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~

Monday, April 23, 2007

Sammy Chan wants only the facts~ (Photo by J.M. Hilton)

posted by LuLu @ 12:38 AM 

6 Comments:

Blogger LuLu said...

From the files of the Bitch Incognito...

In a murky basement room at Chester's Gulag:

"Therefore," purred a sultry feline voice, "I feel I can continue to count on you..."

"Drop the cell phone, Aunt Lucinda!" commanded Monica Ferret, her teeth bared and her claws at the ready.

Beside her, Marco, the semi-private detective, produced a garrote from his harness.

Lucinda Spaniel (AKA Aunt Lucinda) pressed a button with her paw and the phone exploded. "I lose more nails that way," she arfed, and charged Monica, knocking her flat.

"I see stars," moaned the floored ferret.

"Enjoy it while you can," snarled the pugilistic spaniel. "In a few minutes you won't even be seeing extras."

Marco came at her with the garrote.

A knife whizzed past his head.

"You're good, you old bitch. I'll give you that," he barked. "But I'm younger and faster."

"You're not younger and faster than us!" growled Jekyll and Hyde, the spotted hyena twins, moving into the room and beginning to circle him like a pair of eager Apaches.

"At least my grammar is better," temporized the as yet undaunted doggy dick.

"Take him!" barked Lucinda, a split second before she hit the floor like a fallen pound cake.

"Tranquilizer dart," explained Susie Wong Chan, as she was wheeled into the room in her coral puppy stroller by Chester Samoyed.

"Poor Lucinda. She was always good, but I was always so much better."

She cut her fathomless black eyes to the hyena cubs. "Sit!" she told them.

They sat.

"You...you betrayed us," Jekyll yipped at Chester.

"Yeah," added Hyde, for no particular reason, then popped his bubble gum.

"You are sadly mistaken," the handsome Russian rebarked. "As it turns out, I was myself betrayed. Twice, in fact. You too have been used as pawns," he informed them.

Monica Ferret slowly got to her perfectly manicured paws. "Wow! That was a punch to curl my whiskers." She stared down at Lucinda. "Is she dead?"

Story continued below...

1:01 AM  
Blogger LuLu said...

Story continued...

"She's only out cold," arfed Marco. "I gotta hand it to you, Susie. You're a pro among pros."

"I'm just good on the blowgun," she commented. "Not bad on the piccolo either, I'm told."

A few seconds later Sam Ashmead, Spencer Hilton, Itza Hogg, and Lincoln Park attorney general, Sammy Chan, arrived, along with a brigade of police officers -- and ME.

"Who's the bichon broad with the bad haircut?" asked Susie Wong Chan.

"A friend of mine," replied Sammy (making my heart sing).

Susie grunted. "First an Italian girl and now a French twit. What have you got against nice Oriental girls from good families, Sam?"

"It's not like that, Grandmother," he informed her, while wagging his silky tail at me. "This bitch and I are really are just friends."

My heart sank. Choking back huge, gulping sobs, I watched as Spencer harnessed Lucinda, while Ashmead cuffed her paws, and Itza muzzled her.

The wily spaniel opened one eye. "Who the pound do you think I am -- Hannibal Lecter?"

"We know how slick you are, Lucinda," said Ashmead, a trace of admiration in his woof. "I know you once escaped from a Cuban dog pound using only a flea comb and the hook from a dog tag."

"I taught her that trick," said Susie, earning an Alec Baldwin glare from her former friend Lucinda.

The police strapped the inert spaniel onto a metal board and carted her off to the pound van.

Jekyll and Hyde were pawcuffed and led away to a second vehicle.

Susie turned to Chester Samoyed. "You have a lot of barking to do," she said.

Story continued below...

1:13 AM  
Blogger LuLu said...

Story continued...


"First let's enjoy a couple rounds of vodka and howl with the Cossack dog dancers," he suggested.

"Let's not," snapped Sammy. "Come on, Chester. Spill the kibble!"

"Oh, all right," agreed the handsome Samoyed, sitting back on his haunches. "It all started in Yekaterinburg, Russia, on July 17, 1918 -- the day the czar was shot."

"Could we possibly move the story along a bit?" Susie requested.

"Can I at least strum my balalaika?"

"Oh, for Dog's sake!" yelped Ashmead. "Just tell us the story!"

"You're about as much fun to chew the fat with as Karl Rove," grumbled the hirsute Russian, "but here goes -- in order to put the Romanov family back in power, I attempted to destroy the Russian caviar industry by moving it to Lincoln Park."

