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 07, 2006


Morey the mutt hopes to save his master from a life as a werewolf. How loyal is that? (Photo by Beth Javens) Story under "comments"~ Posted by Picasa

posted by LuLu @ 9:03 PM 

3 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Synopsis: Morey the mutt is a dog with a few problems. His owner, Leander Maserati, a werewolf, has left home in pursuit of a zaftig former rental agent named Brianna, and Morey needs to get him back. With the help of a few friends, including LuLu the beagle, Woodrow the bulldog, coyotes Randhi and Rush, and maybe even a little cat named Clawdia -- Morey may yet find a way to lift Leander's curse, get LuLu to fall in love with him, and hold onto his comfortable new life style. (See our archives for the entire story thus far.)

10:53 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Greetings, all. Morey the mutt here to thrill you anew with chilling and haunting tales about Lincoln Park after dark. Frankly, if our current tale is chilling, it's probably because of the weather.

It's certainly not very haunting, mainly as Steve, our ghost, strikes me as a pretty average Joe Dime Bag from the sixties. The only interesting thing about him is that he happens to be dead.

Anyhow, let us cease digressing. There we were, our little trio, consisting of Woodrow, Clawdia and me -- and a fourth for bridge (although I prefer Red Dog Poker), if you want to include Steve, and I suppose you have to.

There we were huddled (except for Steve, whose misty form was wrapped around a lamppost) on the shores of the lake. It was well past midnight -- the fat, round moon was obscured by rain clouds, and Steve had just dropped a bomb.

"Brianna," I gulped. "Brianna is a werewolf?"

"I always knew there was something doggy about that babe," commented Clawdia. "Maybe it was the way she smelled, the way she walked, or the Heather McCartney lean and hungry look in her eye."

"We're talking lupine not canine," I corrected her.

"Whatever, Canis Major," she replied. "Dog, wolf -- what's the difference?"

"Well," put in Steve the ghost, "unless I ingested a whole bunch of mescalin, I'd rather do a head-on with a French poodle instead of a wolf any old day."

"And if I understand you correctly," said Woodrow the bulldog, "Brianna is the real thing. She was born a werewolf, which I'm guessing means she can never be saved?"

Steve the ghost shimmied his ectoplasm. "You got it, man. The Romularum clan is the Devil's own. Things might go down differently for your friend, though."

I shook my head. "Leander has already tasted human blood, Steve. I'm afraid his soul is eternally damned."

Clawdia shrugged. "Leander just needs to find the right job," she opined. "For example, Donald Rumsfeld might be looking for an assistant."

"Your friend may have a chance," Steve went on, "if you can find the magical golden foot at the the bottom of the lake."

Beside me, I felt Woodrow shudder. "Nobody in their right mind would willingly get into those poisoned waters. There are enough chemicals in there to turn Courtney Love into Mother Teresa."

Steve shimmied his ectoplasm again. "I knew there was a reason why I can't seem to break away from this place," he said, "aside from the fact I died here."

"So, what's this foot thing?" demanded Clawdia. "I'm cold and I'm tired and I want to kill something."

"OK," said Steve. "Centuries ago, I mean, like, way back, there was this chick, and she was some kind of Indian princess..."

Clawdia unsheathed her claws. "Get the lead out, Steve."

"Whoa! Chill there, pussycat, but here goes...this chick could work magic, and one day she jumped in the lake in order to get away from this horny brave who wanted to do her. He reached out for her and caught her foot...and it turned into gold."

"WHAT?" I asked, furiously shaking the rain from my coat.

"Still as stoned as the Grand Canyon," said Clawdia, "after all these years."

"No, really," Steve insisted. "I got the story from the old Indian you came here to see. The golden foot is all that's left of the princess, and it's at the bottom of the lake. If you can find it, you can work magic. It's where they got that expression: 'magic is a foot.'"

(Sigh.) All that time...all that rain...and a spaced out ghost tells us a story so absurd, even the New York Times wouldn't buy it.

