Read the latest installment of Morey the Mutt. Something's wrong with Dr. Daisy and Morey's got a main case of the worries. (Photo by Beth Javens) 
posted by LuLu @ 11:32 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~
Friday, February 23, 2007
Read the latest installment of Morey the Mutt. Something's wrong with Dr. Daisy and Morey's got a main case of the worries. (Photo by Beth Javens)
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
- Moxie waits for a shuttle bus at Port Lincoln Par...
- Suzy Wong Chan arrives in Lincoln Park in time to...
- ...and friend Itza Hogg says -- "Just consider me...
- Sammy Chan's grandmother adds some unwelcome stre...
- Pretty blue-eyed Sydney arrives in town to help h...
- ...but will Senator Paco be joining her? (Photo b...
- Exorcised, bathed, and groomed -- what more does ...
- LuLu also wonders who's going to hold her paw. (P...
- Tonight! Morey and his friends continue to enjoy ...
- Nagging questions about Gwendolyn continue to pla...
Subscribe to
Posts [Atom]
11 Comments:
OK, it's partial recap time for Morey the Mutt. When last we left our intrepid trio, the Sade had sent Morey, Woodrow, and the lovely Dr. Daisy to the dog-centered town of Canine Haven, where dogs not only rule -- some of them are close to being absolute monarchs.
Sir Wellington Molosser, for example, lives a lifestyle that might make the Saudi royal family green with envy. His every bark is a command for his "humans," who live like rats (or non-union workers) in order to provide for him. They have already sold one of their children, and their SUV might be the next suburban status symbol to go.
Could a revolution be brewing in their Starbucks-quickened little hearts? Or will they simply work themselves to death...and pass Sir Wellington and his entourage on to homo sapiens even more devoted to the status quo?
Story continued below...
"Daisy," said Sir Wellington, "I see no reason why you shouldn't give Westminster a go. With the right backer, I think you'd be a paw-in for best of show."
"Oh, Wellington, be sensible!" his cousin rebuked him. "Daisy might be, well, quite pretty -- but what does she know about being a show dog? Have you ever been in a show ring, Daisy?"
"No, I haven't," Daisy admitted, "and I believe your cousin is right, Wellington. I'm very complimented, but I honestly can't see myself prancing around in a glorified beauty contest. It's just...well, it's just not me."
"Westminster is a good deal more than a beauty contest," growled Entlebucher Sennenhund, making little effort not to show some fang. "And just what is YOU?"
"I am a trained psychiatrist," Daisy told her proudly, "and I'm quite good at my job."
Ente snorted. "Your JOB? Oh, come now, my dear. Why on earth would you want a JOB?"
Sir Wellington nodded. "We purebred dogs don't need to work, Daisy. In fact, it's quite beneath us. The half-breeds and mutts provide for our needs, feral animals provide our amusement, and humans pay for everything."
"You dogs really have no work ethic whatsoever?" asked Woodrow. "But what do you do all day?"
Both Sir Wellington and Ente stared at him. "Why, we enjoy ourselves," said Sir Wellington. "We live well. It's the best revenge."
"Revenge for what?" asked Daisy.
"We do work at maintaining our superiority," snarled Ente. "For example, I run our doghouse and keep a very tight kennel. The server dogs know better than to try and put one over on me."
"I'll bet my dewclaw on that one," said Morey to Woodrow.
"So running the doghouse is your job?" suggested Daisy.
"Oh, really!" snarled Ente. "I thought my cousin made it clear to you -- we don't have jobs. Honestly, Daisy, by birth you are one of us, but you seem wholly unacquainted with our way of life."
"Look, Daisy," said Sir Wellington, as they neared a neatly pruned wooded area that boasted a small copse of trees and some bushes. "The woods are filled with squirrels and rabbits. Would you like to chase some of them?"
"Do they want to be chased?" she asked him.
"It's their JOB," Ente told her.
Sir Wellington gave a loud bark, and a scrawny young squirrel darted out of a thicket and scampered directly across Daisy's paws. "You can't catch me! You can't catch me!" he called out nervously.
"Of course I can catch you," said Daisy, reaching down and taking his bushy tail between her teeth.
"Oh, ouch! Ouch! Please don't kill me. I'll give up my sick days and my pathetic vacation stipend."
"YOU are a squirrel?" Morey asked him.
"I am, sir dog, but I just got out of vocational training, and I don't have my moves down yet. We're not allowed to swing from the tree branches here, and darting from bush to bush really doesn't cut it."
"All these trees are imported," Sir Wellington pointed out. "That's why you can't swing from branch to branch. Why, you might break off one or two of them. Besides, think how annoying it would be to have you swinging and swaying overhead."
"But, Wellington," said Daisy, releasing the trembling rodent and sending him on his way, "that's what squirrels do."
