Are Morey and Woodrow stuck in a brave new world? Read the latest installment now.(Photo by Beth Javens) Story under comments~
posted by LuLu @ 12:09 AM
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, July 19, 2006
Are Morey and Woodrow stuck in a brave new world? Read the latest installment now.(Photo by Beth Javens) Story under comments~
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
- LuLu the beagle says: "My publisher and I decided ...
- Elizabeth Beagle. Attractive, clever, and a shade ...
- PRIDE AND POOP by Jane Airedale
- Jane Beagle. Sweet, considerate, modest, and horny...
- Lydia, the youngest of the Beagle girls. For some ...
- Despite her nervous disposition, Ben Beagle realiz...
- The Sade assures us that Morey the mutt's column w...
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Clawdia the cat continues to narrate the ongoing saga of Morey and his friend Woodrow.
Morey the mutt opened two bloodshot eyes before choking, gagging, and finally spitting up some vile-tasting lake chemicals that made his tongue feel like he'd been licking jalapeno juice off a porcupine.
He rolled over, realized he was once again on the shore beside the lake, and immediately began to search for Woodrow, who turned out to be only a few feet away, lying on his back, and looking very, very dead.
"Woodrow? Oh, no! Woodrow?" Morey got to his paws, nudged his friend with his snout, slipped on some lake slime, and fell on top of him.
An enormous stream of reeking water gushed out of the bull dog's nose and mouth. Morey heard his friend take a deep, shuddering breath, so stood up and fell on him again.
The same thing happened as before, only this time Woodrow opened his eyes. "Anything for a friend," said Morey, by way of explanation.
"But must our friendship be as dicey as the Drudge Report?" Not waiting for a reply, Woodrow got to his paws, shook himself off, and attempted to regain a soupcon of his tattered dignity.
Because he was a born intellectual, he hastened to explain away reality.
"Could it have been real?" he asked himself aloud. "I seem to recall being at the bottom of the lake with an elemental who referred to herself as the Sade. Logic tells me she must have been a wild hallucination, but logic also tells me the same damn thing about the ongoing relationship between Pam Anderson and Kid Rock."
Morey sat back on his haunches and frowned. "I'd like to agree with you about the hallucination part, pal," he said, "because I'm still wearing your plastic nadgers, and you've still got my crown jewels dangling between your bowed hind legs."
The bull dog glanced over one shoulder and carefully wriggled his rump. "By Cujo! You're absolutely right."
He could not repress a wide grin or another quickie rump wiggle. He took a deep breath, plopped down in the high grass, and dragged his flesh-and-blood dog-hood through it.
"Ahhh! Oh, Morey, BETTER. So much better! You know, a famous canine sage once wrote that nothing is more overrated than a bad hump, or as underrated as a good butt scoot."
"I'm glad my balls could go along for the ride," responded his best friend more than a tad ruefully.
Woodrow was immediately chastened. "Oh, sorry. Morey, I do apologize," he said.
Morey gingerly rose off his haunches. "It's OK...for now."
"No, it's not, and I promise you," vowed Woodrow, "we will find a way to get your nadgers back where they belong. You have my bark on it."
Morey slowly wagged his tail, letting Woodrow know he believed him. He couldn't help but notice, though, how quickly his buddy changed the subject.
"So," said Woodrow, "we really were at the bottom of the lake, and the Sade was real."
Morey nodded. "Yep, but she seemed happy enough when Socrates the squirrel landed at her paws. Amazing, isn't it, what some creatures consider entertainment?"
"Hmmm," replied Woodrow. "I guess that explains how Rosie O'Donnell stays on TV."
He began to sniff the air while looking perplexed.
"Morey, do things seem at all, ah, different to you?"
Morey sat up a bit straighter, twitched his tail, sniffed the air himself, and tried to look sharp despite the fact his ass hurt.
The grass was still the same shade of chemically induced brilliant green as ever, and the lake shimmered in the sunlight, its deep blue waters looking as unnatural as always, he decided. But wait a minute!
What had happened to all the sailboats which were usually bobbing about in the water? Where were the sick-looking ducks or the radioactive minnows?
Morey cocked his head, puzzled. For that matter, where were the cars which generally clogged the parking lot?
And where were all the people?
"Let's check out those odd-looking vehicles over by the bike racks," suggested Woodrow, as he and Morey cautiously approached the parking lot. There was a neat row of what appeared to be Crayola-Crayon colored kitty condos perched on wheels where a bunch of bikes used to be.
"Freaky," observed Morey. "I don't remember ever seeing these boxy little gizmos over here before -- do you?"
Woodrow shook his massive bull-dog head. "It must be some new fad that's recently taken hold. After all, we don't know how long we were at the bottom of the lake -- do we?"
"True," Morey agreed. He had to paw it to Woodrow, who was very bright and generally came up with sensible explanations for things. Morey, by contrast, had street smarts, and something about the neat row of little mobile boxes was making his hackles rise faster than strip malls in Las Vegas.
"Watch out!" he barked in the Fido of time. Woodrow, usually a plodder, managed to neatly sidestep a bright red vehicle which tore into the parking lot going at least 50 mph. It was driven by, of all things, a cat! And not just any cat.
"Clawdia?" Morey blinked hard. "What in the name of rancid canned tuna are you doing here?"
All at once he realized his mistake. The sleek, leather-clad, black-and-white feline hopping down off a perky leather seat couldn't possibly be the beautiful and charming cat he had once known. This slinky panther was almost as large as he was -- and Morey was about the size of an average Labrador.
"Hello," said the cat, in a deep, purring voice. "I'm the lovely Portia, and here is my business card. You really must consider suing the manufacturer of my MCC, the owner of this parking lot, and my insurance company. Why, I almost ran you down!"
Woodrow glanced down at the card she had so hastily slipped into his paw. "Portia Hissy-Kitty, Attorney at Law and Certified Agent for Piece of the Action Insurance Co.," he read. "Uh, that's OK, Ms. Hissy-Kitty. No real harm was done, and I don't want to sue anybody."
She acted as if he had stepped on her tail. "WHAT?" Then she paused, her eyes turned bright with realization, and she threw back her head and yowled with catty laughter.
She turned to Morey. "He doesn't want to sue anybody," she said, wiping her eyes with both paws while still gasping with laughter. "Your friend has an amazing sense of humor!"
"Right," agreed Morey. "On a good day he makes Chris Parnell look like Kim Jong-il. Tell me, what's an MCC, and what kind of Puss 'n Boots are you?"
She picked up her long, fluffy tail with one graceful paw and playfully smacked him across the snout. "Don't go all ingenuous on me, Doggy-dog," she said. "As any fool knows, an MCC is a 'mobile cat carrier,' and I am the kind of cat who just made junior partner at the legal firm of Snaggle, Wormwood, Ratcatch, Litter, and Hissy."
Suddenly she blinked and stared hard at Morey's behind. "Mice droppings! What the hell happened to you?"
He flinched. She was looking directly at his plastic nadgers. "Uh, it's kind of a long story," he temporized.
"Oh, my! Well, there's no question about it -- you'll have to go to the hospital," she insisted. "Both of you." And she let loose a loud meow that managed to summon a pair of large bloodhounds, who showed up on bright blue MCCs with little red dog bones painted on the sides.
"These two need to go to the hospital," Portia told them in a no-nonsense hiss.
"Insurance?" growled one of the hounds.
"Sign here," and Portia shoved two documents the size of phone books at Morey and Woodrow.
