Category Archives: doggy dickheads

Tug. With babushka.

A weird chain of events was unleashed about a week ago when I was walking the boys.

Tug had stopped to smell something probably unpleasant at the base of a post. He yelped and I saw a big, black wasp sitting and sneering at me so I thought he’d been stung.

Tug’s ear swelled and swelled until even Miss Carol felt uncomfortable. She thought briefly about poking a pin into it until I reminded her she’d have to go it alone.

Call me squeamish.

Instead, Miss Carol called the vet and I took Tug in. Turns out he’d shaken his ear into a hematoma. Come to find out, a Tug can shake his head so vigorously that he can and could and did separate the skin flaps in his ear. The capillaries burst and filled his dog ear taco with blood.

Enough?. I think maybe yes.

So anyway. We took Tug and Cutter to the vet and while my little brother and his cupcake walked Cutter around the parking lot endlessly, Tug had lots and lots of bloody mucus-y stuff sucked out of his ear flap which was mummy wrapped to the top of his head so he couldn’t shake it for awhile, but leaving his ear canal wide open.

We got home and I fed them before their walk.

I’m not hungry, Cutter said.

Me too, Tug said, looking sadly mournful, his head being wrapped in bandages.

Cool baby, I said, wanting to get the walk done and maybe take a shower and relax with a cocktail.

We were strolling down the street when Cutter glanced over his shoulder at me and said- he looks like a turd.

Tug looked hurt.

I pulled them along, wanting to get the day over, when all the sudden Tug stopped and said, I hear the crickets moving through the grasses.

Cutter stared at him. What the fuck are you talking about?, he said to him.

And I hear the clouds moving through the sky, Tug said, grinning, his eyes closed and his bandaged open ear cocked to the sky.

Cutter sat and stared at him and then he turned to me. What did you do him?, he whispered.

Nothing, I said, and smiled. I was enjoying it.

Tug turned his attention to the ground and said, I can hear the grass growing, his grin huge and happy.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Cutter said and pulled us all forward.


Edit time-  I honestly thought everybody on the planet had seen Mishka so I didn’t include any prelude. I mean, I was figuring if I’ve seen it, then, shit, it’s old news, but based on the comment and e-mails, I guess not, so here’s the link to put it all into my retarded perspective. 

I’m sure everybody’s seen the Mishka YouTubes by now.

Everybody but me.

So I checked ’em out tonight. As soon as Mishka started howling I Love You, both Cutter and Tug came barreling into the Me Only Room, sliding to a stop and staring, their heads cocked to one side.

Whoa. What the fuck is that retard, Cutter whispered. Jesus, what an embarrassment.

And Tug said, I know cats that can talk better than that.

Just then Mishka was prompted to say “hungry”, and Tug did one of those sidelong glances over at Cutter that he does and starts imitating Mishka howling hhhooooggroooooo. And Cutter turns and stares at him for a second and then starts giggling. And then laughing. And then Cutter was going hhhooooogggrrrooooooo.

And then they were both jostling each other and howling, caught up in it.

Next, Mishka was trying to say hello and Cutter stopped laughing long enough to go, Tug, check it out- hooooohooooo.

And Tug’s heehawing and nuzzling his brother and pretty soon they’re both rolling around on the floor laughing themselves silly, and then Mishka was told to say “bye, bye”.

Tug and Cutter pause just long enough for their hiccups to stop before joining in the crooning and howling boooooobooooooo and totally collapsing into hysterical laughter again.

I gotta admit it- they were funny.

So when the YouTube finally ended, and Cutter and Tug sat up wiping their eyes, still chuckling,

And Cutter said, can we watch that again?

We did.


I don’t know Jack.

In fact, I’d never heard of Jack until yesterday when I glossed over an article, a personality piece, in our local paper (yeah, I STILL read a newspaper. what’s WRONG with me?)

And then Jack popped up again in a commercial tonight while Miss Carol was making dinner and I was hanging out doing nothing, so I commented on all the sudden Jack sightings.

Who is that dude, I said. He looks like a wrinkly Crocodile Dundee, I said.

Miss Carol paused and stared at the ceiling, shaking her head sadly and said, Jack Hanna’s huge.

Really? I said. Hmm.

I read something in yesterday’s paper but I didn’t really pay much attention ’cause it looked like it was geared to little kids wanting to pet snakes and stuff, I said, guzzling a beer.

