Canine counselors gone wild? It's lawsuit time on Morey the Mutt~ (Photo by Beth Javens) 
posted by LuLu @ 10:38 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, April 06, 2007
Canine counselors gone wild? It's lawsuit time on Morey the Mutt~ (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
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- Shamus O'Possum is back and on the run again. Pla...
- ...is George the rat a rat with a heart of gold o...
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- King Rockie declares spring official in idyllic L...
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- Will Morey and Dr. Daisy get to Woodrow in time? ...
- Jade Jardine is missing...(Photo by J.M. Hilton)
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A brief recap: Dr. Daisy, Morey the mutt, and Sir Wellington Molosser have just escaped from a conflagration that destroyed the noble English mastiff's palatial doghouse. His cousin Entlebucher Sennenhund also survived, but Woodrow the bulldog is nowhere to be found. "He went into the library to save the books," Ente told Morey, who immediately ran off to look for his friend amongst the smoking ruins....
Morey recalled that the library had been located not far from the main staircase in the middle part of the doghouse. While Dalmatians rushed about haphazardly with fire hoses, he located what he thought was the right area, and charged in past blackened walls and still smoking beams. He soon found himself tripping over the charred spines of such literary classics as 'Little Bitches,' by Lhasa Mae Apso, 'The Kibble Metamorphosis,' by Franz Kuvasz, and 'Puppies in Lust,' by LuLu the Beagle.
"Woodrow!" he barked. "Woodrow, are you in here somewhere?"
Just outside the ruin of the once proud room, Morey spied a single movement. Perhaps it was no more than the wind stirring the blackened grass -- or perhaps...
"Woodrow?"
"Morey?" The arf was scarcely more than a yip.
The bulldog was buried beneath a pile of ruined cassettes, DVDs, and smoldering books. Unconcerned for his paws, Morey batted the litter aside, then bit down and lifted up the one book that wasn't still on fire.
Beneath it lay Woodrow -- wheezing and covered with ashes, but otherwise apparently unharmed.
"Was I able to save anything?" he asked weakly.
Morey dropped the book he was holding. "Yeah, you were. In fact, it looks like this book might have saved you."
"What is it?"
"'The Divine Comedy,' by Spinone Alighieri. Seems kind of apt, don't you think?"
Story continued below....
Story continued...
Woodrow eyeballed him, and Morey laughed. "I did read it, you know? I was raised by a professor, remember?"
"Forgive me for acting like a prig," arfed Woodrow weakly. "Morey, is Daisy all right?"
"She's fine and so is Ente. I gather you saved her life?"
"What are you two dogs doing out here?" woofed an angry Dalmatian with a hose between his teeth. "This is the scene of a fire, for Dog's sake! Do you two need the para-vets?"
"My buddy might," growled Morey, put off by the spotted dog's gruff attitude. "He's inhaled a lot of smoke."
The Dalmatian reluctantly dropped his hose, threw back his head, and howled his loudest.
"Bring the book with us," barked Woodrow to Morey. "Bring any books that don't look too badly damaged. Oh, I hate to see burned books. Even if nobody reads them these days, it's nice to know they're there."
The Dalmatian stopped howling, and butted in again. "You hounds got any idea how the fire got started?"
"Was it Entlebucher?" Morey asked Woodrow, who though supine and breathless still had his snout in a book.
"What? Oh, no. No, it wasn't Ente. Why, she was as surprised as I was, poor girl. She thought she smelled smoke, so she crawled out onto the roof next to my room. I must say, she's a bitch in a million."
Morey became aware of his scorched paws and began to lick them. "So it was definitely Mrs. March?"
"Oh, I hope not," his friend protested, his bark regaining its strength. "I can't think of a worse public relations disaster right now."
"What are you woofing about?" demanded the Dalmatian. "Are you arfing that some dame set the fire?"
"You don't understand," said Woodrow. "I had a nice chat with Mrs. March only a few days ago outside her hutch. She's actually a well-educated doe, with degrees in coyote counseling and early kitten education. Baby rabbits are called kittens, you know?"
The Dalmatian looked annoyed. "A bunny torched this place?"
"I am sure she did not," Woodrow insisted. "I certainly hope not." He cut his eyes back to Morey.
"Mrs. March told me that her father has never understood why she married a revolutionary like Karl. Her father's a devout capitalist, you see, and he's been threatening to disown them for years."