"What is this?" Morey asked, and one of the hounds bit him.
"Hey!" he protested.
"Sign!" commanded the hound, "or we'll call in the Rottweilers for backup.
"There now," purred Portia, once the signed agreements were back in her possession. "Off to the hospital with both of you! Tell Dr. Snarlys to test them for everything," she told the bloodhounds. "The more expensive, the better, and remember to ask for complete psychological workups. I've got a feeling they may be strangers in town, and they might have to be drugged or given high-voltage collar treatments."
The bloodhounds unceremoniously tossed Morey and Woodrow across the handlebars of their MCCs, and took off down the street, baying loudly.
"Do you suppose we should ask them about the magical golden foot?" barked Woodrow, who definitely was not competing with Marilyn vos Savant at that moment, thought his companion.
Morey merely shook his head. Where on earth had the Sade sent them? And when was the Good Witch of the North going to appear?
Oh, dear. I've snagged a claw. Well, I, Clawdia have grown bored with this bathetic tale, at least for tonight. I have to giggle, thinking about the Sade and Socrates spending time together, but it might work out. That girl has the most outlandish taste in males. Of course, so does dear Portia...
I'm bad and I want to meet the Sade.
Go jump in the lake?
Cruel, Anonymous. Instructive, perhaps, but cruel nonetheless.
I don't mind. Jumping in the lake sounds good today.
With ya there, Fiver. Guess it was even hot in Michegan?
Not so hot as some places but we get bad storms. After the storms comes the humidity. We are right on the water.
It's hot in Michigan, Fiver? No fair! That where all of us down here go to cool off.
It must get hot in Michigan. You can visit Hell there.
Isn't that also known as Detroit?
Say what? I ain't gonna be your ebitch no more, Anonymouse.
I know all about bitches in heat. I was gang raped 4 years ago by an Indiana Jones type cat named The Tramp, another overweight scraggly ass tomcat named Shag, and a huge yellow horny cat aptly named....The Bull. It isn't any wonder that I produced a litter of five 3 months later.
I'm just glad that the Profitt family had me "fixed" and got me the hell out of the woods...but I do have those occasional cravings for the outdoors and things that go BUMP in the night.
Wow, Lola. You don't happen to know Firbawl, do you?
See what happens when you name a girl Lola!
Oh, that's not very nice.
That's what makes the blog go 'round!
Where has Punkin been of late?
Punkin is the one who is forever sailing the seven seas, isn't he?
Five, at least.
Which is any dog with a heartbeat?
Wicked!
Heehee. What type of dog are u, Jean?
It looks like a gerbil wearing a rubber vibrator!
MOM!
That's a BERET, KKB.
That's Wendy the chipmunk!
You just won yourself a recycled chew toy from Second-Paw Bonz, Molly,
Real chew notchies?
With a few real teeth left in!
How do I get this prize?
Send us your email address, Molly.
We're at AOscard@aol.com....along with a few trolls, imps, ghouls, and warthogs~
Who is Wendy the chipmunk?
Oh, keep up, Fiver!
In the eccentric little city of All Pink Corn, which is an obvious anagram of Lincoln Park, all the corn IS pink, the sky is disturbingly clear, and the color of grass varies from lime to asparagus green.
In the center of a large triangular area on the shores of a lake containing water as blue as the best AKC pedigree, stands an oblong building which looks a little bit like an ancient Greek temple. The columns are Doric, the simple statues of plain-looking mammals are few, and a sign above the main entrance reads: "Mismanagement Building." A smaller sign give instructions to those seeking admittance: "All emergencies use backdoor."
Evidently Morey and Woodrow were not considered critical cases. The two hefty bloodhounds unceremoniously dropped them on the steps leading up to the temple, bayed loudly, until two full-bodied white Samoyeds wearing nursing caps padded out, sniffed the new arrivals, then hauled them inside in wobbly wheelbarrows partially filled with bricks.
"I thought this was a hospital," barked Morey. "Why are you treating us like sacks of rocks?"
"We've yet to see any proof of outrageously expensive private insurance, or evidence of equally over-the-top insurance paid for with money out of the public trough," replied one of the Samoyeds bluntly. "Until we see some, you are lower than sacks of rocks -- even lower than a Dachshund's dewclaw!"
"Hold it right there!" yowled a large gray cat the size of a German shepherd. "I'm from the All Pink Corn Canine Civil Liberties Union! Even if these dogs don't have insurance, they still have basic animal rights! We're going to sue this building, both of you Samoyeds, the elevators, the staircases, the ambulance drivers, and Krazy Kat for premeditated wheelbarrow driving without a license, acting too snooty for words, treason, sucking air, and not picking up your own poop!"
"All else aside," said Woodrow, who was, among other things, an aficionado of existentialist cartoons, "why would you want to sue Krazy Kat?"
"Why not?" asked the large gray feline. "If I could, I would sue the entire world and everybody in it, living or dead, animate or otherwise." He gave Woodrow a conspiratorial wink. "I've been working on a plan which will allow me to sue myself, you know?"
Woodrow turned to Morey. "Do you have any idea what's happened to us, or where we are?"
"None, but I'm working on it," his stalwart companion assured him not very reassuringly.
"Cat fight! Cat fight!" cried the Samoyeds, and Morey and Woodrow spun around quickly enough to witness Portia Hissy-Kitty hurl herself through the air and land, with all her claws unsheathed, on the large gray cat's back.
"Oberon!" Portia growled. "You matted, fish-oil splattered, rat-gut masticator! How dare you try to steal clients away from ME!"
The gray cat, Oberon, managed to throw her off his bloodied back. "You sneaky, litter-box rolling, one-hundred cats a night trollop!" he yowled. "So you want to play in the tiger leagues, do you, you little mouse beheader? Well, I don't think so!" And he bit down hard on her neck, but just in time she was able to slash him across the nose with a well-placed right paw.
"Somebody stop them!" barked Woodrow. "They're going to kill each other!"
"They haven't managed to yet," pointed out one of the Samoyeds with apparent indifference.
"But they did send their sibs Ariel, Titania, Puck, Caliban, Stephano, and Juliet to that big cat condo up in the sky," put in the other. "It's a genuine shame what happens to animals who refuse to be team players."
Morey cocked his head, then ducked, as Portia sailed shrieking through a plate-glass window. "Sibs?"
The white dog closest to him nodded. "Oh, yes. I believe it's only the two of them left now. Oberon and Portia are brother and sister, the very last members of the once-great Hissy-Cat family of attorneys at large."
"Aiiiieee!" screeched Oberon, as Portia ripped into his shoulder with fangs as large as a Doberman's.
"Shall we call for a transfusion?" one of the Samoyeds asked the other, who smothered a yawn and shook her head.
"Let's take our kibble break first. They'll be at it for at least another fifteen minutes," she posited.
"Time for us to make a run for it," Morey suggested to Woodrow. "When I give the signal..."
But he never got the chance.
When Morey next opened his eyes, he was lying on a comfortable couch upholstered in soft suede that was the palest shade of beige. "Some sedative!" he groaned, attempting to sit up.
"You weren't given a sedative," responded a warm and friendly canine bark. "One of the Samoyeds hit you over the head with a brick."
Morey sat up. His plastic nadgers pinched his rectum, and his head felt like it had, well, been hit with a brick.
Seated across from him, directly below a beautifully framed portrait of Lassie looking her most dutiful, was a kindly appearing Golden retriever with a notepad in one paw and a Greenies chewable pen in the other.