Story continued next week.
To catch up with our story from the beginning, please start with our archives at 4/02/2007~
This serial goes back a long ways.
Morey belonged to a werewolf? I havn't made the link to the Sade and the rest of it yet but it's fun and interestig. I like the story about how he met Dr. Daisy.
Initially Morey was in love with Lulu, Pol, but it didn't work out and neither did his owner, the werewolf's, romance. Morey met the Sade, a sort of lake spirit, when he fell into the lake, and she's been screwing with him ever since. The story gets somewhat confusing, but it's fun to read and I enjoy it.
Morey, Dr. Daisy, and Woodrow the bulldog have been the houseguests of Sir Wellington Molosser and his cousin, Entlebucher Sennenhund, for an entire week now. Morey is starting to relax and enjoy himself, and Woodrow is happy because Sir Wellington has an extensive library -- but Dr. Daisy has turned into a real grouch. (And you thought I was going to say BITCH, didn't you?) Morey wonders what's going on with the pretty psychiatrist, and how much longer it will be before Sir Wellington gets fed up enough to toss his three star boarders out on their collective tails.
Story continues below...
Daisy was sitting on the lawn, batting a croquet ball back and forth through a crooked wicket with her forepaw. "Not much of a game," Morey observed.
"No."
He sat down next to her, enjoying the feel of the soft grass, which was kept neatly manicured by munching fawns. "Daze, what's wrong? When we first got here, you were like a hound of the scent of something good. But it wasn't long before your mood sunk lower than a daschund in a manhole, and poor old Sir Wellington looks ready to tear out his own throat."
"Maybe he should go ahead and do it." She gave the ball a good whack.
"Let's see," said Morey, "that dog has given you the best pen in the doghouse, he's had herbs planted on your balcony so you can smell thyme and rosemary while you poop, he's hired a personal mini-poodle French maid for you. In short, he treats you like the pick of the litter, and all he gets from you is snarls. I don't get it."
"What is it that you don't get, Morey?"
"Why you're so mean to him. As I recall, things were going full dogtrot until, well, I guess until the squirrel incident. Am I right?"
"If you mean, do I think Wellington's treatment of other animals is appalling, the answer is YES. Not letting squirrels swing from tree branches! Whoever heard of such a thing?"
"OK, Daze, but don't you think organizing the squirrels and rabbits into a union was a little over the top? They're now demanding that Sir Wellington pay for their veterinary care; otherwise the rabbits eat all the lettuce in his garden and the squirrels plan to pelt his windows with walnuts."
I stand by my decision," growled Daisy, who remained seated.
Story continued below...
Story continued...
"Fine," said Morey, "but do you really think you had any right to get involved with those humans of his?"
"All I did was suggest to Wellington that he spend a little more time with them. They deserve something for their efforts, don't you think? I mean, a pat on the head, ten minutes a week of Oprah, and food they love -- like cholesterol-laden donuts."
"Since they'll ultimately be the ones footing the bill for the rabbits and the squirrels, I suppose you're right," Morey conceded. "But, Daisy, couldn't you be a little nicer to our host?"
Before she could reply, Woodrow came dogtrotting across the lawn, his nose in a book. "Watch the wicket!" barked Daisy, but it was too late and he went tumbling tail over withers.
"No harm done," he assured them, "but these wickets should be put away when nobody's playing croquet. What if one of the fawns accidentally tried to eat one?"
"Oh, dear!" arfed Daisy. "That's something else I'll most certainly take up with Wellington. How careless! Hmmm. What do you think, Woodrow -- should the fawns have a union like the squirrels and the rabbits?"
Morey groaned.
"They're awfully young to grasp the concept," the intellectual bulldog replied, "but you might consider discussing the introduction of child labor laws with their parents."
"An excellent idea!" she agreed.
"Then again, I'm not sure we'll be around here too much longer."
Daisy's soft brown eyes darkened. "What are you talking about?"
"I heard Sir Wellington's cousin talking on the phone to her friend Harvey, the dog whisperer, this morning while I was in the library, reading, to my great delight, one of my favorite passages from William Sealyham's famous play, 'The Taming of the Terrier.'"
Daisy's hackles rose. "That play is a disgrace! It's insulting to bitches."
"What did you overhear?" Morey wanted to know.
Story continued below...
Story continued...
"Ente told Harvey she had given Sir Wellington an ultimatum." He turned to Daisy. "Either you go or she goes."
Daisy let out a loud yelp -- a yelp which could be heard all the way across the lawn and under a bush, where a hare named Karl March was brewing up trouble along with Easter egg dye, by urging the members of the Squabbits' Union (Local 1)to consider revolution. "The cries of the downtrodden," he squeaked knowingly, if incorrectly.
