Friday, November 16, 2012

unfinished novel c. 08/08: New Dog City

Every night I lie at my master's bedside. 

Literally every night. There is not one night I do not lie at my master's bedside.

Usually I cannot sleep because I have no clothing to keep me warm. 

I stare at the ceiling fan while my masters sleep in their warm and comfortable clothes. 

By "my master" I meant "my two masters."

They are life partners.

Bandit and Sweetie.

A lesbian couple.

I am not involved in their lovemaking. But I may often view it.

"Rargh rargh rargh rargh rargh rargh rargh rargh rargh rargh," they tell me. But before I leave the room, sad and dejected, they are clawing at each other.

So I can stand in the doorway and watch. 

About 68% of the time, I watch.

Most of the time I am in the living my room or I am enjoying my dinner. 

For dinner I usually have meat or vegetables. 

Sometimes I am treated to my masters' food.

I tire of meat and vegetables. Sometimes I want a "square meal."

My supper is usually pre-broiled or pre-steamed. My supper comes from a bag.

Sometimes I rifle through that bag when I am hungry.

My masters fuck a lot.

When they fuck well you would like to see it.

They run around the bedroom and growl at each other.

They bite each other.

Because there is no way for them, actually, to fuck.

They use strap-on dildos. I have witnessed it.

I laughed, it was funny to see, and they told me to leave. 

At least I think they did.

But they did not know I was laughing. 

Why well they do not know how to laugh.

They run around and jump on each other and bite and snap and fake-out.

I have named myself Sean.

My tag I cannot read. 

My masters are angry a lot. 

I cannot understand them but I know they are very angry.

We all get angry sometimes. It is understandable.

Sweetie and Bandit are both mutts, I think.

How do I know this well after a certain time you just know.

They frequent rallies and demonstrations for mutts. Or well I have accompanied them and it looked like that.

I believe there is a lot of pro-mutt paraphernalia decorating their apartment. 

Bandit and Sweetie are gracious masters.

Still, I want to pluck their eyeballs out, I want to smash them both with a suitcase.

And I can.

There are suitcases all over. 

Both of my masters are attorneys for the ACLU. 

It's kind of annoying.

I don't care how far left you are.

Language is not instrumentalist.

The fuck. 

By the way, let's just assume that, even though my speech occurs on a level separate from theirs, time has adapted me to the signs and symbols of New Dog City.

And let's just assume I know the name of New Dog City because well I just do.

No, actually ha ha I'm kidding, it's a name "we the people" have invented for this place. 

It is a fitting name.

If you could see New Dog City you would agree.

My masters go to work and they wear pantsuits.

They look great.

I want to burn them alive.

When they go to buy new pantsuits they take me along.

I would like a pantsuit because I am cold often.

I believe they feel that my skin is suitable insulation and that I do not need clothing.

When they take me to buy pantsuits with them or whatever at the place where you can bring people I say, "Please, buy me this. I want this. I am very cold all the time!" 

They bark at me very loudly. It's embarrassing, really. I believe this is their way of laughing at and consoling me.

I do not feel consoled. 

Instead, I feel the distance growing between me and the clothes I desire.

Sometimes they chain me up outside of the clothing store when they feel I am being bad. 

I do not feel wanting to be less cold is bad behavior.

What a strange world we live in, I think.

Bandit has udders.

I have seen Sweetie bite her lover's udders.

Bandit's eyes are engulfed in black. Her body is dotted with it, black.

Sweetie resembles a deer.

She is heavyset and slow, but beautiful. 

Bandit's voice is high-pitched. Sweetie speaks very little.

Sweetie feels overpowered by Bandit, I think. 

Sweetie feels very sad and alone much of the time.

I want to kill myself. I want to choke on my chicken and my vegetables and die.

I want to throw up on the floor.

For a few weeks now on a daily basis I throw up on the floor.

I laugh and start to eat it.


"We the people" are talking outside. 

In New Dog City.

We are standing amongst a gang of dogs in McCarren park.

The dogs think we are playing.

We are actually have an intellectual discussion.

"The seventh Harry Potter book is the best of the Harry Potter books," Sandra says.

I am deeply in love with Sandra. Our owners are good friends, and because of that there's some brother-sister space I'd like someday to overcome.

It is also because of Sandra, in addition, of course, to the coldness, that I cannot fall asleep most nights for a long time.

We are drinking beers.

"The epilogue of the seventh Harry Potter book is the worst epilogue ever," Michael says.

Michael is cool. He and Sandra used to date. 

It's hard for me to really imagine Michael and Sandra together.

This is before I knew either of them.

Imagining it turns me on and nauseates me.

When I think about it I hate Sandra and I masturbate and want to love her forever.

"Let's not talk about Harry Potter," I say.

"Why not?" Sandra asks.

"I guess we can."

"But really why not?"

"It's just that we talk about Harry Potter a lot lately."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too," Michael says.

"I'm actually not. I only want to talk about Harry Potter."

"Ha ha ha ha ha."

"All I want to talk about for the rest of my life is Harry Potter. Books, movies, everything."

This isn't even Sandra at her best.

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