leaped into the water to save Socrates.
"He can't swim, you know," called out Clawdia, who was now comfortably seated in the beech tree, stretching her rippling back.
"But maybe his balls will act as water wings?"
I took a breath, closed my eyes and jumped in after Woodrow.
Bubbles rose to the surface.
A lovely feline with exquisite markings climbed down out of the beech tree and sauntered off.
Time for a little fish oil at Uncle Bobcat's Bar and Mousetrap, I believe. The momentary celebration of a brief victory.
Insincerely yours,
Article completed by Clawdia the cat.
Please find columns by Morey the mutt in our archives...and keep your paws crossed for Morey and his buddy Woodrow.
Crikey!
Clawdia is quite a kitty! I am concerned about where u might be going with this story.
Shamus is presumed dead again, but we know he isn't, but I hope u won't kill of Morey.
Stop worrying, Molly. And please keep in mind that the stories are make-believe.
I know they are, but Shamus and Morey are special. They are little people in a big dog world.
Nicely put, although Morey isn't all that little. Clawdia's the tiny one. A stealth missile in a petite package.
Great 4th photo!
Where is Ken?
Who cares?
Burdflu, how are Felony and Carlotta? Have a nice Fourth, Ken.
I did.
Falling into the chemically treated, putrid lake at first seemed comparable to being dropped into a vat of reeking corrosives, before being hurled into a cattery where a thousand unneutered male cats had just been allowed to spray.
I tried to breathe and couldn't. The lake was dark and cold and I realized I was dying.
All of a sudden the terrible stench receded, and I could breathe again, feel again, twitch my canine snout again.
I opened my eyes.
The sky above was as gray as an old cur's muzzle, and the gelatinous waves below as blue as a dogcatcher's curse.
"The dolphin and his dog are leaving," said a disembodied voice.
"There's a dolphin down here?" I barked.
"You mean DOUGH FAHN," I heard Woodrow say. "It's a French word, Morey. It was a title once used to designate the eldest son of the king."
I was in no mood for pedantries -- not that it mattered. What arose before me didn't look like any prince, or anything human, for that matter, even when you consider the low standards of the species.
There arose from the waves a creature in a gaudy suit, along with his orange dog. Both had three eyes -- two in the expected places, and one in the middle of their respective foreheads.
The dog looked vaguely familiar.
"Aren't you Nipper?" I asked.
"Morey!" cried Woodrow. "You're right! It is Nipper! It's the RCA dog in the flesh -- well, sort of."
"I've never seen a bull terrier with three eyes before," I said. "Anyway, aren't you supposed to be dead?"
"We're both supposed to be dead," spoke up the prince. "I allegedly died back in the 18th century not long after my parents got their heads chopped off."
"I guess I'm supposed to be dead," added Nipper, speaking in his master's voice, which only added to the weirdness. "By the way, I'm not a purebred bull terrier. I'm part fox terrier, and proud of it, dude."
"What about the three-eyed bit?" I prodded, ignoring his misplaced pugnacity.
"If you're down here long enough, anything can happen," said Nipper.
"Well, how did you get here in the first place?" asked Woodrow, but when the pair opened their mouths to reply, large oleaginous bubbles oozed forth, muffling the sound.
Suddenly there was a swirl, followed by a crash. The prince and Nipper soared toward the gray sky like they'd been fired from a NASA launching pad -- meaning the prince left behind his pants, socks, and shoes.
"Morey!" barked Woodrow. "Do you, by chance, hear... music?"
I cocked an ear in the viscous air, or what passed for air. Woodrow was right. "It sounds like the theme from The Godfather," I told him.
There came a flash of light, followed by the smell of burning rubber, and I was reminded of the time my first owner, the professor, accidentally dropped a fan into his bathtub.
"I am Sade, sir curs," said the disembodied voice I'd heard before. Only now it had a body.
"You look like a Jack Russell terrier to me," I said, "except for your eyes." The dog's eyes were spinning like twin pinwheels.
"What do you want from us?" asked Woodrow, while I studied the kinky skull-and-crossbones kerchief the Sade was sporting.
The seriously spooky canine barked a laugh. "It's not what I want from you, sir curs, it's what you want from me that matters."
Posted by I, Clawdia, on her way out the door to kill something. More next week, dearies. I promise.
Is the Sade a female?
That's pathetic, fiver.
Is this a twist on pirates of the caribbean?
No.
Hello again, gullible readers. Clawdia the cat back to thrill you anew with tales from the dark side...the sort of juicy tellings that might make Ingmar Bergman, if not Michael Moore or Oliver Stone, cringe, my dear ones. In other words, my kind of bedtime stories.
Let me see, when last we left them, our two clueless canines, Morey the mutt and Woodrow the bull dog, were in an air pocket at the bottom of Lincoln Park Lake, having replaced the former dauphin of France and his dog Nipper as playthings for the Dreaded Sade.