"Why didn't those bitches just give me a simple injection?" Morey growled. "I've got a bump on my head the size of Simon Cowl's ego."
"It was past time for their kibble break," the Golden explained patiently, "and they are entitled to those breaks by law. A brick is quick, my dear sir. It takes time to fill a syringe."
"Well, yeah, OK," conceded Morey, who was still feeling very woozy and leaned back against the couch again. He sat up abruptly. "Hey! What happened to my buddy Woodrow?"
"He's fine," soothed the Golden. "He's in another relaxation room."
Morey felt his hackles rise. "Relaxation room? What the whiz on a hydrant is that?"
The Golden rewarded him with an understanding smile. "It's a place where dogs can rest and be rehabilitated," she explained, wagging her feathery tail. "I'm Dr. Daisy, and I'm here to help you."
And I, Clawdia have had enough for one night. Later, dearies....
Lower than a dachshund's dew claw is an expression I gotta use, except ya gotta be careful and not use it around dachshunds!
True. You might find yourself lower than their incisors.
I'm fairly short already.
I'm enjoying Morey's capers. It's science fiction humor and is more up my alley.
Well, bowwow to you, Jum.
And to you, baby.
Do you prefer to be called Baby or Hooey, Baby Hooey?
Hooey to you, Anon.
"What sort of place is All Pink Corn?" Morey inquired of the pretty and perky canine psychiatrist, Dr. Daisy.
"Why, what specifically do you mean?" she asked, while wagging her tail and smiling like a puppy with gas.
Morey tried to sit up again. "Oh, I wish you would lie back and try to relax," Dr. Daisy chided him gently. "You seem so very restless."
"I just got hit over the head with a brick," he reminded her, "and I think this whole burg is crazy. It seems like all the cats are lawyers and insurance agents, and all the dogs are in the healthcare field."
Dr. Daisy wrote something down on her notepad with her Greenies pen. "Why does that seem crazy to you?" she asked him, her eyes alight with understanding, her head cocked at just the right angle to make her look adorable.
"I dunno. Where I come from..."
"And where might that be?" she interrupted. Wag, wag, wag. Scribble, scribble, scribble.
"Uh, Lincoln Park. It's a town which looks a lot like this one, only they're not really very much alike at all."
Dr. Daisy said nothing for a moment, but finally and emphatically tapped her pen against her pad. "Are you aware that Lincoln Park is an anagram of All Pink Corn?" she asked him.
Morey shook his head and winced at the pain, imagining it might be even worse than one of Mel Gibson's hangovers.
Wag, wag, wag. "Morey," she said, "are you still with me?"
He sat up. "How do you know my name?"
Scribble, scribble, scribble. "We got it from your collar ID tag," she told him. "We also checked on your dog license. It's more than five years out of date, but it was issued by one of our mismanagement departments, right here in this building. It seems you're void of microchips, of any and all tracking devices, in fact." She cocked her head again. "Which strikes us as odd."
"I was born under a bridge," said Morey, "abandoned by my mother, and adopted by a chronically depressed former professor who also happened to be a sot. After he more or less committed suicide, I hooked up with a guy by the name of Leander Maserati. He's a werewolf."
Scribble, scribble, scribble. Wag, wag, wag.
"The professor was decent enough to get me a license," Morey went on, "and Leander gave me my name. Granted, it was the name HE was born with, but I suppose any name beats no name. Nobody ever thought about microchips, and that license can't be more than five years old, Doc. I'm not five years old myself."
Dr. Daisy merely smiled. "Tell me about your testicles," she prompted.
Morey flinched with embarrassment. "They're not really mine, they're Woodrow's," he explained, "and because of them, I'm likely to have more eventual problems with my testosterone than Floyd Landis."
"I see," she remarked with all the sincerity of a gold digger's kiss. Scribble, scribble, scribble. Wag, wag, wag.
"It was the Sade," he continued, beginning to wonder how long she could keep it up before she got writer's cramp. "The Sade switched our nadgers on us while we were down at the bottom of the lake."
Dr. Daisy laid her notepad and pen aside, made an inverted "V" of her paws, and rested her chin upon them. "Morey, I am afraid you are completely delusional," she told him.
He sniffed the air. She certainly wore great-smelling dog shampoo. "In what way?" he asked her.
Wag, wag. Thump. "Well, a werewolf? Somebody else's testicles? And perhaps the most distressing part of all -- the Sade?"
"Do you know her?" Morey asked hopefully.
For a brief moment Dr. Daisy stopped wagging her tail altogether. In that brief moment she almost looked angry.
"You know as well as I do that the Sade is the Mother Doctor of our country," she precisely informed him. "It was she, along with Clawdius the Cat, who founded the first College of Medical Non-Necessities, Insurance Gouging, Law with No Order, and Mismanagement of Everthing."
"Wow," said Morey. "I'm so not impressed. Hey, wait a minute! Did you say 'Clawdius'?"
"The greatest malpractice attorney ever born," she professed. "He could argue both sides of the same case, and win both. The confusion he caused! It must have been glorious," she opined with a sigh.
"Then again," said Morey, whose head still hurt but was beginning to clear, "maybe it was just confusing."
Dr. Daisy showed a little fang. "The Sade and Clawdius enjoyed the first cross-species marriage in All Pink Corn," she told him, "and we are each and every one of us descended from them -- including you!"
Morey glanced up at the portrait of a certain famous collie which hung almost directly above her sleek golden head. "Now Lassie is my idea of a really great animal," he said, working his way off the couch and getting to his paws.
Dr. Daisy stared at him. "Lassie? Well, I suppose...as a religious figure." She drew a sharp breath and began to pant. "Does religion mean a lot to you, Morey? Do you hear barks in your head?"
"What? No! But her portrait," Morey began, then blinked. Instead of Lassie, he found himself staring at a magnificently framed portrait of the Sade. "I'm outta here," he growled, and made a dash for the pet door.
But just outside he ran into two sturdy-looking Rottweilers, who knocked him to the floor and pulled something over his head. It didn't take him long to realize it was not a doggy sweater.
YAWN! My, my...poor old Morey. Do you think he'll ever find the magical golden foot and get back home?
Moi neither.
But I do miss Woodrow. Sort of.
Oh, well...nightie-night, dearies. I'll be back again next week~ I,C.
Did you name her for me? He=he. Silly dog. She could have had Morrye. Maybe she can any way?
Morey don't sound like a dog who is too hard to have.
Hey! Watch your bark!
I would like to read more about Lola, who was had by "an Indiana Jones type cat" and a "scraggly ass" named Bull. She sounds like a typical sailor's girlfriend and I'm in the market to know.
Enjoying Morey and your "All Pink Corn" story.
Are you implying that Lola sounds like a hooker, Punkin? I don't believe this. Whoever posted the message comes across as upset and sincere.
Like a hooker can't be sincere and upset?
U speaking from experience, burd?
Oh, flush it.
Are you the real Mel Gibson?
Are you the real KEN?
No.
Give us a break!
Yeah...break a leg, ken.
Or an arm or a foot. I'm sick of Ken. He's been on this blog from the beginning and gets far too much attention.
U said it!
"Hey," barked Morey, "what is it with you dogs? Candy Spelling doesn't treat her daughter this rough."
The Rottweilers growled at him and one of them shoved him up against a wall. "Look, numb nuts," he said, "you can come quietly or we can get downright nasty -- and by that I mean, maybe we rip those little balls of yours out of their comfy nest. Bet that would smart, eh, girly-dog?"
