My Human and I Have So Much Fun…

Well, here I am.  Just wanted to drop a line here and let you know what it’s like being Mr. Diplomacy’s right hand dog. 

Mr. Diplomacy is my master.  I love him and he loves me. . . at times.  Then there are other times.  Times that I am proud of.  Times that my master, if love didn’t override anger, would drown me in the toilet I so love to lap water from.

Mr. Diplomacy is a pretty clean person.  He likes his bedsheets clean, his floor spotless, and of course, he likes his pawed partner to smell and feel as soft and clean as a well douched vagina.

I, on the other hand, feel that I was born to be a Laborador Retriever.  A story unfolds.   Once upon a time, about four weeks ago, Mr. Diplomacy lost his job.  I was glad because it means more time with him for me.  So he decided to go camping on Smith Lake.  Take a couple days, camp, fish, and generally just enjoy the great outdoors.  I had to go to.  I insisted upon it.  It was mandatory, you see, that I go and keep my master safe.  Off we go.

The first night on the lake was a Sunday.  It was so clear and beautiful.  I couldn’t resist myself.  My nose took me to places never ventured before!  I had all these different aromas to tantilize my senses and drive me ever so wild…instictively wild.

As my master and his friend sat by the fire after having roasted hot dogs for dinner, I wandered off into the night.  They sat, drinking beer, and talking of old times and this thing called the “military”.  That must be where my human learned to be such a dick.  From what I could gather, I am most certain.

All of a sudden, I heard him calling for me.  But I ignored his call.  I was onto something oh so fascinating, and quite tasty.  I couldn’t put my paws on it.  It tasted different from the hot dog I’d had just an hour before.  But it was much more inviting than whatever he wanted…I was sure of it.  I was on the opposite side of the brush pile from him.  It would take him at least three times calling for me before he picked his beer drinking ass up and came to look.  This stuff, it tasted so good…almost like a pudding.

And around the brush pile came my human.  Asking with concern what it was that I was doing.  Commanding me to come to him.  I just looked up and acknowledged that he stood there, and went back to my pudding.  I was being defiant.  “Fuck You”, I said to him with my facial expression, as I lowered my head to this decadent treat.

My human was shocked!  What could be more important, more strong, more tempting than his call?!  He was on his way.  “What are you eatin’?”, he asked as he approached.  As his gaze lowered to the decadence on the ground, he grew furious!  “What in the fuck are you doin’ eatin SHIT?”, he exclaimed.  “You nasty Mother Fucker!, Get your ass in the fuckin’ tent!”, he shouted as he picked my little narrow ass up and beat the shit out of me.  Evidently eating shit is not a good thing.  I was then placed, ever so gently, in my human’s tent.  I was in trouble, so it seemed.  But then I realized that my human did love me.  He had placed a nice pile of clean clothes in the head area of his expensive 20 degree mummy bag for me to lay on as I slept.  I really did love this human!  I thought the clothes were there to keep my bed warm, so I kicked them out of the way and laid my shit eating little ass right in the head space.  It was so snuggly I fell right to sleep, and began to dream of that little pudding pile I would finish at sunup.

I was in the midst of a wonderful dream about the good old days when I had testicles to lick when my human entered the tent, and found me asleep in my bed.  He was a bit upset I’d slept there and knocked his clothes onto the floor of the tent so that I could have a bit more space.  Then I found myself, flying, flying, flying across the tent to the other side, and landing abruptly in a pile of miscellaneous items.  This was not the warm, loving awakening I’d envisioned.  I’d get them back.  Both my human and his scrawny little beer drinking companion.  Just had to wait until they both slept…..

It was early morning.  They had been asleep for a bit.  Both of them.  The bastards.  And I, I was cold.  This was not my box, nor was it the posh, silk ladened sheets of my master’s bed back home; a place which seemed to be far, far from here.  Revenge was mine.  I crept across the tent, to the skinny friend’s sleeping bag.  Up to the top, where his head lay, him sleeping as soundly as I was.  I began to sniff.  I had to ensure it wasn’t my human.  I was correct.  No need in punishing the innocent.  I slowly crept again, to the other bag; yes; this was the one.  Now all I had to do was sniff, ah, there was my human’s face.  So innocent looking in his state of REM sleep.  Now all I had to do was lick his nose and mouth….

“Get the fuck away from me you shit eatin’ little fucker!!!”  Success!!!!  I had accomplished my mission!  I did it!  I woke my master with the smell of a turd-laden tongue and ruined his first night’s rest!  Victory was mine! 

I pranced to the opposite end of the tent, and slept soundly.  That should teach that son of a bitch to interrupt my turd munching on the lake.  Thus concludes the first battle of Smith Lake with Mr. Diplomacy.  Then again, it is only a battle. . . the war continues.

There are so many stories to tell.  Stay tuned for more from Gus the Killer! 

~ by Gus The Killer on March 31, 2008.