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~
posted by LuLu @ 11:44 PM
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~
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~
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The Eye On The Park...
Dateline the North Atlantic:
I wish I'd never come to Europe. I was perfectly content back in Lincoln Park, with my boyfriend Cody, and getting sloshed at his bar a lot. Now I'm out of a job and I've lost my guy. LuLu's ditz of a sister loaned me some bowsers, otherwise I would have been down to guarding junkyards, or peddling it to roving gangs of dog-dancing Apache bichons in back alleyways.
I'm being a good dog, the kind of hound the sailors love, a dog nobody would want to throw overboard -- neatly plop into the freezing sea from the slippery deck of a tramp freighter. Thinking about it makes my hackles rise and my blood run cold.
We ought to be in New York in two days, and it's likely to prove a long two days for me. I know that I was followed out of Paris; I thought I'd managed to dodge him (or her) by the time I got to the coast and met Fat Jacques, the mess steward, who sort of adopted me and brought me aboard the Inca Orchid. At least I eat well.
I don't think my "tail" followed me onboard; but he or she may have boarded later. We've stopped in several ports -- and I just have a feeling.
Archibald Catt is mixed up in so many shady deals. I would love to find out who he was before he became a famous film producer/director.
For the record, I'm sure he didn't attempt to kill Chantilly Khat. He's got the red-hot meows for that pussy and wouldn't want to harm so much as a whisker. Mrs. Catt, now, had every reason to want to bump her off -- not that it's necessary. Archie Catt thinks Chantilly is his lap of cream, but she's seeing that rodent, Lester Lemming, on the side. And Lester's as bad as Archie, if that could be possible.
I figure Mrs. C. tried to "do" Chantilly out of simple jealousy, but it was Archie who got Lena (Waggs) LaMarr out of the way. Good old Waggs. Mrs. C. loved her -- we all did. She was such a mess emotionally, but a born actress, and a lot of fun. She sure liked to read some strange books, though. "Riley - Ace of Spies"? Like, Chantilly reads Danielle Steel when she's feeling intellectual! Then again, she spends most of her time catting around, meaning she's not exactly the book-of-the-month club type.
Anyway, I think Waggs was looking for something -- like maybe trying to get the goods on Archie right before she disappeared.
Later on I heard Archie talking to Lester and it wasn't about the film. Archie said
(Hmmm. Evidently Jessica goofed while typing and accidentally pushed the "send" key, because the text abruptly ends here.)
Developing, if possible...
Jessica apologizes for misspelling the last name of famous spy Sidney Reilly -- thought by many to have been the "real" James Bond. Ian Fleming once admitted that 007 was "no Sidney Reilly" -- a man considered to be the first modern "gentleman" spy.
Wonder why Waggs was so taken with that book.....?????
Morey the Mutt's column will be back on Wednesday, and it will appear in the usual place.
We hope.
Quickie summary: Clawdia the cat has awakened the three-headed Cerberus to help her hunt for Socrates the squirrel, and they have located him in a low dive just above a sewer....
"Would anyone else ca-ca-care for a beverage?" managed the petrified rat bartender, as Chelsea eyeballed him, estimating his crunchiness.
"Now that you mention it," said Toby, "I could do with a nice glass of Merlot."
"Rye whiskey straight," George ordered succinctly. "Clawdia?"
"I suggest we celebrate AFTER we nail Socrates," I hissed. "I didn't drag you out of the Dark Side so we cold party down, George."
"Then hold that double Daiquiri for later," Chelsea informed the rodent barkeep, before flipping him against an ancient and very dirty ice machine.
"I want to keep him on ice," she giggled, while George chuckled, and Toby licked his chops, taking out part of the ceiling with a flick of his tongue.
I stalked across the room.
The old squirrel was seated at a corner table, surrounded by skinheads with mangy tails and pimpled coats. They fled the moment they saw Cerberus -- but Socrates kept his cool.
"You look almost good for once," I complimented him lightly, as I took a seat.
Cerberus ripped the mantel off the top of what passed for a fireplace and crouched down on it.
Socrates didn't so much as twitter.
"I look younger," he said, smirking. "Younger by a good fifteen years."
