|You talkin' to me?|
The brilliance of being brilliantly brilliant, not to mention strangely stimulated...
Ah, life! Life is good. life is great, Life is fantastic. Brilliant, wonderful and terrific. Where’s the ball? The black ball, The black solid rubber Kong ball? Under the couch? brilliant, let me just snuffle about a bit down there. I can smell…I can smell something good down here. What is it? My nasal passages aren’t as developed as that suppurating old Bernardesque bitch they call Rug, but I can smell something…now wait a minute. I know what this is. But the last time it was different, the last time it was kind of…cold and hard. Basically the same though. This is…furrier. Kind of…white stuff around it, but there’s…I know! Last time they said it was called a Brussel Sprout! Never had it before but it was absolutely delicious! Almost as good as those potato stalks I dug up from the garden. They were totally brilliant and delicious. And gave me this fuzzy feeling, as if I was going very very fast all the time, and as if I was going to fall over. Heard one of the humans muttering something about nicotinoids in potato plants, and how they could be toxic for dogs. Like speed, he said, amphetamine sulphate back in the old disco days. Brilliant! And if it’s just falling over, well. Falling over is brilliant. Brilliantly brilliant.
Wow, the humans were talking to each other about red balls, green Brussel Sprouts, cabbages, purple, blue, whatever. Colours, they say, colours but I only see in black and white. And that’s brilliant! Morality, choices, one thing or the rather. Politics! Numbers, Binary choices!
Tell you what’s even better than Brussel Sprouts, and I have to admit that one under the sofa was a wee bit squelchy. Carrots. I’ve got this black rubber thing, like a ball only not, like, round. They push a carrot inside it and I have to get the carrot out. How stunning is that. Brilliant brilliant brilliant brilliant brilliant! Now I’ve got to find that old cheesey Swiss dog, the big Swiss roll, the St Bernard Dog, Rug, snooty, thinks I’m stupid. Thinks I just want to have sex with her and that I’m stupid because I had my testicles cut off by Victoria the Alternative Vet (uses a gold pendulum for diagnosis! Brilliant!. But she’s wrong. They are invisible testicles. How good is that? That’s brilliant!
Right, I’ve given up the potato stalks. Felt a bit peculiar there for a while, but I’m getting over it, I think. Still being shouted at occasionally for being frisky, and frankly I think it’s totally unfair. Totally totally totally. What’s wrong with frisky? One or two wee nips at The Smelly Duchess Rug’s all-too-ample jowls and you’d think I was trying to have sex with her. Which obviously I am, but because of my invisible testicles it’s basically just a bit of erotic friskiness, isn’t it. Frisk without the risk. Frisk without the F, if you want to be really rude, which I’m not, because I’m a dog and don’t understand these things. Frisky. That’s me. Alive. Very much alive. Where’s my testicles? Och, there they aren't. Invisible’s good. Better probably, in licking terms. Maybe.
Her Reeking Duchessness Rug might as well not be alive. She appears to move for about 10 minutes out of every 24 hours. She’s like a corpse dog. Well actually, she’s more like a dead pony, or donkey, one that barks instead of heehawing or neighing. And my goodness, she can certainly bark. And growl. When she growls, it’s like the ground moving beneath my dainty wee feet. It’s one of the few impressive things about her. Apart from the drool she covers me with when she’s trying to bite me. She doesn’t actually bite of course, she flops her chins and slobbers. I don’t think she really has teeth.
And then she goes back to sleep. For goodness sake. I’m at least interesting. Friskiness rules!