1996 - 2009 RIDH (Rest In Doggy Heaven)

Yesterday I got a rather nasty comment on my angryfrank.com blathering blog from my ex-girlfriend’s boyfriend.  My ex and her beau had fallen out of Lucky’s life about 4 months before he died. I’d made at least two phone calls and emails to each of them regarding visiting the dog, but they failed to respond.

When I went in to visit my vet I thought I’d probably be putting Lucky down, but wasn’t sure. When she confirmed it was the right thing to do, I was too depressed to fight my own demons and rescue them from theirs to make a last ditch phone call. Lucky’s deteriorating health had taken a heavy toll on my own pain / neuropathy disability… even Sophie started referring to me as suffering from Acute Electric Football Player Syndrome due to my constant tremor and limb twitching.

The extended walks necessary to get old Fucky to keep his appetite up - as well as the hour-long hand feeding sessions up to three times a day left my body a wreck and I had to go to the ER after losing feeling in both feet and one leg for a week. Between various Xrays and MRI’s, I was managing Lucky as best I could. So yes in retrospect it would have been nice had I thought “well Karen and Craig just haven’t called because they’re depressed and avoiding the sad truth, too.” But that’s not what happened. I ended up taking old Lucky to the vet and she recommended I put him down. I miss  him terribly

But as much as I miss him, I don’t think it’s fair for people that leave your life when the shit starts hitting the fan to make a grand re-entrance when all is said and done to point at the fan and say - “Your fan is covered with shit.”

Fwa-Grass? Not me, I just eat their crap. Mmmmm.

His “hard-rockin” escalator music is like a steamin turd turkey-horse stuffed with Christian Love Soldiers. I’ve been experimenting with some over-in-dad’s drawer pharmaceuticals, and I can tell you, if you take just the right amount of Vicodin to actually listen to Joe Satriani’s “If I Could Stool in Your Ear,” you’ll hear messages of love and praise, glory and joy and other horrible, horrible, whoring-ass shit that might just make you believe in Him.

And not the good Him (he who must not be written, sold, smelled or heard from / aka my love, lord and adsorbing master mistress - ShamWow)… the Shitriani him. On just 2 Vicodin “If I Could Fly Coach,” revealed the following message over and over again. “My Sweet Joe, you really want to hear me”. Anyway, there’s other shit I wanted to get to, dad’s feelin sorry for himself cuz he says he’s an electric football player, so I had to write in this goddamn thing. Grow some balls old man. Chin up.

The Dewclaw Killer? Victims? Goose Shit. Mmmmmm

]]> http://newyorkdogblog.com/2009/05/sophie-shares-im-suing-joe-shitriani/feed/ http://newyorkdogblog.com/2009/04/times-square-harrys-philosophy/ http://newyorkdogblog.com/2009/04/times-square-harrys-philosophy/#comments Tue, 21 Apr 2009 08:53:40 +0000 admin http://newyorkdogblog.com/?p=163

Times Square Harry and I cross paths occasionally at the intersection of Hudson River Park and about 56th street. He looks like he could drop and knock off more push-ups than Jack Palance. The prominent tattoo on his left arm suggests he’s a veteran… as does his forthright bearing, posture and self-assuredness. I’ve never asked him, but one day I will.

I often see Harry tinkering about with some 2-way radios, his laptop or his bicycle. On this beautiful day it was his bike. Harry was weatherproofing the customized baskets he’d attached to the front and rear ends of his mountain bike.

Harry inferred that his nickname came about due to the safer environment Times Square provided for a man without a home - a man who lived on his bicycle. I’m not sure how the topic started but I know it ended with “this is all I got,” referring to his bicycle. The photo speaks volumes about Harry. He’s twice shared his lunch with Delilah, Lucky and Sophie. He tells me the Geese won’t eat chicken skin but go for the meat and bone.

I like to believe that I’m not judgmental, but I know I carry a lot of preconceptions regarding the homeless men and women in Manhattan. Harry breaks pretty much all of them, reminding me of the humanity that not just subsists or exists, but thrives on the fringes of what most of us would consider the minimum standard of anything remotely resembling a “lifestyle”. Before stopping to say hello, when I saw Harry with 2-way radios, I thought, well hell, maybe he’s talkin’ to himself. When the laptop was opened I was sure it was an off-the-street find that worked only in his mind (sorry Harry). On Saturday I promised I’d load up the photos I took that evening; just yesterday he asked in a comment on this blog where his photos were. I’m guessing if you make an appointment to meet Harry at noon on a particular day, he’s there at 20 minutes of and out of there at 5 after should you not show. He’s got discipline I could only dream of.

