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~
Tonight... Dr. Daisy speaks her mind and a bunny drops a bomb? This is the season finale for Morey and the gang. For more about Morey and his buds, check out our archives, starting with 22/04/07~ (Photo by Beth Javens)
posted by LuLu @ 10:50 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~
Subscribe to
Posts [Atom]
7 Comments:
Dr. Daisy padded up and down the fence line at the end of Sir Wellington Molosser's vast front lawn, her nose to the ground, her gaze intent.
A juvenile arf alerted her just in time, and she sidestepped a deep rabbit hole not a moment too soon.
"What's you lookin' for?" asked Mr. J., a Corgi puppy, whose father was one of the staff herders. "You maybe lost a diamond or a emerald -- or the keys to a limouzeen?"
Dr. Daisy wagged her tail. "Nothing like that," she replied. "Fact is, I'm looking for clues."
The pup's dark eyes lit up like the high beams on a truck. "What kind of clues?"
"Remember the fire?"
"Well, yeah. Me and Ripper the cat watched it over by the oak tree. We seen everything."
Really? Dr. Daisy grinned at him. She liked puppies, despite the fact she was a devout career bitch. She occasionally even toyed with the idea of having one of her own.
The problem was that her mother had been a "heavy birther" -- prone to large litters. Daisy knewn perfectly well that she could never handle motherhood if it involved plural progeny.
"Were you and Ripper around before the fire started?" she asked Mr. J. with feigned indifference.
The pup looked ready to reply when he suddenly hesitated. "You're Sir Wellington's girlfriend, aren't you?" he asked.
"I'm his fiancee," Daisy amended. "That means we're going to get tether-tied."
"And you'll be Mrs. Sir Wellington, huh?"
"Actually," said she, "I will be Lady Molosser."
The Corgi wrinkled his nose and looked uncomfortable.
Daisy got the picture. "Oh, dear! I do sound awfully stuffy, don't I? Believe me, I'm really just an average bitch -- although I am a doctor."
Story continued below...
Story continued...
"You don't look average," the little Corgi observed. "Average wouldn't be wearing a diamond-studded collar."
"It was my engagement present," Daisy barked, and realizing she was cutting no kibble with the pup, she turned away and began sniffing in the grass again.
Mr. J. followed her as she padded down the fence line.
"What kind of doctor?" he blurted when curiosity got the better of him. "You're not a vet, are you?"
He hated going to the vet.
She looked up. "No, I'm a psychiatrist."
"Say WHAT?"
"I shrink heads for a living."
The pup's eyes grew round, he made a little yipping sound, and took off running.
My Dog! I am terrible with puppies! Daisy thought. Maybe I'd better hang up any thoughts of motherhood with last year's leash.
Convincing herself there was nothing to be found along the fence line, Daisy moved over to the hedgerows that lined a long pathway which led to the burned-out shell of Sir Wellington's doghouse.
She heard a faint sound behind her, turned, and saw two small figures approaching.
"She really shrinks heads," Mr. J. was telling a striped cat with a torn ear.
The cat eyed Daisy with caution. "So why is he engaged to this wingnut? Maybe he shrinks heads too?"
"Hello," said Daisy to the cat. "You must be Ripper, and I didn't mean to imply that I shrink heads in the literal sense. I meant it figuratively."
The cat stared long and hard at her, then cut his eyes to the Corgi. "This mamma ain't right in HER head, dog."
"I think I kinda get what she's saying," Mr. J. told him. "She's OK, Ripper."
Story continued below...
Story continued...
For some ridiculous reason, Daisy felt a profound sense of relief.
"You lookin' for clues as to who it was started the fire?" asked Ripper.
"Yes," admitted Daisy, "and I'm not having much luck. Everybody seems to think it was Mrs. Karl March."
Ripper shook his head. "Weren't her."
Mr. J. growled at him.
"What's wrong?" asked Daisy.
