Bugle Blowing Beagle

Well, here I am. Up again, at eight in the morning, pouring my heart out onto a page, or…a computer screen, at this ungodly hour. Wow, that just isn’t symbolic at all, is it? I need some candles, or something. I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I just got fired from my job at the station, cause I bit the chief. I haven’t even told my wife yet. She’ll probably leave me for that other dog, Gerard. No…who’s Houndson Doggington? Oh, that snooty wiener dog I always see in Central Park? God, I hate that guy.

No way. I’m a beagle, and my name is Mike. Right now, my wife Judy is off getting bagels. We have this way of calling each other, where we blow a plastic bugle we found on the ground at a street parade. I thought I heard the bugal a little bit earlier, but that’s impossible. And anyway, even if I did, there’s no way I can get to her now. There’s sure to be a fuss when the shopkeeper sees a bugle blowing beagle buying bagels.

Anyway, I’m gonna miss that job. I will admit, I did break a few rules. On occasion, I’d make a deal with a dealer. I’d let them by without barking if they hit me up with a little sumptin’ sumptin’. But yesterday, the chief caught me high as a hot air balloon on the job, so I bit him, and he fired me on the spot. What? No, I mean I lost my job, he didn’t shoot the white patch of fur on my lower back. That’s a little presumptuous of you, don’t you think?

Dog god, help me.

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Worlds Collide

Life has been getting better for Houndson Doggington, or so he thinks. He met a new friend, a kid named Fredo. They ran into each other at the park one day, and Doggington asked the boy for a hit of his cigarette. According to a hypothetical analytical piece on his life, Fredo represents teenage rebelliousness, along with child obesity in America. But yeah, great kid! Well, at least Dogginton thinks so. Dogtor Biscuit, his therapist, has a different feeling towards the young man.


Houndson, you can’t be hanging around with this kid, he’s a bad influence. I mean, smoking, eating, smoking, eating, what’s wrong with you?

Well, what can I say. He threw a tennis ball for me one time before, and I knew we had something special. He always gives me some of his hot dog, too. By the way, hot dogs are delicious. I always sort of thought I shouldn’t eat them, because of the name, but he told me they’re made of beef and cancerous chemicals. And the smoking? I’m not an addict, I can stop whenever I want.

Oh yeah? Shake out your corpulence. Let’s have a look. Well well well. A lighter and a pack of cigarettes, hidden in your fat folds. 

C’mon, man! You know I can’t light them, I don’t have fingers. By the way, can you do me a favor?

No way, I’m not gonna light your smoke. And I’m taking your stash and your lighter. This ends here.

But what about Fredo? He’s been such a good friend to me. I can’t just leave him behind. It wouldn’t be right, after all he’s done for me. I mean, he bought me one of those spiky collars that look really ghetto. Can I keep that, at least?

I’m taking the collar too. You’re not a killer, Houndson. There’s so much more to life than cigarettes, hot dogs and spiky collars. Open your eyes, can’t you see that the world isn’t all black and white?

Actually, no. I can’t see colors. But fine, I’ll stop if you really want. I’ll have to find another park, though. Hey, can I use your front yar…

Hell no.

Fine.

While you’re at it, you might want to bring this Fredo kid in for a session. He could use some help.

I’ll think about it.

Gambling Problem

Houndson Doggington’s life is still pretty rough. His new owner, Molly, doesn’t make enough to get dog treats, so he lives on a strict diet of kibble, and only kibble. In a panic, he went to a casino to see if he could win himself a few biscuits. After a week or two, he was addicted, and spent every spare moment at the casino.


Houndson, what are you going to do about this gambling problem of yours?

For the last time, it’s not a problem if you’re great at it! I’m on a huge streak, why should I stop now? I mean, don’t you see this little belly I’ve got goin’ on here? How do you think I rounded that out? Kibble? I mean, come on.

Do you really not understand that casinos make their money when you lose yours? Eventually, you’re going to stop winning.

No I won’t! I’m great! Didn’t you see the latest study? Dogs can key into human emotions and feelings. I can tell when someone is over in blackjack, and I can practically see the other side of the cards in poker. Humans are stupid. Their cards might as well be projected onto their faces.

Well thanks…I hope you realize that no good can come of this. You dogs may be able to tell what we’re feeling, but nothing lasts forever. 


~ One Week Later  ~


So how’s bankruptcy? 

Oh shut up.

 

Lump Removal

Over the past couple of weeks, Houndson Doggington had been recovering from a painful surgery which removed a lump on his back called a lipoma. Doggington had lived with the lump for four years, and it never bothered him, but his new owner Molly decided to pay a ridiculous amount of money for a surgery that would remove it. What an idiot.


Oh that’s too bad, I sorta liked that lump.

I know! Frank always said it was endearing, and the ladies loved it too. That day I heard Molly talking to the vet on the phone, when she thought I was napping? Well guess what. I got up, hopped right out of my soft circular pillow thing, and I bit her right on the ankle. She screamed pretty goddamn loud. That’s probably the reason the vet stuck that needle in me so many times. The one that made me fall asleep for two days.

Holy smokes, do you really think you had to take it there?