Harry says it like this: If you’re not happy with what ya got, ya won’t be happy with what ya get. I’m not sure that’s a Harry original, but if you heard him say it, by god you’d know he lives it with every beat of his big old heart. Harry’s got a heart of gold and if I’m right and he’s served in some kind of combat, I’ll bet he’s got the medals to prove it.

I will say one thing, however: Harry’s a Michigan fan. I guess we all can’t be Huskers, the way god intended. And it would be completely foolish to remark here on the  co-national championship teams of Nebraska and Michigan in 1997, and what the outcome might have been should they have met on the gridiron. Okay, Nebraska would of kicked ass.

On a side note, Harry had a date on Sunday with what he deemed “a lovely woman who invited him to the Times Square Nondenominational Church. I sure hope it went well, Harry. If you’re interested in emailing Harry, contact me through a comment in this blog and I’ll ask Harry if it’s ok to give out his email address. I’m sure it will be fine, for like me and my old man before me, Harry is the consummate conversationalist.

Here’s to you, Harry. To friendship, and perhaps another co-national championship some day. Go Big Red… and for Harry only: Go Blue.

Yulia, me and four dogs on the bed. Four because cousin Jack the Pug’s in for a visit. I’m sure if you put him to the yard stick, old Jack (about 8 or 9) would be 2 ft short of half the shit they measure in a pug. His bug eyes google at you; his long snout pokes too far out. He’s shaped not like the “ideal” squarish pug champion formula, but instead a tootsie roll deformed by a summer’s day. My brother and sister-in-law got a good deal on him apparently due to his non-ideal-pugness from some pet store who was trying to unload him. Like me, they of course found him ideal for all the right reasons.

Now Sophie was a gift adoption to Yulia and me by a young mother who met me in the dog run. I’d said “What a cute pug,” and heard “You want her?” Of course unbeknownst to me, several other people in the run had been similarly scripted. I guess I won because I told her I’d teach her how to keep her pug. I also told her I could help her in the job department, as I am of course TheResumeGenius.com by god. It turned out she was looking to re-enter the working world  for the first time since having her well-behaved, if a bit hyper boy. (She got a job within 3 weeks of posting her resume.)

There were some hard feelings in the run when I walked in with 3 dogs I can tell you. Delilah was worth 3 dogs alone with her motor. Why the hell I adopted a third dog is complicated, but one reason was the profound depression gripping me as old Fucky started to lose his appetite and walked so gingerly I thought he’d be gone in a week as I would never let the poor old boy suffer. The main reason is that Fucky’s declining health reminded me of my father’s who had just passed away 2 months previously. As it turned out, old Fucky pulled through and a new long-walk exercise regimen I put him on helped his kidney function and appetite immensely.

Suffering from a severe chronic pain condition myself, I had no business having 3 dogs, but practicality’s never been a foremost scale-tipper in my 43 years, so why start now. I’ve always led with the sucker-heart the old man left me with and done my cogitatin’ afterwards. Thus Sir Sophie… the beknighted pug (we’re still not sure why).

Now here’s the thing: Sophie’s an adorable, cute-as-a-really-cute button sociopath. She has no remorse (save perhaps an extra ass wiggle on the way to her kennel for “time out”) and no shame. Put to the measuring stick and a yard’s a yard, almost in every way. Now don’t get me wrong… I love the little bitch more than any man should love a Dewclaw Killer, but emotively, she’s no Jack-the-Pug.

Jack’s not the smartest whip either, but he’s a sensitive little bugger. Like the rest of this house, save Sophie, he suffers from depression - albeit a milder case like Delilah’s. Fucky’s literally on Prozac due to an “I think I’ll lick my fur off” obsession - and a now dorment propensity to bite the hand that pets him. Delilah’s not clinically depressed, but she’s over-sensitive to things like Lucky’s absence due to weekends with his other mom and stepdad, my ex Karen and her boyfriend Craig.