From somewhere outside we heard a loud yelp, followed by the sound of a gunshot.

"She's escaped!" howled one of the police officers, loping back into the room. "She used the old broken squeak-toy ploy...and she's taken her niece Lily hostage. Spencer has offered to trade places with the former supermodel."

Chester grabbed his balalaika and began to strum. "Tragedies make for such good ballads," he observed.

Outside sirens wailed.

(Developing...even though my heart is broken...)

1:25 AM  
Blogger LuLu said...

From the Black Box on Moxie's Jet...

Some dogs are lucky and some dogs aren't, and I suppose I should be grateful to the Big Copilot in the Wild Blue Yonder for saving my tail thus far.

I've survived two Iditarod runs with minimal frostbite, made a half-dozen parachute jumps which cost me only a bad ankle sprain, and padded away from two crash landings with nothing more serious than a torn dewclaw and a cracked fang.

But it's hard to consider yourself lucky when you're the handsome and super buff flydaddy of a private skynymph jet -- a plane with a body most jocks would kill to handle -- and onboard you've got two other heavenly bodies in the form of Jade Jardine and Daphne the Yorkie, two bodacious bitches whose lives I just saved -- and what do I get for my efforts?

I get a job playing nursemaid to a possum with the runs!

To make matters worse, not only does this miserable lump of marsupial lard have the trots like a racehorse with St. Vitus Dance, he's got the verbal runs as well.

Once upon a time, I thought possums were shy creatures who pretended to be dead a lot, and Dog knows I wish Shamus O'Possum were dead for real.

He has proven more boring than a colony of carpenter ants, and while I'd like to rip out his throat and end my misery, doing so might not look too good in front of Jade, Daphne, or my boss -- Moxie Rothschild and Roquefort.

So while Mox enjoys the good stuff going on in the back of the plane, I have to put up with the mangy marsupial's rancid litter-box odor along with his unregaling squeaks and hisses.

"I fell out of a plane once," he tells me, not once but multiple times.

"Pushed, were you?" I ask him. "Or did you get the parachute with the 'X' on it?"

"Neither, but I've survived my share of assassination attempts," he assures me.

Wholly understandable, that.

"Even my fiancee tried to kill me once."

Ditto the above. (HE had a fiancee?)

Story continued below...

12:00 AM  
Blogger LuLu said...

Story continued...

"But this last time," he says, "I was just minding my business and looking for my literary agent, Gwendolyn Monk."

"Who?"

"Gwendolyn Monk. A tiny creature physically, but she casts a large shadow on the literary scene. She's also a talent agent -- or she was. She told me she was looking for a change, and she thinks she might be able to package me as the new Kurt Vonnegut with pathos. Maybe, you know, sort of a blend between Kurt Vonnegut and Vladimir Nabokov -- or even Dan Brown."

But his maniacal natter about some guys I've never heard of ceases to hold my interest.

I feel a twist in the pit of my stomach like I've eaten bad grass or pet food made in China, and I mentally peel back the months.

I'd had an emergency stopover in Belgrade, and the only kennel I could find was this flea-infested hole in an alley next to a third-rate cathouse.

There had been two of them -- a kitten and a chipmunk. Hot looking babes, considering the area, and ready to get into the play position for the price of a saucer of milk. You know how it is -- I was a dog off the leash and far from home, and I was feeling kinky.

While I chased the kitten, the chipmunk ripped off my dog tags and wallet. Then the pair of them jumped out a window and made their escape. I searched for them all night through the murky back alleys of Belgrade. They'd taken all my bowsers, my ID tags, and my pilot's license. I was lucky I didn't get nabbed by the local dogcatcher.

But I made it a point to remember that chipmunk's name.

And her name was Gwen.

"You wouldn't happen to have a photograph of your agent handy, would you, buddy?" I ask the possum, who's squirming in his seat again, which means he's gotta go.

He fumbles around in some grubby body crevice and comes up with a business card -- a business card with his agent's picture on it.

And it's her. Gone blonde and Gilded Paw. Suddenly looks like a million bowsers, which is a far bark from how she looked in Belgrade, but it's the same little chippie.

"Gwendolyn Monk, huh?"

The possum belches, then unbuckles and heads for the can. "You thinking of writing a book?"

"You know," I tell him, slipping the card into my harness, "I just might do that."

12:25 AM  
Blogger LuLu said...

The above recorded by Burt Bismark, Air Ace and potential writer~

12:27 AM  

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