I peered at him closely. It is not true that cats can see well in total darkness, but we do very well in the shadows. Daylight is not our thing at all. Checking out Socrates, it was obvious to me that he wasn't bushy-tailing. He did look younger. And remarkably buff.
"I'm guessing you've been hanging out at the gym -- or really working those tree limbs in the park. You're wearing contact lenses, and you've had recent Botox injections," I stated flatly.
He laughed. "What a cynic you are, Clawdia, but you know as well as I do that the magical golden foot endows its possessor with the gift of eternal youth. And I am in possession of the magical golden foot."
"So I've heard," I purred, and leaned closer. "Now I want you to listen to me, Socrates. I want you to hear something in the worst of ways. I want that foot! And if you don't paw it over pronto, my friend with the three heads here will stomp you into the ground until your bones are as fine as powder, and there won't be so much as a grease spot left."
"My dear," said Socrates to Chelsea, "would you mind releasing Juniper the rat from the ice cooler? I think we could all do with a drink before getting down to business."
Story to be continued...
Story continued...
I reached out a paw and grabbed Socrates by the tail. "Where's the FOOT, you rancid little husk sucker?"
He sighed and rolled his eyes, chewing the scenery with a vengeance. "If you want to play rough, Clawdia, then I guess we'll have to play rough."
He emitted a loud twitter and two seconds later, the rest of the ceiling collapsed.
"Damn!" declared George
"Oh, this sucks," muttered Toby.
"And I just got my hair scorched," whined Chelsea.
"Hi there, everybody," said a creature I hadn't seen in centuries.
"I believe you know the Paravarchian." Socrates smirked again, and I longed to rip out his throat.
"Hello, Ethel," I said. "It's been ages."
"Forever," growled George, "but not long enough."
"Longer than my nose hairs?" asked Chelsea.
"Longer than the face of the president of CBS when he sees the ratings for the evening news?" threw in George.
The Parovarchian ripped the remains of the fireplace apart and made a comfy stone sofa for herself; she promptly sat down and ordered a rum and Coke from Juniper, who was shaking like a leaf in a hailstorm.
Socrates, like Toby, asked for a glass of Merlot.
George got his whiskey.
I passed.
"So what has the queen of all the elemental spirits been up to in the past few centuries?" George opened the cocktail talk with a snarl.
"What has the three-headed hound guardian of the gates of Hell been up to?" Ethel countered.
"I love your earrings," Chelsea gushed. "They're the size of tree trunks."
"They are tree trunks," Ethel told her and cut her eyes to Socrates. "Which head do you want me to snap off first?"
Juniper the rat returned with the drinks. "These are on what used to be the house," he said. "Please don't hesitate to ask for a second round."
Story continued next week....
It's ParOvarchian. ParOvarchian.
Please spell it right; otherwise, with one smack, I can level your house and demolish your car.
From the Chronicles of the Sade:
You asked for it and you got it, bitches and mutts -- another installment of Morey, although tonight we're going to do a recap simply to keep you up to speed with our sorry tale of crazed ambition, psychopathic jealousy, lust, envy, sloth, betrayal and murder. Oh, wait a minute. I was just catching up on the international news. Well, I do so love to put a little zip in the zeitgeist.
Now it's back to Morey the mutt.
Let me see -- when you last left Morey, he and his old buddy, the backstabbing bulldog Woodrow, were both at the bottom of MY lake in as state of suspended animation. I'd just turned their beloved Dr. Daisy, a relentlessly beautiful but thoroughly ditzy Golden retriever, into a marble statue -- and I was telling you about loyalty and history. Oh, and the Magical Golden Foot.
Ah, yes, the Foot.
I'm not sure humans have the capacity to fully comprehend the Foot. They do grant powers to the severed feet of poor little rabbits -- but the Magical Golden Foot? Well, they know of its powers, but they call them by different names and distort them. But there I go -- digressing. And all I want to do tonight is recap.
My old friend, Clawdia the cat, has been having a lovely time marshalling her troops ever since she got word that Socrates the squirrel, another former guest of mine, had stolen the Foot from me. I am enjoying the show so very much; I might just let it go on indefinitely. But then again, I bore more easily these days, and Clawdia and I have been chasing one another around in circles forever.
