Nothing to Bark at Here

Okay. Goddammit! Now I'm Pissed.

I tossed the XBox controller aside and pulled myself up from where I was skwuntched between the cushions on the couch. One stepped it to the front door. Yanked it open. Crunched out into the night. Opened my mouth prepared to give the Woof standing mid-street barking at no one a great blast of Shut the fuck up you goddamn idiot when all fury froze in the depths of my lungs. I could not utter even a sound. It was bloody fucking cold out there! When I finally caught my composure as it sped for the blankets, I gurbled out, "C'mon in, Pony. S'its cold out hea."

He stopped his barking and turning, began a leisurely trot up the drive. Once inside, I shut the door behind him. Where's my treat? he asked.

"Same place it always is, on top of the fridge. Give me a second, ok?"

Sure, but just hurry it up, eh? I'm hungry from all that barking. He knows just how to get my goat.

"I'll bite. What were you standing in the middle of the road, barking your furry black head off at? Was something there?

I wasn't barking at something.

"Okay. Some One."

I wasn't barking at some one, either

You were , too.

No, I wasn't. I was barking at NO ONE and NOTHING. That's different.

"How so?"

It's a Woof thing. You wouldn't understand.

Please. Enlighten me.

No. Not tonight. I'm tired from all that barking. He glanced at the TV. Fucking Double Boogied the 11th? You are truly terrible at that game. Goodnight.

"Fuck You, Pony," I mumbled as his tail turned the corner to the basement steps.

Heard that.

'Night!

Woofs Don't do Sad Songs. Did You Know That?

Tonight I heard the creak of springs directly below my sunken repose on the upstairs' sofa. Pony's up. Clip-cliping up the stairs he padded his way over and glared at me.

"What?" I asked, immediately winding up for an assault of the canine variety. I wasn't disappointed.

I'm tryin' to sleep.

"The stereo is not too loud,"

Maybe not to you, but my ears are about a hundred times better than yours. Turn that depressing shit down. What is it anyways? "A Hundred Ways to Want to Kill Yourself?"

"The Frames."

Well, it sucks and it's depressing.

"Is not."

Is Too. Tell me, why do you Humans insist on listening to the most depressing crap you can find when you're already sad?

"Dog, I'm not sad."

Yes, you are.

"Goddammit! No, I'm not!"

Pox, you live alone with your dog. You don't know anyone in this crappy town to hang out with. You haven't had a date since She went her own way - and that's been almost eight months. You, my dear friend and master are the saddest fucker I ever saw. So why are you tormenting yourself with songs about finding the, "someone you were born for," or some shit like that. You sure don't need it to make you feel bad.

"I don't know. Leave me alone. Go lay down."

No. I'm serious. Why do Humans go out of their way to feel even worse about themselves? You're all already fucked up as it is. You don't need any more help do you? If so, then you're an even stupider species than I thought. I didn't believe that was possible.

"Pony, I guess we listen to sad music when we're depressed because happy music just doesn't fit the mood."

Well, that's just stupid.

"Probably. What do you listen to when you're sad?"

I'm a Woof, we don't get sad long enough to even turn on the stereo, let alone find a crappy sad song to play. We bounce back. You should try it.

"What? Bouncing back?" Easier said than done, you old Woof. So, if you don't like sad songs, what do you listen too when I'm not around? And I know you do. You left the laptop open the other day. Busted, Dude."

Oh-no-you-caught-me. Yeah, I listen to the computer all the time. Sometimes I use your credit card to order Gay pornos.

"You'd fucking better not!"

I do. Just so when the lady at the post office sees what it is she'll spread it around that you're a big perverted homo. That's why you never get dates.

"If you're serious, your ass is going to the Pound!" He just stared at me. Then the doggy-grin poked through.

Just kidding.

"Fucking you'd better be."

I said I was, now drop it.

"Okay. So, what do you listen too?

Well, as a general rule, We like Abba.

Pony Speaks the Truth - for once

You know, Pony said, turning and looking up at me from his sprawled placement between my feet. We were watching some stupid movie about aliens in South Africa and neither of us was much into it, We hate wagging our tails.

"Really? Why?"

Cause it hurts, he replied.

"Get out! It hurts to wag your tail?" I said, not believing him. Pony has a tendency to make shit up just to feel important.

Yeah, it does. Don't believe me? You should try wiggling your ass back and forth for a few minutes and see if it doesn't pain you. Guaranteed you'll feel it in the morning.

"If it hurts, then why do you do it?"

Can't help it. It's in our nature. Probably has to do with genetics.

"How So?"