"Morey?"
As the Rottweilers paused, Morey peered over his shoulder and saw Woodrow, or rather a pair of Woodrows: two distinguished-looking bull dogs, each wearing a vest and smoking a pipe.
"Woodrow?" he barked, staring hard at the pair, trying to pick out his friend. "Am I glad to see you! Lend me a paw and help me out of this mess."
The two identical dogs padded over to where he lay in a heap on the floor.
"Morey," repeated one of them, "I would like to introduce you to my new colleague, Dr. Dennison Calmbark. We've been having the most delightful discussion about Freud, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, and Schopenhauer. Why, I can't recall the last time I so enjoyed a conversation."
"And don't forget our brief dissection of Sartre's earlier works," Dr. Calmbark was quick to add with a soft bark of a chuckle.
Morey had no idea what sort of game Woodrow was playing, but he decided to go along with it. If the bull dogs wanted to mimic human intellectuals, he would keep the party going. "Ever read anything by Dr. Phil?" he asked Morey's twin.
The dog removed the pipe from his mouth and stared with marked intensity at the smoke rising from the glowing bone-shaped bowl. "No," he replied.
"Morey, what has happened to you?" asked Woodrow.
"You mean the bit about Dr. Phil?"
"No," said Woodrow. "Why are you lying here on the floor in a straitjacket?"
"I tried to escape from this dog pound," Morey explained, "when I got collared by the Rotties. I see you're working on a plan of your own, and I hope it works better than mine has. First we've got to get out of this building, and then the hell out of Dodge."
Woodrow blinked. "A plan? A plan to escape?" He and Dr. Calmbark exchanged glances.
"Obviously your friend is going to need a great deal of rehabilitation, a very great deal," postulated the good doctor, who then began to chase his own smoke rings up and down the hallway.
"Wait a minute!" Morey protested. "I need rehabilitation? Has your friend been working a little too long with the border patrol, or what?"
"He's right," insisted Woodrow. "Morey, no dog in his right mind would want to escape from All Pink Corn. Why, we dogs are in charge here, we and the cats. The government mismanages everything for us, just like our humans used to do, but members of the educated, privileged classes can get away with almost anything -- and everybody else just goes along with it."
"Harrumph! Woodrow, I doubt Morey would quite fit in with our crowd," Dr. Calmbark observed, putting special emphasis on the word "our."
Woodrow's jowls quivered. "But surely after rehabilitation..."
Calmbark shook his head until smoke came out his ears. "Snout it, Woodrow -- the dog isn't even a pure breed. He's a mutt!"
Morey stared hard at Woodrow and Woodrow stared back at Morey. Woodrow blinked first.
"Take him to a consideration cell," Dr. Calmbark commanded, "and pump him full of the usual drugs."
"Now, drop the leash a minute, Dennison," Woodrow suddenly objected. "If you don't mind, let's hold off on the drugs. Morey recently suffered a severe blow to the head and might have a concussion. The drugs could mask a serious physical problem."
Dr. Calmbark calmly relit his pipe, blew out some smoke, and jumped through a rapidly shrinking oval. "The dog is insane and wouldn't be much of a loss," he pointed out.
"But if he lives, Dennison, we can soak his insurance company for a lot more money," said Woodrow.
"Ah!" Dr. Calmbark wagged his tail. "I knew you and I shared a special bond, the same flea collar, so to speak, the moment I met you, Woodrow -- and by Dog! I was right."
"You itch, I scratch?"
Dr. Calmbark nodded. "I eat garbage, you get the runs." And the two dogs padded off down the hallway together, as cozy as two antelopes butting their heads against a pipeline somewhere in the frozen north.
A few minutes later Morey found himself out of his straitjacket and inside a consideration cell.
"This is nothing more than a stinking dungeon," he complained to the Rottweilers, who bit him on the rump after stuffing him through a barred pet door that was barely large enough for a Maltese to walk through in comfort. Then he was left in total darkness -- literally and figuratively.
Morey carefully sniffed around at a pile of rags that smelled like wet dog and dirty underwear -- an unpleasant reminder of his days back at the La Belle Roach Trailer Park with Leander. Content that there was nothing lurking beneath the filthy rags, he flopped down; laid his head on his paws, and attempted to figure things out.
Woodrow had nixed the idea of giving him drugs, and that boded well, he thought. Maybe they were still friends after all. Then again, maybe they weren't. Maybe Woodrow was just an ungrateful bastard.
One thing Morey had learned early in life was that gratitude could be a tough emotion to sustain. He had asked the devious Sade to let Woodrow keep his own perfectly good testicles, while he took on the burden of his buddy's plastic nadgers -- out of friendship. Now Woodrow was a whole and happy dog, so why not dump the chump he owed like a can of vegetarian dog food?
Chip, chip, chip. Morey looked up toward the ceiling. More chipping. And all of a sudden, he could see a faint glimmer of light.
A head popped through a hole the size of a Yorkshire terrier's ass.
"Remember me?" asked Oberon the cat. "I'm your lawyer."
"What are you doing up there?" Morey asked him. "Why didn't you come in through the pet door?"
"Ah, well, as to that," said Oberon, "certain legal entanglements preclude a normal entrance on my part."
"In plain English," barked Morey.
"I'm in a cell of my own."
And so, dearies, we come to the end of yet another dreary chapter in the life of Morey the mutt. I do rather like the way things are going for Woodrow, the silly old poseur, but ennui is ennui. And it's the night of yet another full moon. Thus I, Clawdia have to say...see you next week~
Ok, Ok, we'll make it I, Clawdia, at the end there. We need that comma or we'll fall into a coma.
More tails of Morey the mutt coming up next week.
Thanks for reading~
You forgot Thomas Mann.
Why not? Everybody else has.
"The second thing we have to do is get you out of here," said Oberon the cat to Morey the mutt.
"What's the first thing we have to do?"
"Get ME out of here," replied the big feline, who appeared unable to work more than his head through the hole he'd dug in the ceiling above Morey's consideration cell.
"Given the slightest chance to escape, I thought cats could get out of just about anything," contended Morey, while studying the situation. "Maybe it would be better if you tried enlarging the hole a little more, then dropping through back paws first," he finally suggested.
"No can do," insisted Oberon. "Cats like to see what they're falling on. It's kind of inbred, like a lust for catnip or general contempt for other mammals."
"You'd be falling on me," Morey assured him. "It's a promise."
Oberon still looked doubtful, but he pulled his head out of the hole, and, after managing to enlarge it about a fourth of an inch at best, carefully dangled one skinny leg through it.
"So, how's your sister?" Morey asked him, mainly to make conversation.
"She's fine," said the cat, struggling to add a second leg and his tail. A brick fell out of the ceiling and landed next to Morey.
"We mostly get into those hiss-and-shreds in order to build our reputation and keep our name before the public."
"There must be an easier way of doing it aside from half killing each other." And Morey moved aside as a second brick fell. "I dunno. TV ads or billboards? You might even try the Internet."
"Never heard of it," said Oberon, as his long torso slipped through the now much enlarged hole in the ceiling, "but I wouldn't mind tryng to sue it." Then came the glitch. "I'm stuck!" he yowled. "I'm going to be the first lawyer in my family to hang instead of his client."
Morey jumped up and bit the cat on the tail. Oberon shrieked, his head shot through the hole, and he landed, with his hair in spikes, directly on his most recent client's back.
"Well, that went smoothly enough," he remarked.