"He's afraid you'll dump on his dad," the cat explained, "if this cat comes outta the bag. You dig?"
"Oh, no!" protested Daisy. "I'd never do anything so mean. I promise! Not unless his father set the fire."
"He'd never do nothin' like that!" the little Corgi howled.
Dr. Daisy stretched out on the grass, put on her best Golden Retriever smile for the two young animals, and tried to look maternal.
"I'm all floppy ears," she woofed.
Story continued next Friday~
"Please sit and stay," arfed Petula Westie, the attractive purebred attorney whose name and breed Morey had managed to dig up online. "I'll be off the phone in a minute."
Morey sat and looked around her office. Nice. Comfortable. Slightly feminine. A chew toy under a chair, a few discretely gnawed bones scattered about, and the lawyer was chained to her desk.
This salient fact indicated to him that maybe Ms. Westie took her job seriously, instead of just looking cute and lawyerish, with a leather briefcase plunked between her teeth.
She got off the phone. "A bird pooped on the president," she commented, "and the Audubon Society wants me to defend him." She wagged her tail. "I'm Petula."
He rose to his paws. "Morey."
Her expression was candid and attentive. "So, how can I help you?"
"Ever heard of a bunny called Peter Cottontail?" he asked her, hopping onto a comfortable chair, while she jumped back on top of her desk.
Her ears perked and she absentmindedly began to chew on a pen shaped to resemble a drumstick. "Who hasn't? What's he got to do with you?"
"He's suing me, though it beats me why. I've never even met Mr. Twitchy Nose."
She looked skeptical. "Are you absolutely sure of that? You look like some sort of retriever -- and Mr. Cottontail IS a rabbit."
"I'm an Elohssa," he told her, lying in his canines, like a seasoned politician or an eager cosmetic surgeon. She wrote something down.
"It's a very rare breed," Morey went on. "There aren't many of us, but one of our traits is that we never retrieve anything we absolutely don't have to."
She tossed the pen aside and stared at him. She wasn't very old, Morey concluded, yet she had a rather mature and jolly face. But all of a sudden she didn't look so jolly.
"Morey," she arfed, "are you yanking my chain?"
Story continued below...
Story continued...
"I can't yank your chain," said Morey. "You're too far across the room."
"I'm referring to that ridiculous tale you just told me," she snapped.
And he got smacked with the newspaper! "OK, I'm outta here. You won't believe I never met the bunny. I don't need you to dump the whole dog pot on me, lady."
"Well, then, good-bye," she woofed casually, "and good luck with Peter Cottontail. He's a rough customer with a lot of bowsers and influence, and you're just a good-looking mongrel hunk who's unlikely to be rolling in the sweet grass -- else you'd have your own attorney, one on a hefty pet-store retainer, like most of the hotdogs in this town."
"What makes you think I'm a mongrel?" he asked her, a little piqued that she'd dog-tagged him quite so easily.
"What makes me think John Edwards tints his hair?" she shot back. "Come on, Morey! It's all over you! Besides, I didn't need to go to law school to figure out what 'Elohssa' spelled backwards means."
"But you'd still be willing to take my case -- perverted sense of humor and all?"
"I would," she arfed. "For one thing, I'm no great fan of Peter Cottontail."
"For another, I hope you're into pro bono work," he said. "You figured me out the minute I padded through the pet door. I'm a mutt without a bowser to his name."
She unsnapped her chain and jumped down off her desk. Morey sniffed the air as she came closer and liked the smell of her flea-and-tick shampoo.
"How 'bout we take it out in trade?" Petula suggested.
Story continued next Friday...
"Bark ye, bark ye, bark ye. The kennel court will come to order!" woofed the bearded collie bailiff. "The Dishonorable Judge Rex Redbone officiating from under the bench."
"You moron!" snarled the judge, baring his canines. "That's HONORABLE judge."
"Not according to a couple of bitches down at Miss Felaine's Poodle Parlor," argued the bailiff. "Besides, word is out that you've been found snorted in more alleyways than Lindsay Lohan."