Lucky, Delilah and Jack are all soulful dogs whereas Sophie is as unaffected as a cheerleading captain at Jesus Camp. But damn do I love her… and besides, she claims no religious affiliation, save Sham-Wowism. But that’s another post.

Subject: Sophie B.

Session 1 Transcript

Dr. Schpindensmith-Wangjones:

So…

Sophie:

A needle pulling thread, bitch.

Dr. Schpindensmith-Wangjones:

I sense some hostility.

Sophie:

I sense counterfeit Chanel #5 from Chinatown… corner of Mulberry & Lafayette. If you walk down a couple more blocks to Franklin, you can get it 5 bucks cheaper. Still smells like it dropped outta my ass a course.

Dr. Schpindensmith-Wangjones:

Yes, well, let’s talk about you… and why you’re here.

Sophie:

I hate you.

Dr. Schpindensmith-Wangjones:

Yes, well that doesn’t answer my question does it.

Sophie:

Blah, blah, blah, I kill people, I’m remorseless, perhaps psychotic, I have a visible asshole and I generally use it maliciously.

Dr. Schpindensmith-Wangjones:

How so?

Sophie:

Let’s not play games Wangsmith, I fart. I enjoy it. I can clear a room faster than that goddamn Turn Around Bright Eyes song…

Dr. Schpindensmith-Wangjones:

I think people rather like that song, I happen to…

Sophie:

This isn’t about you, it’s about me. I’ll kill that fucking song if I ever meet it, see it, hear it, you name it. It’s just gone.

Dr. Schpindensmith-Wangjones:

Let’s talk about your need to, and I’m quoting here “Kill the people.”

Sophie:

You’re not gettin’ shit from me. First Amendment

Dr. Schpindensmith-Wangjones:

I believe you mean “5th Amendment”

Sophie:

Whatever gets me outta here.

Dr. Schpindensmith-Wangjones:

How many people have you killed, Sophie?
Sophie:

Not including you?

Dr. Schpindensmith-Wangjones:

I’m still alive Sophie.

Sophie:

I just gave you a look - you could go at any time, tomorrow, in a couple years, you’ll never know.

Dr. Schpindensmith-Wangjones:

So could we all, Sophie. Talk to me. Make me understand your need. Why a beautiful, seductive, young, exceptional woman like you wants to kill?

TO BE CONTINUED…

I’ve dropped out of print & runway modeling after being accepted to the NYC Police Academy. They say I’m smart and fit enough but need to work on my aggression. I’ll be honest, one of the “practice perps” was really cute, so instead of bringing him down by the padded suit, I slobbered on his face. I passed with flying colors the second time though, I dragged him down by his sexy little red goatee (an Irish cop wouldn’t you know) and snuck him some more tongue. His name is Detective Tom Foolery.

He told me I have real potential and that when I finish training I’ll be assigned to his Dewclaw Killer case. There’s been a rash of almost-killings all over the city apparently, so I’ll be out there on the front lines preventing what’s not happening yet. I can’t wait!

The hardest part is telling Sir Sophie of course. Of course I still love her, but I’m bisexual, and well, I’m young - and so is she. I hope we can still work things out.

He came from Tennessee, with a syrupy thick southern drawl. He stood outside Rudy’s, one of New York City’s most infamous dive bars, dropped a half-smoked cigarette down and crushed it with a spit-shine polished cowboy boot, stepping out with his other foot to steer the attention-starved dogs his way.

Tarts Dilly and Sophie responded immediately, Delilah arching up to kiss his face as he squatted down to greet them; Sir Sophie rattling her legs off his well-worn jeans like a frantic punk band drummer. William’s smile pushed through his blond goatee like a cookie cutter as the girls were bear-hugged in closer by this gentle giant of a man.

William was not to be deterred by this flashy outpouring from the girls; he leaned through their possessive, whoring attack to give Fucky a pat on the forehead followed by a big gentle hug - respectful of old Lucky’s age. The next several minutes we chatted about him visiting from Tennessee and having a lab mix back home that also needed the gentle leader which both Dilly and Lucky wear for different reasons - Dilly ’cause she pulls and Fucky because his old esophagus can’t take the pressure of a neck collar.

