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~
Are Sam Spencer's wild, wild ways behind him? It's all up to a certain San Francisco spaniel with a loathing for gunsels and a taste for adventure. (Photo by J.M. Hilton) To read our story from the beginning, click on 03/06/2007 in our archives~
posted by LuLu @ 11:04 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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Last on the Maltese Chew Toy:
With Brigid and Cairo hopefully NOT behind them, Effie admitted to removing a fortune in diamonds from Brigid's collar...and swallowing them! It is now one month later.....
The Maltese Chew Toy (concluded)
Sam was lying on his back on his own patch of earth while two of his puppies by Effie sat atop him, and one of Iva's get gnawed on his left ear. The small area between 891 and 893 Post Street was alive with the sounds of yips and yelps, for Effie had recently given birth to seven healthy puppies and Iva to five.
Because of Sam (with a little help from Effie), Mrs. Petoma, the landlady at 891, was now filthy rich, which meant there was no chance whatsoever that the dogcatcher would ever get his paws on the twelve tiny puppies who were doing their best to eat Sam alive.
Iva and Effie were off on a walk with Mrs. Petoma, along with Sam's new partner, Murray. Meanwhile, Sam, quite frankly, was simply relishing fatherhood, for it was more than likely that all the pups -- the entire dozen -- were his own.
"Ahem," arfed a feminine voice. Sam opened an inquisitive eye, and momentarily froze. The snowy coat, the smell of expensive flea powder -- a ribbon in her hair.
Brigid was back! Sam leaped to all fours and the puppies went sprawling.
(Story continued below)
Story cont'd...
But the cunning canine who returned Sam's direct gaze with one of her own was not Brigid.
"Dollybelle!" Sam howled, and thumped his tail, as the pretty little Pekingese from Powell Street stepped forward to rub noses. "What the pound and a dry fireplug are YOU doing in this part of the town?"
The puppies all darted up to sniff and lick the lovely visitor, but Dollybelle, while friendly, quelled their roughhousing with a glance.
"How do you do that?" Sam asked her.
"Years of practice," she replied. "Remember, my mistress runs a bordello, and the dogs I hang out with are as spoiled as their rich masters. In fact, two of them are with me now."
"Not the boxer and the sheep dog," groaned Sam. "Those two mutts could give the neighborhood a bad name."
"We heard that!" barked one of the dogs on the other side of the fence.
"Donnybrook and Gladstone will stay outside," Dollybelle assured him.
"Make them stay way outside," Sam barked. "Like Montana."
"We heard that again!"
"Oh, shut up, Donny!" barked the little Peke, and quickly cut to the chase. "Is Murray living here these days?"
Sam cocked his head. "You stopped by to ask about Murray? And I was hoping you'd been pining for me and my curly ears all these weeks."
The dogs on the other side of the fence snickered, and Sam saw a trickle of yellow ooze in from the alleyway.
Dollybelle sat down in the grass, sweeping two puppies aside with her tail. "I know he's occupied," she commented, indicating the pups with another productive sweep, which sent several more tumbling. "I just wanted to say good-bye."
Sam made an effort to herd a few of the pups inside Effie's little shed. "Good-bye? Why so dramatic? He and Iva may not stick."
"I might be a satisfying side dish of kibble and chop suey, Sam," she arfed a tad tartly, "but I don't expect Murray to carry the torch all the way into Gold Rush Country."
Sam replied with a blank stare. "What?"
She blinked her shoe-button eyes. "Why, you are moving, aren't you? I heard it from Cairo the pug at least a week ago."
"Cairo? Cairo told you this?"
She nodded. "His person has become a regular at our house."
"You don't say," Sam managed to croak. "That would be Mr. Webley-Fosbery?"
She nodded. "Cairo's mate, Brigid, and he live with Mr. Webley-Fosbery and his son, who's still recovering from an accident."
Some accident, thought Sam, as he made an effort to herd a few more of the puppies inside the shed, and failed.
"I believe Mr. Webley-Fosbery's son is thinking of running for governor one day," Dollybelle went on. "They're terribly rich, you see?"
Sam picked up one of the puppy toys and began gnawing on it. "Tell me more about what Cairo said."
"Oh." She swished her tail again and more of Sam's progeny went tumbling. "He told me that Murray and his friends had come into some money, and a certain Mrs. Petoma recently purchased a hotel in Gold Rush Country...."
"And good riddance!" barked both of the dogs behind the fence.
Sam suddenly felt cold all over, and he felt even colder when he saw the backdoor of 891 swing open -- and Effie came trotting through it.
"Hello," she said to Dollybelle. Then she caught the expression on Sam's face.
(Story continued below...)
Story (cont'd)
Despite her rather eccentric background, or perhaps because of it, Dollybelle knew when to make herself scarce.