"Smooth as a mineral oil enema," barked Morey, getting up and shaking himself off, while Oberon did the same. "One problem solved. Say, what are you in here for, anyway?"
"I'm always winding up in the cells for some silly transgression," replied Oberon dismissively, "but I must say, I like your style. You're a canine who knows how to cogitate as opposed to simply accepting the pack mentality." He looked at Morey and grinned. "My father would have loved you." And he sat down and began to clean himself.
Morey casually wagged his tail. "I'm guessing your old man's no longer sporting earthly whiskers?"
"You're right about that," his lawyer replied. "He was executed for a serious crime a few years back, the poor old rat-catcher."
Morey blinked. "Executed? My Dog! What did he do?"
"He insisted on being an individual and marching to the jingle of his own collar bell," replied Oberon, shaking his head and spitting up a hair ball. "That's just not done in our society. It's bad meow-meow. Tabby taboo."
Morey was taken aback. "But what about you and your sister? Bark about individualism! Your behavior is more erratic than what goes on in most McDonald's parking lots, yet you're still scratching."
Oberon shrugged. "Everybody figures we'll kill each other off one of these days," he said, "so why should the state get involved? It's a great act we've got going."
Morey barked a laugh. "Well, what about the rest of your family? I understand they wiped each other out. Did they carry the act just a little too far, or what?"
"No," Oberon told him. "They honestly didn't like each other."
Morey decided to drop the subject and stared up at the hole in the ceiling. "How did you rate a window in your cell?" he asked.
"I didn't," said Oberon. "That's artificial light, and the minute I get out of here, I'll be charged such a huge fee by the electric company that I'll wind up in debtor's prison."
"None of this makes any sense at all," Morey told him. "Your world is sheer insanity."
The cat shrugged again. "Whose world isn't? There's no real logic anywhere -- but you seem like a smart hound. Too bad you're a dog, or I'd ask you to go into practice with me."
"Why don't you anyway? Granted, I don't have a law degree, but around here I imagine I could get one faster than it would take Prince Harry to try and grope Amanda Bynes."
Oberon stared at him, his whiskers twitching. "You don't understand. Anything related to the law falls under the purview of the Unwieldy Bureau of Cat Affairs."
"While anything related to healthcare falls under the purview of the Unwieldy Bureau of Dog Affairs?" guessed Morey.
"Exactly," affirmed Oberon quite seriously. "Except it's called the Unwieldy DEPARTMENT of Dog Affairs, for reasons nobody understands or wants to, and never do the tails entangle, except way up at the top, where the high priests and priestesses pass judgment on everything."
Morey cocked his head. "High priests and priestesses?"
"A race of true hybrids who control the religions of law and insurance and healthcare," Oberon explained. "They are the aristocrats -- our supreme leaders."
Morey was thoroughly perplexed. "Law, insurance and healthcare are religions in your world? How the squirrel chase does that work?"
"It doesn't," said Oberon. "The ideal is mismanagement, you see?"
Morey did not see, but he decided it made no sense to pursue the matter. "How do we get out of here?" he asked Oberon. "You got any sort of actual plan in mind?"
"Well," said Oberon, "we could fake a fight. When one of the Rottweilers charges down here and rips the pet door off the wall with his teeth, we jump him, tear out his throat and bolt. With any luck, we'll make it up two flights of stairs to the Hallway of Sudden Revelations. At the end of the hall there's a window. I can jump out and escape up an oak tree that's right outside, but you'll probably fall and kill yourself, or otherwise you'll die in a hail of bullets."
Morey looked at him. "Got anything else?" he asked.
"Nope," said Oberon. "I always use the same escape plan. It keeps the guards confused. The good news is, if you manage to make it out alive and evade capture for three days, you get an automatic Out of Consideration card from the Misjudgment Committee."
"But according to you, I would be dead," Morey pointed out.
Oberon thought it over. "I never said there wouldn't be risks," he admitted.
"Brilliant thinking," grumbled Morey, wishing to Dog he had Woodrow by his side instead of this beat-up hulk of a feline with the mental astuteness of Boy George.
"May the Sade help us," said Oberon complacently.
Morey rolled his eyes. "Right, pal. I'd say she's just about all we need right now."
So, ho-hum. Another bad day for Morey. Do you think his pal Woodrow will come through when he needs him? I don't -- but then I love backstabbing and betrayal.
See you next week, kittens. Love, I, Clawdia~
Luv it! LMTO.
Please write more about Dr. Daisy.
"I get that you don't like my escape plan," said Oberon to Morey, "but can you come up with a better one?"
Morey was about to open his mouth when he heard a snuffling outside his cell, and then a soft voice barked at the pet door, "It's Dr. Daisy, Morey. I've been discussing your case with Dr. Woodrow. Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?"
"Why can't Dr. Woodrow ask them himself?" Morey barked back. What the kennel kind of game was his buddy the bull dog playing?
"This is our chance!" Oberon told him. "Get her in here; we'll kill her, toss her corpse in the corner, and make a run for it."
Morey bared his teeth and Oberon backed off. "Listen you bloodthirsty feline, I'd rather not have to kill anyone," Morey growled, "especially not a Golden retriever. Are all your DVDs Mel Gibson movies, or what?"
"Are you still there, Morey?" called out Dr. Daisy.
"Where else would I be?" he asked her. (THIS was a doctor?) "The activities director has yet to stop by."
"I'm going to unlock the pet door so we can talk," announced the pretty piece of canine shrink wrap.
"I'll unlock only the smallest door for now, mainly as I don't want to run the risk of you trying to escape. You're in no condition to leave the facility at this point in your treatment."
"That's one way to put it," Morey told her. "It's a load of squirrel turds, but it is one way to put it."
A few minutes later Dr. Daisy poked her snout into Morey's cell. "I didn't know you had artificial light," she gasped in surprise.
"Oh, all the comforts of a doghouse in the Mongolian Outback," he said.
"Hmmpf!" snorted Dr. Daisy. "Well, Morey, I'm afraid this is just not right. First offense non-team players do not get artificial lighting in their consideration cells. It's unheard of!"
"That doesn't sound too considerate to me," he said.
Dr. Daisy went on as if she hadn't heard him. "I can't understand how anyone could make a mistake this major. Please stand back against the far wall, Morey; I'm going to open the larger pet door and come inside to see what's going on. Why, cells on this level are never supposed to have artificial lighting."
"Uh, Daisy..." Morey began, but she wasn't listening to him. He heard a few rattles and clanks, and then she came charging into the cell, and Oberon pounced on her and wrestled her to the floor.
Dr. Daisy shrieked and began to bark frantically.
"Oh, shut up, you bitch!" yowled Oberon. "Otherwise these claws are going to redesign your vocal cords."
Morey jumped on top of Oberon. "Let her up and stop threatening her," he barked, and gave the big cat a nip in the neck for good measure.
By this time there were Rottweiler guards outside, and Morey himself was forced to pounce on Dr. Daisy when she attempted to dart past him and escape. "Keep an eye on her," he told Oberon, who hissed ferociously at the outraged doctor after shooting Morey a lethal glare.
"You'll never get away with this, Morey," said Dr. Daisy. "Oberon's been a non-team player for years and everybody knows that he and his sister are lunatics, but from what Dr. Woodrow said, I thought there might be real hope for you."
"Evidently Dr. Woodrow forgot to tell you that I don't like being hit over the head with a brick, bundled into a straitjacket, and then tossed into a prison cell, babe," he snarled. "Most murderers get better treatment. In fact, where I come from, if you confess to murder, you might get to fly business class and sip champagne."