Miss Carol stopped staring at the ceiling and gave me one of those looks that just screams SHUT THE FUCK UP.

So I did, briefly.

Then I said- like I said, it was just little kid stuff.

Tug heard that and sat up and said, I LOVE little kids. They taste just like chicken, he said.

Miss Carol and me looked at him and I said, oh no you DIDN’T.

Tug laid back down, panting and grinning and I turned back to not helping Miss Carol thinking it was over when Tug mumbled, hell, they can’t even run very fast in their stupid diapers.


Dudes. Can we talk? I said, walking into my Me Only Room with them loping in after me.

It was after dinner, after the dinner that Miss Carol had told me about her walk on the beach with Cutter and Tug. I’d had to work so she’d gotten (gotten? really?) home early enough to do my chore and I’d thought she’d been kidding.

I sat and asked them to sit.

Tug panted and gazed around wonderingly and Cutter cocked his head to one side pondering.

So. Dudes, I said, what happened?

What happened with what? Cutter said and Tug grunted and panted.

Don’t play me, I said. Miss Carol told me all about you guys being spooked by a little dog catching a frisbee.

Oh that. Cutter said, slumping to a laying-down. Tug stared at the ceiling.

So what happened? I said. It was a little runt of a dog, right? Why’d you spook?

Cutter sat back up and said, it was it’s short little legs.

And Tug said, and it barked. A LOT.

I rubbed my face and said, so a sawed-off teeny little dog playing frisbee freaked you guys so bad you had to walk the beach rubbing up against Miss Carol like little girls?

They both sat nervously until Cutter hissed- it had TINY little legs.

And Tug whispered, it barked. A LOT.

I laughed.

You guys suck, I said.

very. funny.

HEY DICKHEAD THAT HURTS, Cutter yelped when I jerked his leash.

He’d stopped and planted and lifted his leg for the bazillionth time and I was over it.

C’mon dudes I screamed, can’t we just WALK?

I’d jerked him along ’cause I was totally over walking them. I was worn out and tired of the two-a-days. What sucks about walking un-neutered male litter-mates is their need to pee on everything. Really.

No, wait. What really sucks is walking un-neutered male litter-mates on trash day when every. single. driveway. has a target.

No, um, wait. What REALLY sucks is walking un-neutered male litter-mates on recycling trash day when every. single. driveway. has TWO targets.

NO, WAIT-THERE’S MORE. WHAT REALLY REALLY sucks is walking un-neutered male litter-mates on recycling trash day when every. single. driveway. has TWO targets AND it’s an August afternoon when the temperature’s 200 degrees with 200% humidity.

So, yeah, my temper mighta flared. A little.


After the flare up we settled and we’re walking along and this woman came off the beach and turned towards us and Cutter kinda nudged Tug and I saw it but I didn’t get it until it was too late.

As we passed the bikini-clad woman Cutter lowered his voice, trying to imitate me, and said NICE BOOBS BABE.

Tug snuffled Cutter in the ear with his nose and they were both snickering and giggling like retards. Good one he said.

The woman just glared at me.

We got about twenty feet away from her and I said I fucking hate you guys, ya know it?

But I was grinning. It was back to being good.


One of the seemingly lost short term memories about the long holiday weekend that finally bubbled to the surface of my rememberances was my brother and me walking the boys.

Check this.

When we have house guests, everybody wants to walk the dogs. ONCE. But then they’re done. The heat, the humidity, the plain choreness of it is just kinda a buzzkill.

So, that first night, he and me are walking the hot mile and my brothers’ wine is sloshing out of his glass and tourons all along the way are offering refills and we’re laughing about whatever we drunk locals laugh about. Life’s good right?

Then shit got serious.

It was poop time. Ya know? For the dogs?

We were coming up on a young touron mother and her tiny touron kid playing way too close to the road.

Oh shit I said.

And, then, that’s exactly what Cutter did. He pooped right in front of them.

I whipped out a plastic bag and grabbed the turds but it was too late. Touron Mommy and touron baby were scampering away, horrified.

I felt bad, but the dogs jerked me back into walking them, snuffling each other like they were sharing some kinda secret joke.

Are they giggling? my brother asked.

I sighed.

More like snickering I said.

He stopped, wine sloshing every whichaway. No they’re NOT he said.

Yeah, they are. I said. They have trouble with some sounds ’cause they don’t have any lips. I said. And they like to poop where it’ll embarrass me the most. I said.