Even before Effie had the puppies licked and settled, the pretty Peke managed to vanish, leaving behind only a few paw prints and the scent of violets after a light rain.
"Smells good," Effie commented.
"Smells a lot better than the strong, strong odor of betrayal," Sam growled at her.
She sat down in front of him. "What are you talking about?" she asked him, as Iva and Murray padded outside.
"Was that Dollybelle I saw," woofed Murray excitedly.
"Who's Dollybelle?" demanded Iva, and Sam slowly wagged his tail.
"Maybe I'm not the only one getting fed dogbane around here," he barked.
Abruptly, Sam pushed under the fence and went out into the alleyway, noticing as he did that Gladstone and Donnybrook had left several reminders of their visit there.
Effie followed him. "Sam! Sam, wait! Tell me what's wrong."
He spun about, almost lunged at her.
"What's WRONG? Exactly when did Mrs. Petoma purchase a hotel in Gold Rush Country? And just how long have WE been planning to move?"
Effie's harem eyes widened, but she held his gaze. "The deal is not solid yet," she told him, "but she's been wanting to do this for years. She wants to open up a safe haven, where female two-footers who have suffered through bad marriages can come to put their lives back together."
"A noble gesture from a two-footer who murdered her husband," he observed.
Effie let the dig at her mistress slide. "Murray and Iva want to move," she told him.
"Let them," Sam snapped, "although I'm not so sure Murray is over Dollybelle -- meaning Iva may have some stiff and well-perfumed competition."
Effie shook her head. "Murray loves Iva and the puppies..."
"...which aren't his..."
Effie bared her teeth. "All right, Sam, let's get down to it. You're mad because I didn't tell you about the probable move. Of course I didn't tell you! I knew you'd react like this."
"I'm a city dog, Effie," he told her, "and this is my town. I know every curb and fire hydrant. I know what trees the cats climb, the places where the rats lurk..."
"I don't want our puppies growing up in a littered area between two apartment buildings," Effie countered. "I want them to have fresh air and space to breathe, Sam. I want them to be able to chase squirrels and not have to worry about the dogcatcher."
"Mrs. Petoma has plenty of money now..."
"We can't stay here, Sam."
He looked at her. "YOU can't stay here, Effie," he barked. "Don't tell me what I can or can't do."
He turned away from her and started down the alleyway.
"Where are you going, Sam, and when will you be back?"
"Those aren't questions you should ever ask a dog, Effie," he growled, "mainly as it's unlikely you'll ever get a straight answer."
"Remember this, Sam," she barked after him, "you may be hot after your game right now, but we dogs age quickly. You'll be four years old in six months. It won't be long, Sam, until you're the same age Archer was."
He paused, said over his shoulder, "That's a low bite on the stifle, Effie."
"It's also the truth," she arfed, then turned around and went back to her puppies.
(Story continued below...)
Story (cont'd)
Sam Spencer's jaw was long and bony, his chin thrust forward at an almost belligerent angle, his black nose twitched constantly, and his chocolate-brown, bedroom eyes gleamed with a combination of good humor and cunning.
Sam walked the streets of San Francisco, his city, and thought.
Gold Rush Country. What did he know about California's Gold Rush Country? It was miles from San Francisco -- that much he knew. The towns there had names like Placerville, Jackson, and Sutter Creek. And from all he'd been told, Gold Rush Country was well and truly COUNTRY.
Sam headed down another alleyway, one which was home to plenty of rats. He wondered about the hotel Mrs. Petoma wanted to buy. It probably was old. There might be lots of rats in the basement to fog, and cats to shape up -- cats who might have had things their own way for far too long now.
Sam sniffed the air. His town. His patch of earth. He got to the edge of the alleyway, stepped out, and jumped back in.
The dogcatcher was patrolling in his truck. Sam had almost missed seeing him!
"You'll be four years old in six months," that's what Effie had said, and she was right, thought Sam. It wouldn't be long until he was the same age Archer had been when he finally dropped his bone.
"Psst! Spencer!" It was Old Grunt, the three-legged mutt he'd known for years. He crept out from behind a garbage can. "The dogcatcher's gonna nab you fer sure, dog. Yer just plain brazen."
Sam looked his old friend over from stop to hock. The aging stray looked terrible!
"How would you like to move to Gold Rush Country, Grunt?" he asked him.
Old Grunt squinted his one good eye. "Gold Rush Country? Aw, sure, Spencer. I'm 'bout as likely to die and go to dog heaven. Always crackin' wise, huh?"
"Yeah, Grunt," arfed Sam. "I guess I am."
"Well, enjoy yer freedom, Sam, 'cause I'm here to tell ya that it ain't gonna last."
Sam barked a laugh. The dogcatcher was gone, so he ambled out of the alleyway and headed back toward Post Street, toward a spot where a couple of badly treated juniper bushes all but concealed the entrance to a small vacant area between two apartment houses....
The End
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