Well, I think that when you were making us, you know, all that selective breeding shit? The ones of you doing the deciding of what was good and what was not, must've thought that a tail-wagging Woof was preferably over a non-tail wagging one. Genetic manipulation at it's finest, my friend. That Guy probably thought it was funny, or something.

"Huh." I said. I never thought of that."

'Course you didn't. You're a Human. You Guys never think. You just do what looks and feels good to you in the moment. You don't give a rat's-ass for anyone or anything else. Take a look around you, Man. Are you dumbfucks doing a good job at running the show?

"Well," I was close to believing him, "I guess . . . not really."

Hmmm. Maybe there's hope for ya'll yet.

I doubt it, though.

Saturday Morning Trimwork

"Get up, Pony."

Why?

"'Cause I need to move this table."

Again, why?

"I'm starting the trim in the living room and I need you to move. Now, please."

Damnit, Poxxy! I just got comfortable.

"Pony, ya've been lying in that exact spot for two hours. Now git up and get outta here. I've got a lot to do."

And what am I supposed to do while you're making all this racket? You know Saturday is my day to relax and just lay around all afternoon."

"Pone-Dog, every day is the day you lay around and do nothing. Maybe you could try doing something around here to help out? Like, maybe, go do the dishes or something?"

I ha . . . You know I can't do the damn dishes. No thumbs, remember moron?

"Well, maybe you could run from window to window and look for some cats to bark at? You seem to like doing that everytime I'm on the phone."

Maybe I'll go downstairs and have a smoke?

"No, you won't. I told you, you're not going to start smoking. Quit saying that. You wouldn't look cool, you know? You'd look ridiculous with a cigarette dangling from your mouth."

Chill out, Man. Hey Pox, I ever tell you what We call cats?"

"No."

Sneaky Pieces of Shit

"That's a good name. Now move it."

Why Dogs Shouldn't Smoke Cigarettes

"So, Pony," I spoke up the day before my new couch was to be delivered, "Tomorrow I'm getting a new sofa and you, my friend, are not allowed on it." His ears perked up at this. "You shed too much and this one doesn't have a cover I can wash. So you can't sleep on this new one. Okay?"

Fuck that! And just where the hell am I supposed to sleep?

"Calm down, big fella. I'm moving your couch to the basement, near the fire. You can sleep down there and be warm all winter. Trust me. It'll be nice. All cave-like and snug, You'll like it."

First off, you ignorant asshole, We don't sleep in Caves. We sleep in Dens. And second, it actually sounds rather nice. I might enjoy the solitude. Especially when you're watching one of those clothesless movies you seem to like so much.

"Pony. They're called Pornos. At least get the name right. Christ! You sound like a stupid dog or somethin'! And I don't Like them. I just appreciate the beauty of the human body."

Don't bullshit a Woof, you lying sack of shit! I may have four legs, but that doesn't make me a Pig. Makes you one though, doesn't it?

"Alright. Enough. So you're cool with that?' I asked, awaiting another outburst from my canine companion.

Yeah, I'm good. Oh! By the way. I think I'm going to start smoking.

"What?!"

You heard me. I'm thinking of starting to smoke cigarettes. Been thinking of it a lot lately, in fact. This move to the basement is actually perfect. I can lay down there by the fire all day and smoke cigarettes. Probably the Native ones, though. They are a bit more harsh, I hear, but they cost a lot less and you're too cheap to buy me quality smokes. Aren't you?

"No . . . I mean . . .No! You can't start smoking!"

Why not?

"Pony, smoking is really bad for you."

So?

"Aww Christ!"

Tales From a Couch I Can't Sleep On

Hey there, it's me, Pony. You Know, "Most Wicked of Woofs."

It's almost 5:30 pm, and I have to put the chairs back on the new couch Poxxy just bought. You know, the one that I'm not allowed to sleep on. Every freaking day I have to do this so he won't know just how BAD a dog I really am.

He comes home in a while and I gotta get this place cleaned up. I fucking HATE doing the dishes! I always forget what was dirty when he left for his job. I usually leave a few of mine for him to do anyways. He's too fucking stupid to notice.

Peace out ya'll,

Pony, Most Wicked of Woofs

Suckage on the Fourth

So.

The other night as I was demonstrating my usual suckage at XBox golf, Pony lifts his head up from the floor he's conquered with his girth, and turning to look bemusingly at me says, You know, You really suck at this game.

"Fuck you, Pony," I retort, plopping my ball deep into a bunker on the fourth at Sawgrass.

Whatever, Man. You still suck. Hey, can I have some chips? Or maybe a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich?

"Sure, just get up and fix it yourself, I'm busy sucking at this stupid freakin' game," I answer.

Aww, Man. You know I can't do that. You're a dick.

"Yeah? And you're a dog. Now go lay down."