Archive for dogs

Everything is Weird

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on August 4, 2017 by ofherbsandaltars

You gotta wait half an hour for your dinner

I’m sorry, that’s just how it goes

You take a pill then wait for your dinner

I love you

You’re the best dog on Earth.

 

I’m concussed right now

I met a dog up the road and he wagged and licked at me

But he’s not my family right now.

 

I’m so spaced out,

I thought you were dead when I came in

You were so still

You’re nearly 16.

 

I love you, like you like tuna

My dude

The ambula men asked if you were called Dude,

Cause I kept calling you, like

‘Dude, shut up!’

You were barking at the ambulance lights.

Your name is Presley, Dogdog, Dude –

It doesn’t matter, you’re deaf anyway.

 

Under any name, I love you.

 

More than words.

 

The ambulance took me away,

You were scared like me

Everything was on TV

Surreal

I had a seizure, or something.

 

I love you.

 

I love everything who reads this

I hear my name echoing in everything.

 

I’m not here.

 

I keep tlling them that everything is weird

I can’t type anhy,ore.

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Ode to an Old Dog

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on October 22, 2016 by ofherbsandaltars

You’re fifteen now, and every single time I make your breakfast I cry until I can’t see the bowl in front of my face, because every day that I get up and you’re still around is a reminder that soon, inevitably, you won’t be. I can’t even remember or imagine this house without you in it. Your name is Presley, but lately I just call you Dog, because you’re the very essence of dogness, you’re the only dog, not a dog but The Dog, the only dog I want in my life, now and forever. Dog is a word that means love – if there is a God, I’m sure he’s happy that his best creations have his own name, spelled backwards. Dog means love, because dogs are made of love – they know nothing else. So I just call you Dog. It doesn’t really matter what I call you though, because you’re deaf now anyway. You used to be able to hear food fall to the floor from a mile away. There are a lot of good things about you being so old. You sleep a lot, so you don’t get bored, you can’t walk far, so we never have to go out in the rain and walk for miles and miles while I wish I got a cat instead, and since you’re deaf you don’t bark at fireworks for the whole of November. You also shit on the patio instead of up the garden, which is a bit unsightly but makes picking it up easier. You’re pretty convenient now you’re old, Dog, but you’re still you, and everything I loved about you, everything that made me choose you out of all those rows of sad dogs in cages, it’s still there. You’re still scruffy with a beard and hairy feet and a white tip on your tail, and you still love hugs, and you still grumble about everything – mum used to be scared of you, because you growl so much, but you’ve never bitten a single person in your long, long life. You just like to grumble.

I love you, Dog, more than I love most humans, to be honest. You can still get up and down the stairs, you can just about jump into the car, sometimes (though sometimes you can’t, and I have to lift and boost you, and you’re one hell of a lump – sorry, but it’s true), you’re still smiley and exuberant since the vets put you on painkillers for your arthritis, pills for your Cushing’s, but even so, Dog, you’re like 94 in human years, and every time I look at you now I wonder when and how it’s going to end. Sometimes you sleep so deep I’m not sure if you’re still breathing, and I hope it’s that, in the end, that you just slip away in your own house. I don’t want to have you put down, at the vet’s, where you’re scared and you trust me to get you out of there safely but this time I won’t – I’ll leave without you, forever, and go back to an empty house with your worn out collar in my hand, hanging loose, nothing inside it but memories and your fading scent.

But however it goes, I hope it’s not for years. I hope you break world records. I hope you live to be 32. I get bad feelings a lot, when I say goodnight to you, and I say ‘See you tomorrow’, and wonder if I won’t.

Please don’t die, Dog. Not ever. Here’s some incentive: Mum says that when you’re gone, she’s getting a cat. Maybe even two cats. That’s right, Dog. There are going to be cats living in your house and drinking out of your bowl, and being hugged by your humans. Fucking cats, Dog. A whole army of fucking cats. So you can’t die. You have to keep the cats out, just like you always have. Hating cats is your raison d’être.

So that’s what I wanted to say to you. But for me, I need this part – I need to make a list of all the things I love about you, while you’re still here, and I’m going to keep adding to this, every single day that you’re here with me, even as my tears fall and my makeup smudges. I need to be able to remember you, everything that made you so special. This is your legacy, your history, your life. This is my love for you.

I love your grumbly hugs – sometimes I pretend I’ve forgotten to give you dinner just so you come up and give me grumbly hugs until I relent. I love the way you go down the stairs like a floppy old rug mated with a Slinky, boing, boing, flop, flop. I love all our memories together, when you were young and able and we’d explore the woods for hours, and sit on rocky outcroppings overlooking the forest. I remember the times you’d chase squirrels and throw yourself right over cliff edges, but somehow you always came back up, smiling. I remember when I had a psychiatric assessment at home, and you were with me, and it was the one time I could vocalise myself without crying. Ironic now, that I cry almost every time I hug you, because I know you’re leaving.