"The idea," barked Dr. Daisy, "is to give you time to consider your personality and character flaws before permitting you to rejoin society as a whole. As for wherever you come from -- it sounds like a loony bin!"
"Let Dr. Daisy go!" barked a voice Morey recognized.
"Want to come in here and tell me that snout to snout, Woodrow?" Morey barked back.
Woodrow stuck his massive head through the pet door, and his feet followed. "Morey," he said, "how could you do something like this? Dr. Daisy is only trying to help you."
"I tried to explain..." the perky retriever began, but a hiss from Oberon was sufficient to silence her.
"By the way," said the cat to Woodrow, "I'll be happy to represent you if you need representing in a court of law." He twitched his whiskers in Morey's direction. "Or maybe we should just kill them both and be done with it. Putting a case together takes a lot of time and work, and I frequently don't get paid for my efforts."
"Woodrow," said Morey, "has it occurred to you that I don't need help? All I want to do is get out of this crazy burg and back to where we came from before we fell into the lake."
"But life is so much better here," Woodrow contended.
Morey shook his head. "For you, maybe. You've read a lot of books and you finally have a chance to show off. You've got the education, Woodrow, and you've even got my hale and hearty nadgers."
"How long are you going to keep throwing that in my face?" Woodrow demanded, looking pained.
Oberon tittered. "Throw his nadgers in your face? Oh, that's a good one."
Dr. Daisy made a break for the door and the big cat jumped her again. "HELP!" screamed the frightened retriever. "Somebody get Dennison."
"Get off her!" growled Morey and Woodrow in unison, and a reluctant Oberon finally slipped off Dr. Daisy's back after giving her a nasty swat across the snout.
"Daisy," called out Dr. Calmbark from well outside the cell, "are you all right in there?"
"No, I'm not all right!" she howled. "I'm in here with two lunatics and one of them just attacked me. Do something, Dennison!"
"Well, now, Daisy, you've taken several crisis intervention courses and you should be able to handle the situation on your own. Besides, you've got Dr. Woodrow in there to help you. Frankly, I think it might be against regulations for me to get involved."
"Dennison, we're engaged!" Dr. Daisy yelped.
"I realize that, my dear," he barked back, "but I can't allow my personal feelings to influence my on-the-job performance record."
"Dennison!" shrieked Dr. Daisy, "these maniacs want to kill me!"
"Now, Daisy, calling them maniacs is a little bit prejudgemental on your part, don't you think?"
"My nose is bleeding!" howled his fiancee.
"Morey, let her go," said Woodrow.
"Let's bump her off and the bull dog too," suggested Oberon. "Oh, think of the fun! I can defend myself on a murder charge, unless, of course, I decide to go for a conviction."
"Daisy," said Dr. Calmbark, "try seeing the situation from the maniacs' point of view."
Enough! I, Clawdia, have better things to do than post Morey's meanderings on this stupid blog. Morey is such a dumass, and I'm beginning to lose my faith in Woodrow. Sigh. Until next week, then, drearies....
"I'm afraid," said Morey to Woodrow, "that I can't let Dr. Daisy go."
Oberon licked his chops. "Bark your prayers, baby," he told her. "It's all over but the flying fur."
"She is our hostage," Morey growled, "and hopefully our ticket out of here. But if you dare to draw one more drop of retriever blood, pal, you and I are going to get into it big, bad, and thorough."
"OOOO!" rumbled Oberon. "I'm just quaking in my socks. I'm a cat, buddy mine, and that means I can outrun you and climb trees. The fact is, I don't need YOU in order to make MY escape, but if you get caught and don't get killed, you'll need ME to defend you in court."
"He's lying," put in Dr. Daisy. "You could always get his sister to defend you."
Oberon went for her, but Morey stopped him. "Woodrow, are you with me or against me?" he asked his longtime best friend.
Woodrow hesitated.
"Thanks," said Morey. "I guess I should've seen the writing on the dog tags way before this."
"You can't trust nobody no how, that's my motto," meowed Oberon. "Well, that along with screw 'em, sue 'em, and slew 'em."
"You keep your eye on the bull dog," Morey told him. "I'll handle the blonde."
"Please don't do this, Morey," Dr. Daisy pleaded, giving her feathery tail a tentative wag. Her deep brown eyes were filled with kindness, affection, and sincerity. But then she WAS a Golden retriever.
"It ain't gonna work, kid," he told her. "I trust you less than I trust Woodrow, and I trust him even less than I trust Oberon."
The bull dog hung his massive head but made no comment. In fact, he reached for his pipe, but Oberon grabbed it and stuck it behind his ear. "Nothing like a pipe to make a fellow look intelligent," he said. "I once knew a jackass who took up pipe smoking and passed for a Ph.D. who was once a jackass. Go figure!"
"All right!" Morey barked, inching toward the pet door with a tight grip on Dr. Daisy's throat. "We're coming out! Oberon and I have the two doctors, and we can be as rough on them as Paramount Pictures was on Tom Cruise. We mean business!"
"We can take 'em," barked one of the Rottweiler guards to Dr. Calmbark. "That cat's a real pussy when the chips are down, and Morey the mutt don't look like much to me."
"Oh, I abhor violence," said the good doctor, pawing for his own pipe. "Surely there's another way...negotiations, bribes, gift certificates to the local cat house?"
"We ain't much on negotiations, Doc," the Rottweiler told him. "Our breed started out as war dogs for the Roman army, and frankly, the bruisers and I are itchin' for a good fight. It's been way too calm around here for a mighty long time."
Dr. Calmbark gnawed on the stem of his pipe. "Let's not get hasty. I don't want Dr. Daisy hurt -- or Dr. Woodrow either, although I do have to wonder about some of his Ivy League credentials if Morey the mutt is the best he can do for a friend."
"We're coming out!" barked Morey again, and he bolted through the door clutching Daisy by the scruff of her neck. She showed a brave front, mainly consisting of her pretty dappled tummy, as Morey dragged her past the Rottweilers, but when she saw Dr. Calmbark, she started to whimper. "Oh, Dennison, we had the world, you and I. We had Zanies and Frisbees, the stars and the moon, and each other..."
"Stiff upper canines, old girl," he told her, pawing a yawn. "This will all be over soon."
Then Oberon came out with Woodrow. "'Tyger! Tyger! burning bright in the forests of the night,'" he recited, pausing to light the pipe he had purloined from the bull dog. "OOO! I do so love that poem, at least the first part. Those lines can really stir up an atavistic feline jury."
He unceremoniously tossed Woodrow at Dr. Calmbark's paws. "He just betrayed his best friend, Doc, meaning Woody here is definitely our kind of mammal."
Dr. Calmbark smiled. "I do pride myself on being an excellent judge of character," he said, and patted himself on the back with a crooked hind leg.
Morey tightened his grip on Dr. Daisy. "So you decided to choke me with my own collar, eh, Oberon?"
The big cat grinned and stroked his whiskers. "Never trust a feline lawyer. For that matter, never trust a lawyer period...but let's just say I've dropped you as a client, muttsky. I'm afraid I'm just a shill for the good doctor here." And he caught a smoke ring on one of his whiskers.
"You put it a bit crudely, Oberon," objected the good doctor.
"I don't understand, Dennison," said Daisy. "Are you saying this was all some sort of setup?"