"So her old man has a lot of lettuce or something?" asked the Dalmatian.
"He controls a jelly bean monopoly, is chairman of the board of an international straw basket company, and he's got his rabbit foot into the food coloring industry," Woodrow explained.
Morey blinked. "You don't mean..."
Woodrow wheezed and nodded. "Mrs. March's father is the Easter Bunny."
Story continued next week...
For more of our story, please go to 11/03/2007 in our archives~
From the Canine Haven Times:
"We are suing everybody!" Louie the Tort, the Easter Bunny's first-tier attorney, told members of the Canine Haven press corps today. "And we're starting with the town's leading citizen, Sir Wellington Molosser. When we get finished with him, he won't have a dog tag left to jangle."
The hotshot terrier attorney, a major player in celebrity lawsuits, was interviewed mere seconds after he secured the release from jail of Mrs. Karl March, the Easter Bunny's daughter, who was recently arrested on what the Tort referred to as "a trumped up" charge of arson.
In essence, she was accused of setting fire to Sir Welllington Molosser's doghouse after her husband, the notorious revolutionary Karl March, was accidentally shot by police while nibbling lettuce on local beachfront property belonging to the Molosser estate.
Mrs. March has vehemently denied the charge, stating that she bears Sir Wellington "no ill will" even if he is indirectly responsible for blowing her husband's tail off.
Mrs. March's father, J.P. Easter IV, better known in his role as the beloved Easter Bunny character, was a good deal more vocal, stating that his son-in-law, who was recovering from surgery in a veterinary clinic at the time, was most likely the individual responsible for the fire.
"He's a no good bum!" shrilled Easter. "I've been feeding him lettuce for years, and that lop-eared langomorph has never shown me the slightest bit of gratitude. All he does is knock up my daughter and rave about stealing carrots from the rich! I wish they'd nailed the stinking hare on that beach. I hope he gets the stew pot!"
While reporters watched as Mr. Easter and his attorney forced a struggling Mrs. March into a pastel limousine with an Easter Egg on top, Louie the Tort's nephew, Tommy the Tort, a hotshot young lawyer who's fast gaining a bad-dog reputation about town, came up with a surprise announcement.
"I am representing Karl March," he said, "and he plans to sue his father-in-law for defamation of character and for calling him a nasty name."
Story continued below...
Story continued...
"What name is that?" asked the reporters, smelling blood and licking their chops.
"Hare," retorted Tommy the Tort.
HUH? "Hare? Have you been eating too much wheat gluten, Tommy?" one of the reporters asked him.
Young Tort shook his head and wagged his tail. "Mr. March is not a hare, you see, but an authentic cottontail rabbit. People associate hares with all sorts of bad things, including insanity -- consider the term 'wild hare' -- or the pejorative phrase -- 'mad as a March hare.' Well, my client is neither wild nor insane. He is deeply hurt and gravely insulted, and will soon be a guest on at least a dozen daytime talk shows. He might even do a spot with Katie Corgi."
"What's his real nose twitch?" the reporters wanted to know.
"Karl wants to get his side of the story out there, and as a public service, he hopes to let everyone know what a schmuck the Easter Bunny really is."
There was no comment from Mr. Easter or his attorney -- and none from Mr. Easter's estranged eldest son, Peter Cottontail, who has twice attempted to seize control of his father's holdings by declaring the old bunny incompetent.
Story and lawsuits continued next Friday~
"Wells," arfed Dr. Daisy, "I'm concerned about Mrs. Karl March and the fact her father plans to sue you."
The big Molosser, who was currently sharing his guesthouse with the Daisy of his dreams, instead of with his bugbear bitch of a cousin, put down the newspaper he was shredding, licked the top of her head, and grinned a silly, entirely Goofy grin.
"What the goose poop has you the least bit worried, my sweet bit of squirrel intestine?" he asked her.
"Oh, I'm not WORRIED," she hastened to assure him. "Psychiatrists never worry. I merely said I was concerned. The bunny sounds like he means business, Wells."
The English mastiff sighed. "Now, now, ground chucklet, let me assure you, old J.P. Easter and I will settle this matter out of court. His daughter was seen fleeing my property with an Easter basket containing a can of gasoline, so we know perfectly well that she torched my doghouse."
"But..."
"Still in all, J.P. and I are on a lot of the same corporate boards, and we support one another's charitable foundations -- in fact, we help one another to get all those juicy tax write-offs, meaning we're definitely at the top of the same pecking order."