"I object!"
"Isn't that my job, your Dishonor?" arfed Louie the Tort good-naturedly.
The judge bit down hard on his gavel. "Oh, let's get on with it. Who is suing who -- or is it whom?"
"My client, J.P. Easter, is suing Sir Wellington Molosser, the City of Canine Haven, and the police force of same. We're also counter-suing a certain rock-brained rabbit named Karl March, who was idiotic enough to hire my nephew to be his Sydney Carton."
"Who? Whom?" arfed the judge.
"A Tale of Two Cities, sir," the bailiff explained.
"Any dog worth his growl can get plenty of tail in this city," the judge remarked. "Now, let's get on with it. Louie, you know as well as I do that you can't sue all these mammals at the same time. You've got a bunch of separate cases here."
"What makes you think so?" demanded the elder Tort.
"A private dinner with Miss Felaine, for one thing. Meaning I don't have all day to lie under this bench and listen to you howl. Why don't you just start off this field trial with your litigation against Sir Wellington Molosser?"
"Why can't MY case take precedence?" squealed Peter Cottontail from the back of the crowded kennel. "I'm suing Morey the Mutt for everything he's got or ever will have. I'm a busy bunny with a lot of eggs to fry, so the sooner I Jack Kevorkian him, the better."
J.P. Easter, his pink nose turning bright red, hopped to his feet and turned on his son. "You worthless by-blow of a muskrat! Sit down and bite your carrots! You wouldn't have any lettuce in your hutch at all if it weren't for me! You're a disgrace! I hope you wind up with your eggs poached!"
"Oh, sit down yourself, J.P.!" ordered the judge. "Cottontail, another outburst and I'll hold you in contempt. Frankly, I think you've should've been held in contempt since birth, but that's just my personal opinion."
"Good one, your Dishonor," arfed the bailiff. "One of these days you and I should put together a stand-up comedy act. Only problem is, you can never stand up."
Story continued below...
Story continued...
"Get neutered!" the judge told his bailiff, before scooting out from under the bench and going snout-to-snout with Louie the Tort.
"Look here, I thought you were going to be defending Mrs. Karl March, Louie. What the hatch ever happened to her?"
"I'm sorry to say she got another lawyer, a bitch by the name of Petula Westie."
"I know her!" arfed the judge, scooting back under his bench. "Cute little thing. Wears short skirts and a tight harness. I believe she's also going to be representing Morey the Mutt. Bailiff, howl down to Miss Felaine's and tell her I'll be late for dinner. Think I might need to talk to Ms. Westie in my chambers."
"Let me through! Let me through!" a bitch howled from the back of the kennel. "Please! It's urgent! Oh, for Dog's sake! I'm a PSYCHIATRIST!"
The judge raised his nose and sniffed the air. Then he caught a good look at Dr. Daisy.
"Well, well, well. Aren't you the pretty pup? Step forward, honey, and woof what you have to woof."
"She needs to be sworn in, sir," the bailiff reminded him.
"Not with those stifles and hocks," rejoined the judge, who wagged his tail at the lovely doctor.
"Go ahead, sweet paws," he said. "Just take your time. Nobody here's in a hurry. Feel free to shake your fleas loose."
Daisy turned and faced the court. "All of this," she barked, "is a terrible mistake. The whole thing started when Mrs. Karl March was wrongly accused of starting the fire which burned down Sir Wellington's doghouse."
"It started," shrilled Karl March, "after I got my ass blown off."
Daisy ignored him. "The thing is --I know who set the fire!"
"You'll never take me alive!" shrieked Peter Cottontail, clutching an Easter basket close to his torso. "The basket is filled with bombs."
Chaos erupted.
The judge and the bailiff darted toward the pet doors.
"Daisy!" howled Sir Wellington. "Daisy! You'll be trampled!"
Story continued in September...
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home