Just then, Cutter and Tug, straining at their end of the leash, looked back at us and grinned their stupid dog grins before snuffling one another again.

NO they DON’T he said, struggling with the idea.

I looked at him and shrugged and Cutter and Tug chuckled.

Tug. Remix.

Dogs are funny people.

They’re endlessly evolving while never quite maturing into anything. It’s kinda like living with little kids that never grow up.

They just seem to spark new shit for whatever unknown reason.

So it shouldn’t have been surprising the other night when I was grinding coffee beans for Miss Carols’ morning coffee and Tug started howling.

I mean like a wolf howling at the moon kinda howling.

I listened, grinning for a coupla minutes before shutting it down and saying-

You’re a fucking retard.

Tug panted and grinned and Cutter looked around nervously not understanding.

What is up with that? I said.

If dogs could shrug, Tug shrugged and said- I was just singing along.

You’re kiddin’ me, right? I said- tell me you’re kidding me.

Nah, he said, his tail starting to wag. Hit that button again, I like it. It grooves my bones, he said.

And I did.

And he did.


Tug’s different.

He was last of the litter, left lonely in the corner of a plywood box wondering where all his brothers and sisters had got to. He’s a dog of few words.

So I listen to him more than Cutter- ’cause Cutter’s prattle can go on and on and on, ad nauseum. I mean really, that little fucker can talk a blue streak about nothing. You know, like a chick.

Tug came in tonight and stood looking up at me and said in his deeply baritone Darth Vader voice- you fucked up.

What? Why? I said.

THE RAPTURE is on the 21st NOT the 12th like you said, he said, darkly ominous. Read the papers dumbfuck, he said.

No wait, I chirped- the Christians can’t decide if THE RAPTURE is the 12th or the 21st or, if ever, so I was just putting shit out there.

Hmmpf, Tug said and sat down so he could lick his balls. He was done. He’s like that.


Is Saturday the beginning of the end of the world or what?

According to the erudite prediction of an 89 year old retired civil engineer from Oakland CA who founded Family Radio Worldwide, the time window is noon to three pm.

I’m thinkin’ hold on tight baby, and leave the dirty dishes in the sink?



I was sitting in my Me Only Room trying to write something passing legible and possibly interesting when I heard paws padding in behind me.

Ahem, Cutter said.

I spun around in my Me Only Room Chair just as he was settling himself, sitting.

Whassup? I asked not really caring ’cause this shit goes on all the time.

It’s about the food he said. Tug and I have been talking and we’ve decided enough’s enough.

Whaddya mean? I asked trying to be nice and maybe understanding?

Well, the way I see it, I men WE see it, Cutter said, we’re six years old now and we’ve been eating the same dogfood for our entire lives. I mean, think about it, he said, 4380 cold hard stainless steel bowls filled with Purina One. And a toilet to drink from.

You don’t have to drink from the toilet, I said. You choose to.

Ppppfffffffftttttt, he said.

How’d you do that I said, suddenly interested. You don’t have lips.

He stared at me coldly.

Let’s get back to the point, Cutter said. The food. The endless endlessly uninteresting sameness of it. I, er, I mean Tug and I, crave variety.

So what’re thinkin’ I asked.

Cutter tilted his head to one side like he always does when confronted with an unexpectantly interesting thought and said, I’m, I mean Tug and I, are thinking that when you and Miss Carol make dinner you always have leftovers that you bag up and then never eat. So, maybe I, I mean we, could join you for dinner.

And it’d just be the four of us for dinner every night? I mused.

Yeah! Whaddya think? Cutter said excitedly, his eyes glistening hopefully and full of want.


Let’s think this through, I said.

So far, I said, we share an apple for breakfast and then Miss Carol feeds you carrots and cucumbers and biscuits while she makes dinner and because you feel entitled you bark like an annoying retard the whole time, demanding more.

And soooo if we feed you scraps from the dinner table, I said, we can hope for more of the same relentlessly bad behavior, right?

Cutter said I’m pretty sure I could chill that shit and-

Sorry, dude. I said. Ain’t gonna happen.

Cutter looked at me long and hard and forlornly like I’d just killed his last hope and then he got up and padded back out into the living room.

As he left he said under his breath, fuck it, I’m gonna go pee on the couch.

Don’t you DARE, I yelled.