For the present, I have allowed Socrates to believe that he does possess the real Magical Golden Foot, and like so many beings who act upon false assumptions, he is currently very sure of himself, and indeed, a changed rodent. I have permitted him to call up the Parovarchian, a favorite behemoth of mine; you are probably familiar with her more reserved cousin, the Loch Ness Monster.
Clawdia, who is into overkill like most cats, awakened Cerberus from its semi-eternal slumber in order to help her track down Socrates, so now chaos and horror threaten Lincoln Park.
Dear, dear, dear. How far should I let this thing go? Carnage and bloodshed certainly have their place in the scheme of things, and since the holidays are almost upon us, this might prove an excellent time to unsnap the leash. But still...
I am bored. I must think. Perhaps it's time to revive Morey?
Meanwhile, there is your recap -- sort of.
I, Clawdia, am stuck in a sleazy bar in the worst part of town with two monsters and a wretched old squirrel named Socrates. Matters have not been going well.....
"Which one of the three heads do you want me to snap off first?" Socrates' champion, better known as Ethel the Parovarchian, asked him. "I rather like Chelsea's new haircut, which means I'd prefer to leave her for last."
"Why, thank you for noticing," cooed the left head of my hired gun, the three-headed guardian of the gates of Hell. "My lip gloss is also new and in my favorite shade of Artery Red. Why not go for Toby first? He's always so eager to prove himself?"
"All right, Ethel, come to poppa," said the right head of the Cerberus -- but George, the central head, intervened.
"I give the orders here, and you'll have to deal with me first, doll," he told her.
"I don't like being referred to as a 'doll,' George," she growled. "That's very gender biased of you and unacceptable." She breathed fire and scalded the filthy apron off the pusillanimous little rat bartender.
"What's the matter, baby?" George egged her on. "Can't take your own heat? Face it, you'd be better off bare-assed and enceinte in a nice cave somewhere."
The Parovarchian shrieked and a wall went down.
"Do you really like my new haircut, Ethel?" Chelsea asked her.
The Parovarchian nodded. "I certainly do. It makes your eyes bulge a bit less. You look more like Faith Hill throwing a fit than an absolute beast. I also like the bleach job you recently had done on your fangs."
"Well!" declared Chelsea. "It's nice when somebody notices something. I swear, Ethel, you could go right ahead and snap off my head. George and Toby would never realize it was missing."
"Have you tried counseling?" Ethel asked gently.
Chelsea nodded. "We tried it once, but George dismembered the counselor."
Ethel sighed. "Men are all the same, aren't they? I don't know why we put up with them. In fact, I refuse to anymore. I ate my last mate, you know? It was a wonderful experience. I felt so delightfully empowered."
"Now just a minute," piped up Socrates in his annoying little voice. "This isn't supposed to be a merry chat over the back fence. You two ladies are supposed to be tearing each other apart. At least give me Hillary Clinton and Nancy Pelosi."
"Well, I'm game," said George, and Toby nodded eagerly, his giant tongue lolling.
Ethel breathed fire again, and Socrates dunked his blazing tail in a pitcher of Daiquiris.
"That's always the way of it with you males, isn't it?" roared the Parovarchian. "Just get out there and kill something? Well, it so happens that Chelsea and I haven't seen each other in centuries, and we've got some catching up to do."
George and Toby exchanged glances. "Where's the bartender?" asked George. "I've got a feeling we're in for a bumpy night."
"Are you still seeing the Lake Van Monster?" Ethel asked Chelsea, who rolled her glowing eyes, then wiped away a tear.
"Oh, Ethel, you know what those Turks can be like..."
I, Clawdia, saw my chance and took it. I seized Socrates between my jaws and pranced outside with him before anyone could realize we were gone.
"Put me down, you Nazi bitch!" he screamed, and I dropped him into a slimy puddle just outside the bar, and stood over him, striking my most menacing pose.
"All right, Socrates, where's the Magical Golden Foot? And if you screw with me, I'll crack your nuts like knuckles."
Story to be continued next week....
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