I mean, no way, right?

But if there's the slightest chance there IS a magical golden foot...and it can remotely help Leander...

Well, more about that next week. It's late and I'm probably over my word limit again.

See you again next Wednesday. Until then, this is Morey saying....Chow~

11:27 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hello, readers. Morey the mutt back again to pick up where we left off last Wednesday, and that was over by the lake, having a cheery-beery conversation with Steve, the spaced-out ghost from the hippie era.

"A golden foot!" declared Clawdia, as we left the specter of Steve dematerializing to the degree that he soon became part of the early morning fog. "What total skimble-scamble! How did civilization ever make it past the 1960s?"

"According to some modern historians, it didn't," Woodrow posited. "The youth culture of the sixties with its utopian ideals strongly eroded the old materialistic concepts which had for so long been the impetus of Western civilization. When the ideals of the sixties ended in anarchy and cynicism, pop culture took over, and what we've got now is pop anti-culture."

I yawned. "You sound like Socrates the squirrel," I told him, not meaning it as a compliment.

Clawdia was even less diplomatic. "You sound like a badger-brained bimbo, Woodrow!" she snorted. "Besides, you're talking about the two-legs' civilization. We're mammals but we're not humans. If you're smart, you'll never forget that. And I figure, so long as they think they're the boss of me, they are my enemies. Of course, as long as they feed me, they don't have to be aware of my feelings."

"You don't seem to have many friends, Clawdia," I observed.

She shrugged, making her back ripple like water. "Why would I need them, Canis Major? I'm a cat."

Woodrow laughed, then sat down to lick his plastic man-boobs. "We dogs probably are too dependent on humans," he said. "Look at what a human did to me."

Clawdia shuddered. "Well, guys, it's been a fun evening, but I'm hungry and feel like a bit of wild game. So many humans these days are attempting to kill with poison pens." Her green eyes shimmered. "I prefer a more direct approach."

And she blended in with the night.

"The Eternal Feminine," commented Woodrow.

"You get a kick out of Clawdia, don't you?" I asked him.

"Let's say I admire the feline psyche," he replied, "and Clawdia is a true daughter of the Egyptian Goddess Bast. She gives blessings to those she likes, but her wrath can be terrible...at least she hopes so."

I glanced over at him as we padded down a sandy pathway leading away from the lake. "You read a lot, don't you, Woodrow?"

"Well, I haven't got much else to do," he admitted. "I'm stuck in the apartment for most of the day, meaning it's down to Oprah, Jerry Springer -- or I make an effort to become an intellectual."

"Tough choice," I murmured.

"An inside dog like me doesn't have a lot of options," he conceded.

"So what do you think we ought to do about the golden foot?" I asked him.

"I would like to forget about it," Morey said, "but you've got hold of a bone here and I doubt you'll drop it."

Smart bulldog, Woodrow. In a short period of time, he'd learned to know me well.

"But who can we con to dive down to the bottom of the lake?" I wondered aloud. "Rush and Randhi aren't in town."

"And they're too smart to so much as dog paddle in those detergent-infested waters," he said. "You need someone who's as close to rubber-room crazy as Pat Robertson or Howard Stern."

"Who's out there making all that noise?" shouted a cultivated but screechy voice from somewhere above our heads.

I looked up, squinting against the darkness. "Socrates?"

I heard a door slam, then leaves rustled and a bespectacled little head poked its way through them. "Is that you, sir?" asked the old squirrel, "and did you steal one of my books?"

"I saw a cat running off with a book just a few minutes ago," said Woodrow. "I think she dropped it in the lake."

"No!" cried Socrates. "Oh, not my precious volume on the history of voles. What should I do?"

"Let's discuss it," suggested Woodrow, settling himself on his plastic nadgers, while smiling benignly.

And that's enough for tonight, or I'll hear it from LuLu about my word count. Back next Wednesday to tell you more.

Chow now...Morey

11:49 PM  

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