"I knew it would come to this!" howled Daisy. "That bastard!"
"Don't look now," said Morey, "but here comes the bastard -- I mean, Sir Wellington."
"And he doesn't look happy," noted Woodrow, clutching his borrowed little book a bit tighter.
"Remember, Daisy," Morey told her, "you are a trained psychiatrist."
Sir Wellington sat down, cocked his head, raised his sad eyes, and said -- "Daisy..."
"I HATE YOU!" howled the beautiful Golden Retriever, who spun about on her dainty paws, and went charging back toward the doghouse, pausing only once, to snap viciously at a munching fawn who had the temerity to get in her way.
Woodrow went after her. "Daisy! Daisy! Why do you hate Sir Wellington?"
"I'm in love with him!" she howled, as if that explained everything.
Story continued next week.
"Daisy, is there anything I can do?" asked Woodrow, following the howling Golden Retriever up the stairs and into her bedroom. "If I may so bark, you look distraught."
"No dog crap, Sherlock Bones," she snapped. "Now get out of here while I howl my heart out -- and then pack."
"Pack what?" asked the confused bulldog. "We arrived here with absolutely nothing. Everyting you've got -- from your new diamond-studded collar to the 'She Wolf in Heat' cologne you are wearing, is compliments of Sir Wellington Molosser."
Daisy threw herself into her pen and howled some more.
Woodrow sat back on his haunches and studied her. The female of the species was often difficult to figure out, and Woodrow had yet to find anything in a book that was particularly helpful. But maybe...
The bulldow dropped a small dog-eared volume he had been clutching. "I was looking through this self-help book I found in the library," he told her. "It's entitled 'Dogs Are from Pluto And Bitches Are Too, Sort Of.' Perhaps you would care to read it?"
"Are you forgetting that I am a trained psychiatrist?" Daisy snarled.
Woodrow shook his massive head. "Honestly, I'm not -- but a dog is an ass if he tries to be his own lawyer, and most physicians cannot heal themselves, Daisy."
"You might be right," she allowed, "but I'm not about to put my faith in anything written by a bitch with a name like 'Mellow Papillion' -- why, from the looks of it, she doesn't have so much as one Ph.D. after her name, meaning she has about as much credibility as Al Gore."
"Maybe you'd like to bark at me, then?"
Daisy flicked her tail in a languid manner. "You wouldn't understand," she arfed at last, and began to lick her paws while fighting off an inverse sneezing attack, obviously brought on from stress. "I wish you would go," she said.
"Please let me try to help you, Daisy. Now, you've admitted you're in love with Sir Wellington. We've managed to get that far."
"But he doesn't love me, Woodrow."
"How do you know?"
"Didn't you see the awful way he looked at me when he padded across the lawn?" she growled. "Why, he and that cousin of his are so codependent, he probably would commit murder if she asked him to do it. He was planning to throw me out, Woodrow."
Story continued below...
Story continued...
"Oh, I don't think so, Daisy. I think our host has a mind of his own. Look, why not dry your eyes, wipe your nose, shake the drool off your chin, and come back downstairs?
At least listen to what the poor dog has to woof."
But Daisy shook her head. "No. Thank you, Woodrow, but no. I'll...lie here for a bit, and maybe try to get a little rest, before doing some serious thinking. See you later?"
"That's the ticket to the dog show," he encouraged, nudging her gently with his pushed-in bulldog nose. "I'll hold down the dog park in the meantime -- while you think things over."
He wagged his stubby tail and gave her a look of unadulterated affection. "I know you're a terrific psychiatrist, Daisy. In fact, I don't think you're capable of a flawed decision." He raised a forepaw. "Dewclaws up!" he told her, and padded out of the room.
Feeling rather good about himself now that he had pretty much restored Daisy's world, Woodrow went back downstairs, returned his book to the library, and lingered there for a while to sniff the spines on several weighty tomes -- and completely lost track of time. Forty-five minutes later, he left the library and continued on his way.
He found Sir Wellington and Morey still out on the lawn, deeply engaged in a bow-wow of a conversation.
"Of course she cares!" he heard Morey declare. But Sir Wellington dug in his paws. "If she does, then why did she..."
"Is Daisy all right?" the two dogs barked in unison the second they saw Woodrow, who opened his jaws to woof, but got shoved aside by Entlebucher Sennenhund, whose untoward arrival silenced everyone.
Harvey, the dog whisperer, came stumbling across the lawn behind her, panting like a husky in the tropics.
"That bitch Daisy has run off!" she howled to her cousin. "She's run off and taken the family silver with her! Harvey has called the police! They've been ordered to shoot her on sight!"
From the distance came the unmistakable crackle of gunfire.
Both Morey and Sir Wellington yelped.
Woodrow fainted.
Story continued next week...
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home