"Well, of course it was, sweetie," hissed Oberon. "And in the cool, cool, cool of the evening, the burning bright Tyger here is going to take care of a certain mutt. Right, Doc?"
"Dennison," said Daisy, "even the most radical Pavlovian behaviorists would object to this form of conditioning. Not only do I object, but I must say I'm appalled."
"I suppose it's fortunate, then, that you are so very expendable," Dr. Calmbark told her with a sincere but crazed Norman-Bates kind of smile -- the smile of a very bad dog.
"What Dennison means to say," said Portia Hissy-Kitty, stepping out of the shadows, "is that he's dumping you, Daisy, and getting hitched to me. We're taking over All Pink Corn; we're going to mismanage as absolute monarchs, Denny and I. Alas, there's no room in our new world order for the likes of you, biscuit breath."
And thus ends another boring night with Morey and his friends. Still in all, I might not pick Oberon out of a clowder -- but I probably wouldn't kick him out of bed either. Until next week, drearies...Luv and kills... I, Clawdia....
"Dennison!" barked Dr. Daisy, "I never took you for a murdering psychopath."
Her former fiance wagged his tail. "Well, I can't say I would call myself one, Daze. I'm a good-natured sociopath at best, and I suppose I also fit the pattern for a megalomaniac. Hmmm. How about we both agree that I'm just one badly socialized dog? I honestly hated my sire and dam..."
"Dennison!" broke in Portia Hissy-Kitty, "will you knock off the lope down memory lane and tell the Rotties to kill Daisy and Morey?"
He cocked his head and blinked his big brown eyes. "Do we have to do it right now, honeypuss?"
"Yes!" she raged, "and we might as well do Oberon while we're at it. Since we're taking over the government, we won't need him to bury any bodies for us. We don't have constituents, Denny, we have subjects."
"What about me?" piped up Woodrow. "Do I figure into your scheme at all?"
"Well, sure," replied Dr. Calmbark calmly. "We can always use a good traitor in our midst. You'll fit right in, Dr. Woodrow."
"Then what's wrong with me?" asked Oberon, pouting like a beauty queen with an acne breakout. "Everybody knows I'd sacrifice my own grandmother, if I had one, for a cheap catnip toy. Why do you want to bump me out of the litter box?"
"Because you're a Hissy-Cat," hissed his sister. "If I don't kill you, you'll eventually do ME. In the end, Oberon, there can be only one."
"Oh, not that quote from the Highlander series again," he groaned.
"Yeah? Well, how about you and some of your dumb Soprano quotes?" she fired back. "'Consider this Scarface -- final scene.' Give me a break!"
"Morey, run!" barked Woodrow as Portia gave the signal and the Rottweilers closed in.
"Let's roll!" Morey woofed at Daisy, and the two of them fled up several flights of stairs and made it to the main hallway.
Dr. Daisy sat down and panted for breath. "Go back to your friends now, Morey," she told him. "Thank you for saving my life, and for whatever short period of time I have left, I'll always remember you with gratitude and affection, but I'm sure you want to fight and die alongside Woodrow and Oberon. I mean, it's the doggly thing to do, don't you think?"
"No," said Morey, grasping hold of the scruff of her neck and shoving her against a wall. "Look, babe, I'm not sure what planet we're on, but I'm no friend of Oberon's, and Woodrow tried to fry my plastic nadgers not once but twice today. For all I know, he's about to try it again. Now, before I have to get downright mean and dirty, what's an easy way out of this dog pound?"
"We take a right at the next hallway, pad down a flight of stairs, slip into my office and crawl out the window," she told him. "But once we're out, where can we go? Everybody in All Pink Corn is microchipped."
"I'm not microchipped," he said, "and it doesn't matter if you are. When we get out of this building, we're heading for the lake."
"The lake?"
"Don't question me, sweetheart, just do what I tell you."
"Now wait a minute," Daisy protested. "I'm not some bimbo you can boss around. I have three post-graduate degrees..."
Suddenly they heard the sound of loud barking coming from the floor directly below them.
"If we can get out the window at the end of the hall, I think we can make it down the fire escape," said Dr. Daisy.
"Sound like a plan," Morey agreed, and gave her a quick lick across the snout.
"Of course we'll have to smash through the glass in order to get out," she added.
The sound of barking came closer.
"What's the last thing Butch Cassidy said to the Sundance Kid?" Daisy asked Morey.
"The words elude me at the moment, sweetheart."
"I think it was 'you jump first.'"
"No, that wasn't it," he told her, but did it anyway.
SIGH. Morey is SUCH a loser. I'm still hoping for more from Woodrow, though. And Oberon is a feline keeper. Enough for this week, luvs. Enjoy the full moon. I, Clawdia, certainly plan to....
"Morey!" cried Dr. Daisy. "You're bleeding! I mean, like all over. From your head to your -- Omidog, Morey! Your testicles are missing! Your gung-hoz are gone! Your flintlocks have taken a powder!"
"I wondered why I felt lighter than air," said he, wondering, "but don't worry, Daisy; my happy orbs were plastic phonies, useless impedimenta, so much gaga."
She paused in mid-lope. "You make it sound like network news. But do you mean you're really a female -- or are you one of those tragic neutered nondogs that I read about in medical school when I wasn't watching raunchy soap operas about lust-crazed interns?"
"Neither," he assured her. "it was the Sade, babe. I told you she did a number on me. She switched my nadgers with Woodrow's...Daisy, come on!"
"I'm not going anywhere with you," she protested, squatting on her shapely haunches in the middle of the street, "not as long as you're going to poke fun at my revered role model."
He brought his own paws to a pause, which didn't take much effort, considering he was continiing to bleed like a gored matador on blood thinners. "Oh, right," he said, panting. "The revered and glorious Sade. What exactly is it about her that makes you think she's so hot?"
"Well, she just is, or was. She's a revered historic figure, so she had to be pretty terrific, right?"
"Did you for sure earn three post-graduate degrees, Daisy?" Morey asked her, shaking his bloodied but unbowed head.
"Of course I did! How else could I have avoided getting a job for years at a time?"
Suddenly Morey perked a torn ear. "I hear the patter of paws behind us, babe. You can stay here if you want, but I'm gonna give Dr. Calmbark and his regiment of Rotts a run for their kibble."
"By the time we reach the lake, you'll have bled to death," she predicted. "The least I can do is come along to howl over your corpse."
"You're a sport," he told her.
"Sporting dog."
"At this late stage of the game, let's not split dog hairs, Daisy."
A brief time later the pair arrived at what for a briefer time in the whole of recorded history had been a lake, but alas, all the water was gone and the lake was no more. In its place was a large crater with a sign stuck in the middle: "Crater Basin -- Future home of Leaky Basement Condominiums...Another Idiotic Idea brought to you by Mismanagement Land Developers and Real Estate, Inc., and You Better Believe It."
"Oh, Dog!" groaned Morey, flopping onto the ground. He was feeling very sick and very dizzy, and his eyes were spinning like a couple of spiders on steroids. "Well, I'm all out of ideas."
"I knew it," said Daisy, snapping her gum. "You're ready to roll over and play dead dog on me, ain't cha, buster? Just my luck! What is it with me and my rotten taste in males? It ain't fair, I tell ya. It just ain't fair."
"I'm sorry I led you astray, kid," Morey apologized. "Then again, look on the bright side -- if I hadn't shown up when I did, you might be dead already."