I love how you like to round up your humans, how you have to know where everybody is, so whenever I come upstairs you follow me, then you do your rounds – bathroom, toilet, bedroom – until you find me. Then you lie on the floor and chew some trash for a while, and go back downstairs, where there’s more going on. I wish it didn’t make you so stressed every time I go out at night – you never used to be like that when you were young, but now, you hate people leaving you at night, even with the lights on. It’s sweet and sad all at once when I come back and you’re lying right by the door, in the draughty hallway, waiting.

I love how you have no interest in toys whatsoever, unless it’s a ball to catch. Instead, you like trash – empty chocolate wrappers, receipts, tissue paper, it’s all fair game. I love that you see the wonder in trash, that you delve through my bin and cause absolute fucking chaos, then you find your favourite bit of trash and lie down to munch on it for hours.

I love how you come out to see me whenever I go down in the night – I don’t know how you do it, now you’re deaf, I guess you catch my scent, but if I go downstairs at 2am, you’ll get out of bed on your stiff old legs and come to give me sleepy hugs, smelling of soft warm sleep-laden fur. I love your shoulders, where the fur is thick and soft and I can lay my head and you don’t mind – I’ve seen all the articles about never hugging dogs, but you like it. You like it when I whisper in your ear, too, maybe because you’re deaf and it’s the only sound you hear now, or maybe it’s because I like it when you snuffle in my ear too. It feels nice. You get that. I love your crazy hair, that your white patches are twice the length of your short black parts, so you have a white mohawk on the back of your neck, a furry, furry belly, big white shaggy feet, a glorious beard and a tail like a fox. I love your eyes, how you look like a seal when you’re sleepy and your ears are back – nothing but gleaming black fur and big, shiny, deep brown eyes. I love your smile, it’s easy to make you smile, even if I’ve been boring, even if I’ve been on the computer all day and you’re so fucking jealous of my computer – you forgive me. You smile, you give me hugs. I love you – all of you, every bit of these past thirteen and a half years, even when you pulled me over and I grazed my knees, even when you stayed up all night barking at thunderstorms, even when I had to walk you in the rain, even when you shat in the park and I had no poo bags and that chav yelled at me, even when you chase me around barking because you think six treats in a day isn’t enough – I’d never take it back. Not a second of it.

I’m honoured to have been your Person, but it breaks my heart knowing that I only got that privilege because somebody else dumped you on a random street and drove away. Because you were, you were a sad dog in an RSPCA cage – you’d been a stray. Nobody claimed you. But you’d been loved – for months you kept trying to curl up in my lap, thinking you were still a tiny puppy – someone had held you and loved you, and then you grew up into a wild, anarchic, shoe-chewing teenager and they just dumped you. They fucking dumped you. I know how anxious you get waiting outside shops – I rarely do that to you, because you hate it. But those people, whoever they were, who’d loved you as a tiny little bundle of black and white fluff, who were everything you’d ever known, they left you waiting forever, in distress, cold and hungry and lost. You’re so forgiving, Dog. You were wild and noisy and crazy and frequently a royal pain in the arse when you were young, and I admit, we had some discussions about you being the wrong dog for us (especially when you tried to eat my mum’s favourite cat, and we had to split the house in half – dog downstairs, cats upstairs. You outlived the cats, much to your delight…), but you were always loving, and so much fun. And now you’re old, there’s less fun, but so much more love. You’re my best friend. I’m on pills too, Dog, you know I’m always at home, not like I used to be. Well, people, humans, they’re not like you. They’re not forgiving, they’re not made of love. If you can’t be fun anymore they dump you just like your asshole owners did. So now, you’re all I have, really.

This is mostly a letter to you, but you can’t read it, and humans can. So I’d like to say, don’t leave the old dogs rotting in their cages. Don’t go for the cute little puppies. Old dogs are wise and beautiful and loving, and extremely lazy. They can be great. Yes, you’ll lose them soon, and the vet bills might stack up, but they will love you, and shuffle up and down the road with you, pissing lethargically over the lampposts. We only got Presley because of a misunderstanding – we thought he was old; his grey beard, a confusing sign on his cage. We thought he was an old, calm dog, and it turned out he was 18 months old and fucking mental. But we were in love by then, so he came home, and Dog, I’m so glad you weren’t old back then. Every shoe you destroyed, every grazed knee as you yanked me onto the pavement, it’s been worth it, to have had all these years with you.

