WereTaxes

Haven't had much time for blogging lately. My time has been filled with werewolf patrols and taxes. 

Yelp. Oops. I meant "Yep". Taxes. I have a pretty sizable portfolio, do a lot of trading throughout the year. As such, I have to pay taxes. That's right. Just because I am a weredog does not mean I get to skate on taxes. I wish it did. 

It is hard getting my taxes together. I can only work on them at night. If I have to make calls, I have to save them up until a day when everyone is gone for most of the day and make them all at one time. 

One of my stocks is really killing me right now. Jones Soda. I bought it back about 10 years ago when it first went public. The high last year was in the 20s. It has dropped back dow around 5. Damn. I thought it would be the next Snapple.

Sharing my financial resources with my people, my families, has always been a difficult issue. I can't exactly hand them a check and say, "Thanks a lot, Mac. That's for all the left-overs."

A friend once asked me if I am a man or a dog. I am both. And neither. Every individual, of any species, must contend with dual nature. Men are good and bad. Women are feminine and masculine. Wolves are day and night. Dogs are tame and wild. Cats are just plain trouble. For the most part. And weredogs are dogs and men. Weredogs. 

Jack is two people. Big time. He is a coach and scoutmaster and loving father ad husband. He is also another man, a darker man. Some nights I hardly recognize him. He is passed out on the other couch next to me right now. 

Jack has been drinking, more and more lately. I've heard him say into the phone that he drinks at night to help him sleep. "The nights are hell," I've heard him tell Sherry. So, most nights he goes to bed drunk. A lot of help he'll be if I have to defend against home invaders.

A couple weeks ago, late at night, I was up late, right here, TV on, laptop on, my own mobile phone on the table. Somehow, Jack managed to get downstairs without me hearing him. I look up and there he is, looking at me, a very confused face. 

I didn't freak. I don't know why. I just said, "Go back upstairs, Jack. Go back to bed. You're dreaming." And he did. I should have been shocked, at least surprised. I wasn't. A dog gets to know his family. 

Little Dog

Rex and I go out together a lot. Some in the pack resent of object. But, for the most part they leave us be. Everyone knows how close we are. And when necessary, we do partner or travel with whomever necessary. 

Last night Rex and I were coming home from a LRRP patrol. We were almost home when we saw a small, white dog wandering the sidewalk. She looked very forlorn. We stopped, picked her up. She had no tags. Damn, you people piss me off sometimes, like when you don't put tags on us. 

Rex was driving, so I changed, to be able to ask her were she lives. When she saw me change she turned to dog stone. Then, as a dog, I hopped in the backseat. I tried to talk to her. But she just starred at m. Then, with a twitch of a tiny whisker, she flipped. She went crazy, started bouncing off every inch of the back of the car, barking and yelling like a mad dog. She was saying, "You're weredogs! Oh my Dog! I've never met a weredog before! Oh my Dog!"

"Well. Now you have," I told her. 

To get her talking I asked her where she was going. She said she didn't know. She said she just got thru the gate and went with it. She feels the need to roam, to get outside the gate and run. So, when the gate is left open she goes. She has no idea where s going. She just goes. "Do you know what I mean?" she said. I said that all weredogs do.

She then started going even more ballistic. I was yelling, "Hey! Hey! Calm down! Chill!" when we got pulled over by a cop. 

"Shut her up," said Rex, easing it over onto the shoulder.

The cop said Rex had a break-light out. Rex said thanks. The cop said, "A little late to be taking the doggies out for a drive, ain't it?"

He let us go. Five minutes later we stopped in front of the little dog's house. "Do you guys smell that? Huh? Do you?" I put her in the backyard and closed the gate. It's not that cold. She'll be OK.

Back in the Mustang Rex said, "Do you smell it?" I said I did. Wolf. The cop. "How did we miss it when he was standing there?" said Rex.

"All her barking." He nodded. "But, poor excuse. So, what do you think?" 

I nodded. "Maybe. We'll keep an eye on her."

I'm outa here. Got lots of e-mails to catch-up on. In all night tonight. Others doing patrol. And I want to read about all today's games. There was some good basketball played today. I love March Madness. 

Chester

Busy Week

I have not posted all week. Reason is, I have been out all night every night this week, on patrol, either on pad, on foot, or on tire, searching for signs of wolf. Except for the one night Rex and I attended a citywide weredog meeting down at The Den, downtown. The owner is one of us, and lets us hold meetings there after closing. We meet once or twice a month when there is a need to get reps from all the packs together. I can't tell you the real name of the place. But, you'd know it.

There must have been two hundred of us in there, some as dogs, some as people, some even as weredogs. It's a matter of personal preference. There is always some time to play before the meeting adjourns. I always like to walk around and see what everyone is doing - dogs playing cards, dogs and men dancing, dogs and women playing checkers and chess, dogs singing karaoke, dogs on stools arguing Nietzsche with bartenders. You name it. 

I don't want to give the wrong idea. We do actually discuss some important issues. Often we talk about human relations, leash laws, and "cat policy", which is always hotly debated.

This meeting got rolling, eyes were front, all tongues in, and they told us that indeed there was a sizable werewolf infiltration in Kansas City and that they had hard intel that the werewolves are up to something. "It is your jobs to find out just what the hell they are up to," they said. I rolled my eyes at Rex. "Great," I said. 

"Any ideas how?" someone yelped out. 

"Just keep your noses to the ground," they said.