"I will be in a few minutes," she said. "Oberon the cat and your friend Dr. Woodrow just arrived in Dodge with about a hundred Rottweilers..and they're all packing biscuits. Big biscuits. Or maybe those are guns. Big guns."
"Morey!" barked Woodrow. "Great canines of all the three heads of Cerberus! You look like something that ought to be suspended from a meat hook. What possessed you to jump through a plate-glass window?"
"Because it was there, former buddy mine. Why else? I'm that kind of wild and crazy mutt. By the way, I lost your testicles during my charge through the shards."
Woodrow waved a paw. "Think nothing of it, old dog. They weren't doing me any good. Got a last request aside from 'Melancholy Baby'?"
"I know I'm going to hate myself in the morning for even caring, but take care of Daisy for me," Morey entreated. "She's an OK bitch. Dense as a sled dog's coat, but a sweet kid all the same."
"Oh, Daisy is our friend!" pronounced Oberon, prancing up to Morey's nearly lifeless hulk wearing a bright and shiny crown, which looked a lot like a prom queen's tiara, if you want to get specific about it. "I plan to sue her for getting involved with Dr. Calmbark, but I promise not to kill her. Of course, I can't rule out torture. No beef jerky or television soaps for an entire month!"
Dr. Daisy moaned. "Saints presarve us!" she cried, doing a bad Irish brogue. "Not even 'All My Dachshunds' or 'The OOACOC'?
Oberon raised a whisker. "'The OOACOC'?"
"'The Overacting, Overly Annonying Canines from Orange County'"
"Physician, heal thyself," he admonished.
"What happened to Calmbark and Hissy-Kitty?" Morey asked Woodrow with his dying breath.
"At the last moment," said the bull dog, "I convinced the Rottweilers to turn on them."
"Yeah," said Oberon, "getting them to believe old Dennison and Portia took out Spuds MacKenzie was brilliant." He patted his crown. "My sister and the psycho shrink have been very bad and will have to be executed, and I've decided to litigate them to death. It could take years and will be exceedingly painful, and I plan to be merciless."
"Morey," said Woodrow, "I'm sorry for being such a faithless companion. I'm sorry for my stupid jokes and plastic nadgers. You're my best friend and I hope you realize that."
But Morey was past caring. He closed his eyes and his paws went limp. Dr. Daisy began to howl.
A dog in an all-white work suit pulled into the park on a cream-colored scooter. She hopped off, went over to a tree and tugged on a grapevine. Immediately the lake filled up with wine and overflowed its banks. "I am the Czar of all the Flushes," said the Sade, and as her audience reached for their guns, she tugged on the grapevine again.
And that is it, my drears -- another unsettling installment about Morey and his questionable adventures. Until next week, unless we're as unfortunate as 'Air America,' I remain I, Clawdia, your reluctant narrator.
Clawdia, you are such a catty shrew. I luv u!!!!!
Morey felt himself whirling through time and space. Death wasn't so bad, he decided, although he had never expected to feel dizzy and slightly high while crossing over the rainbow bridge.
At last the spinning ceased, and he cautiously opened one eye, hoping to see the promised bright light at the end of the culvert. What he saw instead was Willie Nelson, who grinned at him and said, "Hey, son, welcome to my bus."
Then he heard the unsettling sound of maniacal laughter.
Morey opened both eyes and looked up. He was lying at the paws of the Sade, who had beautifully manicured toenails, and by his side were the prone forms of Woodrow and Daisy.
"Are they dead?" he asked her.
She shook her narrow, well-sculpted head. "Only unconscious. Some creatures can hold their hootch; others can't. You know, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."
Morey sniffed about, and realized he was once again at the bottom of the lake, but glancing up, he noticed that the fluid above his head was wine instead of water, and the minnows cavorting in it were the merriest little fish he had ever seen.
"These fish in the drink all drink like fish, although they're very well schooled and ought to know better," commented the Sade, giggling. "Oh, I am in a playful mood today. Hey, how'd you like my 'Czar of all the Flushes' line? I've got to figure out a way to use that one on a business card. It just reaches out and grabs ya, no? By the way, you've got your testicles back, Jack."
"The name's Morey," Morey reminded her, "and I feel too weak to sit up and take a look, but thank you anyway. Uhhh, what about Woodrow's nadgers?"
"I gave him Dr. Calmbark's coconuts," said she with the twitch of a tail shaped like a cutlass. "I had planned to give him Oberon's, but they wouldn't make a good fit. I think I'm gonna wait a while regarding the big cat's crown jewels. Maybe let his sister have them a few years down the line after he goes completely power mad, or I'll pass them on to some guy with no balls at all. Several prominent statesmen come to mind."
She clapped her paws. "I know! Just for fun, I'll let Pete Rose have an extra set."
"Where am I?" moaned Woodrow. "I feel dreadfully flushed, feverish, and flatulent."
The Sade giggled again. "You got flushed all right. Welcome back to the world's biggest toilet bowl, unless you count a couple of airport terminals on the East Coast. Up and at 'em, Doc."
"Great Dog! Don't call me that," Woodrow pleaded, forcing his eyes open. "Hey! What am I doing at the bottom of a glass of Merlot?"
The Sade looked scandalized. "Pinot Noir, Doc, if you please! In fact, the very best PN la belle France has to offer, thanks to Philip the Bold and his dog Liege."
"I don't follow you," said Woodrow, who was seeing so many spots in front of his eyes, he badly wanted to see a doctor.
"Everybody follows me eventually," the Sade rebuked him. "At least that line looks good on my resume. Philip the Bold classified Pinot Noir and made it a court favorite back in the 14th century -- an era when everybody needed a good drink, believe you me. Phil's dog and I were great friends, by the way, and I wish I could recall where I put him after he died. Oh, well. For that matter, I don't remember where I put Phil. New Jersey comes to mind. I think I had him reincarnated in Trenton, but for the life of me, I can't imagine why.
"An interesting tale," said Woodrow, not sounding too convincing, "but...Why, isn't that Dr. Daisy I smell?"
"Dr. Woodrow?" Daisy raised her elegant snout, opened her eyes and beheld the Sade.
"Oh, my Dog!" she whimpered. "Can it really, truly be you -- the Mother Doctor of our country, my role model, the veritable goddess of mismanagement?
"Oh! I must have read Kitty Kelley's unauthorized biography of you at least twelve times," she gushed. "Why even the hybrids, our priests and priestesses, sing your praises."
"There are no hybrids," the Sade informed her bluntly. "They're a mismanagement legend. One I created myself, naturally. And it's never a good idea to put your faith in the words of a news hound named 'Kitty.'"
Dr. Daisy blinked her big brown eyes. "No hybrids? But that doesn't make any sense. I mean, they make our rules and laws. At least I think they do." Suddenly she began to pant. "Oh, no! You don't mean to say that the right-wing religious fanatics are on the money -- and it's all up to Lassie?"
The Sade looked disgusted. "Stop hyperventilating, you silly bitch. Basically it's all up to ME -- well, to be fair, it's up to me, along with one or two forces of nature and a couple of middlemen."
Morey rolled over and wrapped a forepaw across Daisy's quivering shoulders. "Take it easy, babe," he told her.
Instead she jumped up and yiped, "OMIDOG! It's a ghost!"
The Sade heaved a great sigh. "And this is one of the mammals with a higher education," she mused aloud. "I think it's past time for another recall."
Oh, quite enough. My old friend the Sade is chewing the scenery and going completely over the top. More next week. Right now I'm in the mood to catch a fat mouse. Luv, drearies.....I, Clawdia.
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