Whenever you go, you’ll never be forgotten. I don’t know how the world will continue to turn for me, honestly. There’s too much, Dog, too much to even list. I love you. Please don’t leave me…

 

________

 

Edit: He can’t get up the stairs anymore, he doesn’t even try. He has an ear infection that makes him fall over and gives his head a tilt and he can’t take treats or eat properly. He’s going. 24 Feb ’17. Please, please, get better Dog…

 

____________

 

Edit 2: 22 June ’17 – he’s on extra medication and has his balance and joy back – I can’t express my gratitude. We thought we were taking him to be put down, and he’s still here and happier than he’s been in months. He still doesn’t attempt the stairs, can’t get into the car without being lifted (and he IS a lump), doesn’t like going out most days. But he’s still Dog. He’s still smiley and grumbly, and he gives the best hugs in the world. He knows when I’m ill, he gets worried, and when I’m well enough to give him hugs again he smiles and presses his face to mine, and I love him beyond words. His shoulders and thighs are turning grey, his eyebrows are very distinguished now, but he’ll always be Dog. This week I lost a human friend, and I need Dog to keep going – I can’t take more sadness right now. He loves his treats, he gets in and out through the dogflap ok, he’s managing, he’s happy. If he makes it to winter he’ll be 17 years old, and that’ll mean more to me than Christmas. I love you so much, Dog.

Don’t Fuck With My Dog

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 3, 2014 by ofherbsandaltars

Last week, I found out that someone had reported a picture on my online dating profile, because it was a picture of my dog, and I wasn’t in it. This offended me, for two reasons – one, because I was in it, and two, because they clearly didn’t appreciate me as a dog. That’s why I put that picture up there in the first place – I’m a weredog, and if I’m going to find my perfect boyfriend, he really has to like dogs too. And there’s no way for me to put up a dog picture with ‘me’ in it as well, because I can’t be a dog and a person all at the same time, and I’m not that good at photoshop.

After a couple of days, stewing in bitterness about my dog picture, I decided to take action. It only took a few minutes of trawling through the ‘visitors’ listing on my profile, to find a guy who was online just before my picture was reported. His username was 12_Hard_Inches, and from his profile, he seemed like just the sort of dickhead who would report a picture of a non-human person, chewing on a sock in their garden. I decided it was time to pay him a visit.

There’s one thing that the mainstream media, and all the myths and legends about werewolves, have never managed to get right. The reason for this is obvious – male pride. It would absolutely cripple the viewing figures for True Blood if anyone knew the truth. But the truth is, whether you turn into a great big wolf, or whether you’re a slightly different breed, like me, and you only become a particularly large Labrador – when you shift, everything else changes as well. It’s a whole new body, the polar opposite of your human form. And with polar opposite, comes something else – a sex change. The male werewolves aren’t so proud of that one, not publicly at least, but when they find a werewolf girlfriend to shift with, they start enjoying the whole thing a lot more. You’ll never find them if you’re a human, but there are numerous underground websites dedicated to werewolf sex-switch hookups. I tried it for a while but those guys were pretty weird – they always insisted on fucking you in human form afterwards, really aggressively, just to reassert their dominance after you pounded them for hours all over the woods – their psyche couldn’t take that kind of pounding without some form of revenge. Anyway, I digress –

With the aid of a certain friend (werepoodle, doesn’t like to talk about it), I tracked down the location of Mr 12_Hard_Inches (who we discovered was actually called Nigel), and found that he was nice enough to leave a spare key under his doormat. I returned that night, at 4am, with a bag full of duct-tape, and snuck into the house. Still in human form, obviously, because dogs can’t really use duct-tape, and also because I wanted the dog part to be a surprise. I followed the sound of snoring through his grimy little house, and found the fat bald bastard practically comatose, drooling on his pillow. It was no problem to tape his hands together behind his back, and I’d almost finished tying his ankles to separate bedposts when he started waking up. He seemed pretty unimpressed by my surprise visit, so I duct-taped his mouth shut before he could say too much on the subject.

“Do you know why I’m here?” I asked.

Nigel said nothing, because his mouth was taped shut.

“I’m here,” I explained, “Because you reported a picture of my dog. You don’t like dogs, do you Nigel? Are you allergic to them, or is it childhood trauma? I really hope it’s childhood trauma, because then I’ll enjoy this even more.”

“Mmmffmnnnnn!” said Nigel, looking rather cross. “MMNNFFFFNNNNFFFNNN!”

When I started taking off my clothes, he went quiet. He stopped looking cross, and started staring at my tits instead, until I said “Watch this!” and turned into a Labrador. Then he started wriggling about on the bed like a fat naked slug, so I licked his left eye, and jumped on top of him. I breathed hot dog-breath down his ear for a while, and when he started crying, I shifted back into a person for just long enough to whisper,

Shhhhhh –  it’ll all be over soon…”

Then, I turned back into a dog, and fucked him up the arse. You know how dogs’ penises work? When you start fucking someone, as a dog, the base of your dog-dick swells up, and it gets stuck in there until you’ve well and truly finished pounding them. I’ve pounded Akitas and Collies, I’ve even pounded wolves, but Nigel didn’t seem to appreciate the skill and dexterity of the enthusiastic pounding I gave his arse.