Another passerby taken in by the dogs got caught up in the girls as William pet old Fucky. When he said he was from Tennessee, she said “you’re not from the Bronx?” No Ma’am. She almost started to explain her sarcasm when down-home William caught up, “oh… hah.” Our Lady of Sarcasm left as William endured the final, furious movement in the Dog Affection Serenade, taking on a relentless licking from the girls and Lucky’s gray nudging muzzle before he hoisted himself up and reached out his maw of a hand, “William. William Outlaw. Yep, Outlaw.” After I responded in kind he retorted, it’s good ta meet ya, brother. You know y’all can come to a city like this here an’ meet a million people… but it only takes three dogs ta make ya feel like yer home.”

Amen, William Outlaw.

It was a pretty, soft blue floral print she so undaintily hiked up - undoubtedly a finer silk from its sheerness. The woofies and I were walking up 9th Avenue, wending our way through throngs of Manhattanites reveling in the prelude to Spring as they stood in their smoking cliques or hustled along.

This was no one-off adventure. Our Lady of the Lack-of-Panties was ready for such an emergency as there were no attempts to scrunch the MIA briefs to one side, or say, hang them over the bike rack, or ask the guy with the two dogs to hold them momentarily.

I caught Our Lady in the finality of her act, without even realizing (or subconsciously denying) the audacious relief of the moment. Her legs spread like an A-frame house as she straddled the bike stand outside a popular bar, her brazen, bare vulva looming over its prey.

She smiled at me warmly then crossed herself, whispering a brief apology to somebody named “Maria” in what I believe was a Czech accent. As she transitioned from her balletic pee form, she lost her footing slightly and leaned into me grabbing onto my coat for support; I reached out and momentarily braced her under her arms, catching a strong scent of alcohol on her breath.

She smiled again to thank me and shrugged shoulders as if to say, “Well, don’t we all have to go commando, lift our dress and wizz in broad nightlife sometimes.” I nodded in agreement as Delilah nuzzled her snout between her legs and Sophie crawled up her dress. I shrugged and smiled as if to say “Don’t we all have lesbian dogs who love to smell another marker now and then”.

Oh yeah, really cute. The pug sleeps on Lucky’s fluffy bottom. Why not just shove my head up his ass? If my parents would get the hell off my bed, maybe I wouldn’t have to sleep sprawled out like a goddamn gunshot victim waiting for friggin’ CSI to figure out my head from my ass. Not that I’m pissed or anything.

But do the words Dewclaw Killer mean anything to you?

Didn’t think so.

REPORTER: We’re conducting an exclusive online chat with reclusive romance novelist Lorna Boberts. Welcome to Good Day Online, Ms. Boberts. Thanks so much for texting in today.

LUCKY: Thank you Jennifer, my pleasure.

REPORTER: Lorna, you’ve sold millions of books, been on the New York Times Best Seller list for well over a decade, received countless industry awards, yet critics still refer to your work as “fantasy smut, housewife porn and crass soap-operatic fluff.”

LUCKY: I never read reviews Lorna. Especially Michiko Kakitani.

REPORTER: So you do in fact read your reviews.

LUCKY: Drinking helps.

REPORTER: Lorna, your novels often center around strong male protagonists. Perhaps too strong. Speaking of Mitchiko Kakitani, she quotes from a passage in your best-selling novel Slave Harum, calling you a “self-loathing misogynist, dabbling in adolescent homo-eroticism.” Here’s the passage:

Slade’s ample chest heaved, glistening with the honorable sweat of a debt repaid as he withdrew the Sword of Danthrob from his beloved enemy’s flank. Cara looked on, her meager offering too meek for such a man as this.

LUCKY: My reader’s know my true heart.

REPORTER: But do they know your true sex, Lorna. Some suggest, Lorna Boberts is merely a pseudonym and that you’re really a man posing as a woman writer.

LUCKY: This is old territory, Jennifer. I am not a man. Have you read Slave Harem, Jennifer… really read it.

REPORTER: Yes, yes I have.

LUCKY: Then you know why my real fans adore me. Were you one of them, you’d know that everyone has within them, a Sword of Danthrob.

REPORTER: A penis?

LUCKY: No comment.