Personally, I've never considered the Sade to be all that dreadful. To my way of thinking, she's pretty much your generic elemental, who just happens to have been around since the days when humans thought the earth was flat.
The earth is flat, of course, but I know you won't believe me, so why try to shine a light in dark corners? It's a waste of time and effort.
Moving along, since time does not exist at the bottom of the lake -- well, in truth, time does not exist period, but there I go again. Since neither Rolex nor calendar time exists at the bottom of the lake, our two dummies still think it's last week, which it well may be, and they are still being indoctrinated by the Sade, who likes to take her time, if you will excuse my little play on words.
"So," said the Sade, "exactly what can I do for you two pathetic examples of dog meat? Confide in me your needs, your wants, your secret desires -- which hopefully are a bit more interesting than those of DJ Boyd, because I bore easily.
"You've got thirty seconds."
Woodrow spoke up at once. "I want real testicles!" he barked. "I've got these effing plastic nadgers and I hate them."
The Sade, who looks very much like a three-year-old Jack Russell terrier, if you can get past her eyes glowing in the dark, twitched her nose -- yeah, yeah, just like in "Bewitched" -- and Woodrow sank a good half inch into the gelatinous waves.
"I've got my manberries back again!" he barked with insane glee. "Oh dog! Oh dog! I'm a real boy again!"
"Those aren't your cajones, you miserable cur!" Morey decried. "Those are MY twin bombers! What the hell happened here? Get these vole-puke prosthetics off me!"
"I've got Morey's King Kongers?" Woodrow looked horrified. "I don't think you understand, uh, Sade. I don't want Morey's testicles; I want my own back."
"Ah," said the Sade, letting her glowing eyes gyrate like pinwheels in order to impress her brand new captive audience. "Ah, the problem is, your original set of flesh-and-blood doowahs are long gone...dust in the wind...part of the eternal void."
"So you had to give him MY hubcaps?" Morey protested. "Like that really makes sense."
"It does when you consider the Law of One," she snapped.
Morey snorted. "And what's that...something to do with the myth of Alan Greenspan?"
"No," growled the Sade, "it is a theory taken from the Great Book of Psychic Trivia, written by my mentor Dr. Doolittle, after his kinky relationship with Aleister Crowley turned sour. Now are you going to sock a slipper in it and listen up, or what?"
"Sorry, Sade," said Morey, "but I'm a little on the tense side here. For one thing, I'm sitting on a pair of whoopee cushions."
"Now you know how I've felt for months," Woodrow pointed out, licking his new wiggle-waggles lovingly.
"The fact is, I don't want to feel your pain," Morey told him. "Sorry, pal."
"MAY I continue?" snarled the Sade.
"Continue," said Woodrow, stiffening his undershot jaw while glancing dejectedly at Morey.
"The Theory of One barks forth the premise that everything is connected to everything else."
"Brilliant," commented Morey, "and what's the Theory of Two?"
"I take back the plastic nadgers and give you itty-bitty little fish balls," replied the Sade, allowing her eyes to do pinwheels in reverse.
"Oh, give Morey back his apples," said Woodrow magnanimously. "This isn't a fair exchange, and my plastic balls aren't really his problem."
"Now wait a minute," argued Morey. "I didn't mean to bite your head off. The fact is, you are my friend, Woodrow, and you haven't been able to sit down comfortably ever since I've known you..."
"I hate noble sentiments!" barked the Sade. "Who wants the plastic knobs and who wants the real ones?"
"I'll keep the plastic set," offered Morey, swallowing hard, "if you'll grant me the magical golden foot that I need in order to release my owner from his curse. You see, he's a werewolf...."
The Sade began to howl. "Sirius, help me!" she finally declared. "Where do they find you hopeless hounds? Where do they dig up you coyote bait? At least the dauphin and Nipper were somewhat refreshing. I mean, deposed royalty and a clever ventriloqist. Now that they're out of the lake, they'll probably get their own radio talk show. Meanwhile, I'm stuck down here with you two rectal portals."
"Well, that's our real desire," said Morey, alerting Woodrow with a quick wink. "Our desire is to be out of this lake and back on the shore."
"Right," agreed the bull dog. "Just let us get out of here, Sade, and we will never trouble you again."
"Really?" barked the irked elemental. "Well, sir curs, that's all well and good for you, but who will be left to keep ME company?"
"Where am I?" moaned a cultivated voice. "Where is my history of voles?"
"Socrates!" cried the two hopeful dogs in unison.
"All right, sir curs, I think I can accommodate you," said the Sade. "Close your eyes and think of Kansas."
"But, Sade, we're not from Kansas," Morey reminded her...but it was already too late.
And that's it for this week, my dearies. As poor old Morey used to say: Chow -- from Clawdia.
"Uh, Sade,"
Check out those manberries! Are plastic testicles for dogs available or is it just part of the story?
They sound too horrible not to be available.
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home