“MMFFFNNNN!” said Nigel. “MMNNFFFNNNNNNFFNFNFNN!!!”

I stuck my tongue in his ear, and kept on pounding away. When I’d finally finished, and managed to extract my dog dick from the depths of Nigel’s ruined arse, I turned back into a person, and put my clothes on. Then I freed his hands, and left him there, with his ankles stuck to the bed, and dog spunk dribbling out of his arse. I felt a bit dirty about the whole interspecies bestiality thing, since gagged humans can’t give consent to being bummed by a Labrador, but I quickly got over it – with a name like 12_Hard_Inches, Nigel was obviously gagging to be bummed by a Labrador – I probably did him a favour, the dirty slut.

After that, I went home, and watched some House while chewing on a dirty old sock – it’s a little post-sex ritual of mine. I decided that I was going to put a new picture on OkCupid tomorrow, of me as a dog, and if anyone reported that one, well, I’d bum them too, and I’d just keep on bumming anyone who messed with me, until everyone in the country had better manners, and had developed a healthy respect for Labradors.

The Dual Lives of Dog

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on July 23, 2014 by ofherbsandaltars

When Dog went to the vets, he would lie sprawled out across the waiting room floor in a state of total catatonia, and the other pet owners would look at him with pity, assuming he was terminally ill, or they would remark on what a good dog he was, whilst wrestling their own armful of furious Schnauzer. Once Dog got into the vet’s office, his leg would start to shake, and he would lurk nervously in the corner, with the tip of his tail wagging very slightly, to relay the message, “I am an extremely good dog, and while I do not despise you, Stranger in White, I would prefer that this unpleasant encounter was over with as promptly as possible”.

As soon as Dog arrived home from his Ghastly Medical Expedition, he would leap around the garden like a dog half his age, snapping at butterflies, barking at flowers, pissing over everything in sight, and rolling around gleefully in the patch of grass that smelled of the delightful odour of fox shit. Finally, happy, tired and reeking, he would bound inside for his dinner, for which he would give thanks by smearing a tripe-spit tongue across the strange bald face of his Person.

Person had an odd, but understandable misinterpretation of this behaviour. Dog obviously didn’t like the vets, where things were shoved down his ears, into his mouth and up his arse, where human beings behaved without any of their normal affectionate decorum. It seemed sensible that Dog should be delighted to escape from the stench of sickness and chlorine, having suffered only the mild unpleasantness of a single injection. But what Person didn’t know, was that Dog remembered.

Dog remembered everything. He remembered being a different dog, a smaller one, with a squashy face – this latter fact he recalled most vividly, the post-dinner delight of licking food morsels from every crevice of his flat little face. He remembered having a different Person, one with grey head-fur and salty feet. But most of all, he remembered the vets. Which was strange, because a lot of those later memories were fuzzy – waking up with wee in places that wee shouldn’t be, the stairs getting harder to climb, the postman becoming impossible to chase. The vets though, he remembered.

His salty grey Person had seemed particularly strange, that day. She didn’t shout at Dog for pooping in the kitchen because the garden seemed too far away, and her wrinkly bald face was wet, and saltier than usual. Then they went to the vets, where Dog tolerated a most unpleasant leg-stabbing ritual with his usual philosophical demeanour. But after that, everything became very peculiar. Dog wasn’t Dog anymore, he was something else, something with no face to lick and no legs to run on, and on the table there was a limp black body with a squashy flat face, and cloudy eyes that stared at nothing. And his grey wrinkly Person was crying, but Dog couldn’t do anything about it anymore, and he began to realise what it meant. His time as Dog was over – he would never see his garden again, and he certainly wasn’t going home with Person – not ever again.

Dog had been very relieved, when after a protracted period of surreal, legless existence, he found himself re-legged and re-tongued, curled up in a comfortable ball of fur with several other brand new dogs, most of whom having experienced the same thing as him. Soon enough, Dog had a new garden and a new Person – a new world full of brand new things to piss up, and Dog was happy about all of it.

But every time they went to the vets, Dog remembered. This is the place where everything ends. This is the place where you go, and you never come back. That was why Dog went completely pissing mental with sheer boundless glee whenever he walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and came home again – back to his garden, back to his Person, back to his favourite Piss Bush, and the smear of fox-shit that he loved so dearly, back to all the wonderful things you could do when you had legs and a tongue and a Person.Dog