"But..."
"As I said, we'll settle out of court, and his daughter most certainly will never do hard time." He snorted. "I should think she's done enough hard time being married to that crazy March hare."
"Cottontail rabbit," Daisy corrected him a tad testily, "and why can't you give money to the poor and downtrodden for the sake of sweet charity alone, Wells? Why do you always have to be paid back for it?"
Sir Wellington groaned inwardly. He sincerely loved the gorgeous Golden retriever lying by his side on an obscenely expensive, and well-chewed, Turkoman carpet, but his beloved Daisy gave new meaning to the term "bleeding-heart liberal."
"Perhaps, ducks," he woofed softly, "you might consider under-the-chairing a few of my humane foundations after we're tether-tied." (That would open her eyes, he thought. According to the dogs who worked for him, every stray mutt off the streets was trying to hit him up for goodies -- which was why they needed the fat salaries he pawed over to them annually. They were so overworked and exhausted.)
"I'd like that, Wells," she told him. (The first thing I'll do, she thought, is fire all those clench-jawed hounds who are ripping off the bowsers meant for the unfortunate.) "But I'm still concerned about J.P. Easter and his lawyer," she said.
Story continued below...
Story continued...
"J.P. is currently being sued by his son-in-law, my little goose liver. I assure you, I haven't got a thing to worry about."
Daisy frowned, got up and shook herself off.
"Where are you going, kibble?"
"Hmmm," she replied. "I think I'll just take a short walk." (I've got some detecting work to do, she thought, and I'd better do it fast.)
Meanwhile, a short distance away, in one of the smaller guest cottages, Woodrow the bulldog was sharing a book he had managed to save from the recent conflagration with none other than Entlebucher Sennenhund, Sir Wellington's redoubtable cousin.
"While I believe male dogs may be from Pluto, particularly since it's been reduced to a dwarf planet," she pointed out, "I disagree that bitches are."
"You may be right, Ente," replied Woodrow, realizing not for the first time that his host's cousin had pretty eyes.
"I have always felt a much stronger affinity with Mars, the planet of war," she went on, shifting her sturdy rump as she raised a paw to scratch at a bit of soot still lodged in her coat.
"Then perhaps the title of this book ought to be -- Dogs are from Pluto, but Bitches are from Mars?" teased the bulldog, noticing how cute her ears were when she perked them a certain way.
Ente shook her head. "No, no. I suppose most bitches would want to be from Venus, but I'm not like that, Woody. I'm a strong and capable bitch and know it. Obviously, my cousin's affections for me have waned. Maybe it's time for me to run off with the leader of a pack of wolves out in Wyoming. I've been exchanging e-mail love notes with him for the past couple of weeks. He's almost as Alpha as I am, and it thrills me to imagine the sort of hybrid pups the two of us might produce."
Story continued below...
Story continued...
She wagged her tail at him.
Thank Dog the Sade fitted me out with a great new set of testicles, thought Woodrow. This bitch is going to be a serious challenge.
But I'm up for it, he reassured himself.
There was a snuffle at the pet door.
"It must be Morey," arfed Woodrow, feeling that he'd been reprieved. "He said he would be over later with some roadkill."
Entlebucher snorted. "Morey is so obviously not purebred," she barked. "I can't imagine what you see in him."
It wasn't Morey. A dark-haired poodle mix popped his head in the door and dropped the tennis ball he was holding on the floor in front of him.
"Anyone on for a game of tennis?" he queried cheerfully.
"Quick! What movie is that line from?" Ente asked Woodrow. "Didn't Cary Greyhound say that in 'The Philadelphia Litter'?"
Woodrow shook his head. "I believe Cary Greyhound barked the line 'Anyone for tennis?' in an earlier film, but I think it was George St. Bernard Shaw who penned the original line -- 'Anyone on for a game of tennis?' -- let's look it up on your new computer!"
"Woodrow, you are so very decisive," woofed Ente, come-hithering him with an extremely overt twitch of her withers.
"Excuse me," barked the poodle mix, "but the quote was merely a ruse on my part, as is the tennis ball."
The two larger dogs halted their lovemaking and stared at him.
"Which one of you is Sir Wellington Molosser?" he asked. "I've got a subpoena in my harness for you."
"Is that another quote?" asked Ente.
Story continued next Friday...
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