Of course! Look, if you had a huge bump on your back that was super attractive, and your owner decided to have it cut the hell off, how would you feel? I mean, throw me a bone here. You’re supposed to agree with me, make me feel a little better about all this crap.

Alright, alright. Look, when I was seven years old, I had to have my big toe on my right foot cut off cause I stepped on a nail and it went right through.

Oh, screw your big toe. I’ll bet you never got a girl to go out with you cause you had ten toes. And if you did, then standards are a hell of a lot lower in the human world.

You know it. And ever since my wife left me…

Whoa there, buddy. I’m the one paying you for therapy. Shut up about your problems.

You’re right, I’m sorry. So has Molly been treating you well since the surgery?

Well, I can’t say she hasn’t been. She’s been brushing my tail every day since I got that bump removed, and I’ve gotta say, it feels real nice. Also, she gives me a burger once in a while. But can I tell you a big secret?

Sure, anything.

I have another one growing on my left butt cheek. It’s gonna be pretty hot. Picture it, I’ll have a pretty poodle sniffing my behind, and then, she sees it. That round, unique third butt cheek. And hopefully, Molly won’t notice for a few more months, and if she does, I highly doubt she can make enough money to pay for that surgery again. She buys me the cheap dog food. I mean, come on. At least get the organic kind.

Privacy Breach

For the third time since his owner, Frank Stevens, passed away, Houndson Doggington sat across the room from his therapist, Dogtor Biscuit. His condition has improved, but his new owner, Molly, has been posting pictures of him on FaceBook and other social medias. He feels violated, and has attempted to protest, but unfortunately, he’s an animal. He can’t talk. Disney was wrong.


So how are things going?

Dogtor, I feel worse. I haven’t eaten in days, and Molly has me in obedience classes for barking. I don’t think she understands that posting naked pictures of me online without my permission is a huge privacy breach. Well, mostly naked, sometimes she makes me wear a stupid hat or something.

How does it make you feel to have these pictures of you online?

Every time I hear Molly’s phone give off that little dingy sound, I know somebody else has seen my exposed body. Now, don’t get me wrong. I look hot as all hell. I’ve been hitting the park quite a lot lately, and I have a super steady diet of kibble. But it’s hard hearing those noises and knowing that my body isn’t really mine anymore. It’s up on the intro-met (or whatever it’s called) for everyone to see.

Well can you hire a lawyer or something?

Does it look like I have the money for a lawyer? I can barely afford to keep coming to you for advice. You know what? Therapy is a scam. You’re just here to take my money, you son of a biscuit. I’m done with your bullsh…


After about fifteen minutes of this, Doggington was subdued and arrested for attempted manslobber.

The Death of a Weenie Vendor

Houndson Doggington sits on the black leather sofa in a small room, across the desk from his therapist, Dogtor Biscuit. He has been experiencing severe depression for two months, ever since he moved out of his old apartment. His previous owner, Frank Stevens, a hot dog vendor on a corner two blocks away, suffered a fatal heart attack. Upon Frank’s tragic passing, Doggington was passed to his sister, an elementary school teacher named Molly.


Hello, sir.

Hello, Dogtor.

So, you’ve been having more issues?

Yes. Ever since I moved into this lady’s apartment, every day seems like a trial. Do you know how hard it is to hold your bladder from 6:40 all the way until 4:20?

I can imagine it gets exhausting. Does Molly let you out before she leaves for work every morning?

Of course she does, she’s not that cruel. I wake up in the morning, wake her up, get some kibble, take a dump behind the bush in the park across the street, come back inside, and sit on my blanket for eight hours. Dinner is the highlight of my day, and a meal of those small brown pellets of pro-teens and cards, or whatever Molly’s always going on about, is not as satisfying as these people think it is to us. Nothing compared to a juicy weenie.

Have you tried listening to some uplifting music while Molly’s at work? Some of my other patients have learned how to control the stereos in their apartments.

Yeah, I’ve tried, but Molly keeps it on the damn classical station, and my paws are too big to change it. On top of this, there are these ugly cats that are always on the fire escape out the window, taunting me. I wish Frank was here.

I’m so sorry. But come on, Houndson, there has to be something in life worth living for.

It’s been pretty hard, lately, although there is one thing I’ll always have. Before Frank died, he showed me where all the hot dog vendors throw away whatever they don’t sell at the end of the day. There’s this little alley that Molly takes me past every evening on my walk, and it feels for a moment like I’ve been lifted up to heaven. If I’m lucky, I can tug on my leash hard enough that her fingers will slip, and lucky for me, Molly isn’t very fast.

Well that’s nice. Here’s what I think you should do: try to savor everything you have in life. Every bowl of kibble, every bark at the cats on the fire escape, enjoy it all. Remember that even the hardest parts of life are still worth living.

Thank you so much, Dogtor Biscuit. It’s been pretty hard for me lately. By the way, you gonna finish that turkey sandwich?

Nah, it’s all yours, buddy. By the way, I attached your prescription for your antidepressant to your collar, so just run down to the CVS and pick it up. Stay strong, Houndson, it gets better.

See you next week.