"Take and Go!"

An ambiguous but threatening cloud is forming around my head these days, and I don't know what its outcome or meaning for my future. I write now not knowing when I will next be able to communicate with my Dear Readers. Word up is that Friend Mark is planning to acquire a leviathan of some twisted sort. All I know at this time is what I was able to overhear this morning: "I hope Peter isn't going to freak out." That almost always means I am going to "freak out" very soon. I am doing so now, which is why I am reaching out to you Dear Reader on my Schlog. The last time this happened, he introduced a scary black cat into the house. I spent the next 10 years jumping from dresser drawer to top of bookcase to liquor cabinet (this is how I became an alcoholic) before I was dragged from behind the bitters and finally set up in my office above the filing cabinet. I don't relish the idea of another exile. My jumpers aren't what they used to be. I never thought I would be looking back nostalgically on halcyon days with Mr. Tom Legs.

My problem is not that I don’t like other quadrupedic beings in principle. I just don’t like them near me. And there are certain selfish beings – pets being the prime example – that don’t ever know how to just “take and go” as my Indian friend would say. There they are, day in, day out, eating, shitting, sucking up time and attention. For me, it is particularly unnerving because pets see in me a competitor up with which they shall not put. Mr. Legs was fortunately a pretty lazy cat although he liked sitting on Friend Mark’s desk, staring blankly at me like he was watching a mise en scene and I was the food prop. Who could work under these conditions?

The choices ahead are not pretty. I have no idea what Friend Mark actually has planned, but I am steeling myself for the worst. I was looking over the shoulder of Friend Matthew, who was in town visiting with Defriend Corry last week to celebrate the Feast of Unbridled Consumption. Called Thanksgiving by HBs, it's my favorite holiday at which time I indulge in vast quantities of my favorite foods. Suddenly, Friend Matthew had paused on a website that was awash in DIGITIZED DOG PHOTOS! What the hell could that mean except one thing? I cannot dwell in that thought right now as it really changes the picture for me in an already weird relationship.

Surely, after all our years together, Friend Mark would have the decency not to create havoc with my well being. Let’s all agree to one thing, Dear Readers: Change is almost always stupid and never “a good thing” unless you (i.e., Me) are in charge or the thing is a wet diaper. Friend Mark is a notorious pushover around his HB issue, and before you know it they’ll have him corralling some terrifying mastadon who’ll cramp up the dwelling place, and get all bossy and quickly take me for some sort of stuffed animal or worse – a fucking snack!

Calm your ample cookies, Peter! You’re losing perspective! After all you made it through the Dark Years when Friends Julia and Matthew threatened on one occasion to put you through the spin cycle of a human washing machine!

It’s just this, Dear Leaders. I’ve had my Yin cantilevered to death over the years, and my Yang is like a bungee that has been pulled and snapped and the hook has hit me in the snout too many times. (This is one reason I don’t use my bike anymore.) What’s a poor piggy to do? I don’t intend to just pack my bags without a severance and a share of our worldly goods. That would be about 63%, which is what the last pig got when she “freaked out” and took up a sordid life with an Italian called “Pinot Grigio”! I won’t settle for less. (Except it’s Noir pour moi.)

Mais vraiment, Dear Readers, I am being hasty and over reacting, est-il possible? The one thing going for Friend Mark is his scrupulous attention to cleanliness (a plus in my book). Whatever giant moron happens to saunter in and try to take over will have to put up with his weird obsession to control filth. Being an absurdly clean quadruped myself, I have every reason to believe that his genetic deviation from normal HB practice will work in my favor, especially if I start randomly dropping pet feces around the house and especially on his absurdly precious wood floors. I will not be driven from my domain without a fight. Unless, of course, he goes mental and decides not to clean up after the creature. Wow, am I ever outta here on a fast train if that happens!

But then, I could be completely wrong about all of this. They were also talking about vacations. Maybe they’re planning a family camping trip in “Leander.” Wherever in deep hell that tragedy is happening! Count me out. I’m still trying to find a pair of mittens that will keep my hooves from catching gangrene in St. Paul come January. Jesus, how did I get involved in that vacation spot? Somewhere I smell a duty, and it smells like Friend Mark’s. Wha'd I tell ya? A total pushover. His kids are, come to think of it, a lot like pets. You’d think that they would just “take and go.” But no, they insist on leaving behind a little trouble. Or a big trouble. With teeth.

Shit, I’m freaking out again.