Rex and I got back to his house just in time for him to get ready for work and for me to change back into a dog and get home before Jack got up to feed me, and Bella and Flecka. I beat him by seven minutes. I still had beer breath. That was Wednesday.

Jack and the Boys just got back today, Saturday, from The Ozarks. They went down a couple days to fish. It's the boys' spring break. All three of them came back mean as wolves because they caught nada. Jack was already in a bad mood lately. This made it worse.

Jack is a good fisherman. I know. I have gone with him several times, stood and sat in the bow, watched him haul in fish after fish. He says the fish gods have abandoned him. 

What non-fishers and non-hunters don't understand is that often you come back empty-mouthed. Sorry. Empty-handed. But, that's OK. Because as Jack is fond of saying, "Your worst day of fishing or hunting is better than you best day at work."

Time to sleep. No sleep nights, lately. And not enough time during the day for naps, So, I am falling behind, getting fatigued. Not a good thing if you come up against a werewolf.

Fresh meat to you.

Chester

Flecka Is A Shit Eater

Fleck is a shit easter. She is not the only dog I have known who does this. But, most dogs don't. It is not all that common. As a result, Flecka has bad breath, even for a dog. To say she has bad breath is like saying werewolves have mild grooming issues. 

Flecka is only a friend, my best dog friend. She tells me everything. But, we are not romantically involved. There are several dogs and women in this area that I have been romantically and carnally entangled with. But, she is not one.

Jack likes to tell people to "Eat shit," or "Eat shit and die." He can be very creative with his language, especially with me and the boys. Sometimes it takes a lot for me not to laugh, even as a dog. Yes, dogs laugh. If that is news to you, then you are not paying attention.

But, Jack also eats shit. He eats a lot of shit at work. He gets it from his boss, from his company in general. He says no one can survive in his company, a large telecom corporation, without muchos eating of shit and brown nosing.

Brown nosing has very different meanings for humans and dogs. For humans it is a bad thing. For dogs it is merely a way of greeting friends, or new acquaintances. It saves having to ask the question, "So, what did you have for dinner last night?"  

Even in human form I do not understand this thing you humans have with shit. It's just shit. You eat food in, shit it out, bag it up, move on to the next meal.  What's the big deal?

My Pack

I have spent most of the past two nights out, patrolling. The entire pack has been out. The scent of wolf is strong. We need to locate them and eradicate them before there are more attacks, or before there are more of them.  

We hold regular and emergency meetings. We meet regularly, once every other week. But, there have been several emergency meetings lately, due to the werewolf threat. There is a tension amongst the pack that I have not felt before, in this pack. Some of this pack are newbies, and have never even seen, or fought, a werewolf before, much less smelled their scent.

We are eighteen. Taffy is a tan cocker-spaniel by day. Mac is a telecom analyst by day. Holly is a black great dane. Rex is a German shepherd. Buddy is a lawyer. Tessy is a stay-at-home mom. I am a shepherd mix. I spend my days napping and waiting to be walked, and occasionally, when the situation demands, I check e-mails and voice-mails. 

There are 236 other dogs in our area of responsibility, the same area we are trying to patrol nightly. Part of our duty is to stay up with all of them, and their humans, make sure they are OK, see if they need help. When a family is having problems, we try to lend aid, if we can. More than once we, the pack, have worked behind the scenes to arrange job interviews, visits by cops and family services, lawn services, baby-sitters, and clergy. Father Patrick has received more than a couple mysterious and anonymous notes about parishioners, let me tell you. And last year I spent the better part of a month orchestrating and arranging for Bill Getty, a recent widower, and Karen Solomon, a recent divorcee, to meet. Both had kids and both were lonely. They married last month. I'm not the best dog on the block. But, when I am good, I am very good.

OK. It's 4am. I am beat. It's St. Paddy's today. I hope they don't take me to the parade. When they do they always humiliate me by making me wear some stupid green hat. Hopefully, they will leave me home so I can nap all day. I need it. I'l be out all night again patrolling tomorrow night.

Fresh meat to you. 

800 Dogs?

Going through my news RSS feeds tonight I came across a story about law enforcement officials liberating over 800 small dogs from a trailer outside of Tuscon, AZ. The article said they were all small breeds, Chihuahuas, terriers and Pomeranians. A cop is quoted as saying that, all things considered, the dogs were all in pretty good shape. I don't buy it.

I don't care who the hell you are or how small the dogs are, 800 dogs in a doublewide is way too many. As a weredog, I have to abide by the weredog code not to harm humans. But if I were there, had seen those 800 little dogs, I would have been sorely tempted to do some code breaking. 

I got in late last night. Had a pack meeting that went very late. I got home this morning in time to change and get an hours sleep. Sven was talking in his sleep. He is the only person I have ever known who argues in his sleep. Rex informed us at the meeting that there are indeed werewolves in the area, on the prowl. We are to keep our ears and eyes and noses keen and to the wind. If any attacks occur in our area we may have to start conducting night patrols. That led to discussion. The discussion went on forever, nearly until dawn.

But, it didn't. We broke it off in time for everyone to go to Buddy's. He made everyone omlettes. We talked non-stop, everyone. We might have stayed all day, except Buddy had to be in court at nine. 

Anyone else notice that municipal bonds are now going to be graded the same as corporates? I don't like it. 

Fresh meat to you. 

Nightmares

I have been having nightmares lately, about Italy, and about Nam. I fought in both places. Do you have any memories that haunt you, and no matter how much you chew on them, they just seem to wrap themselves tighter and tighter around your neck, until some nights you can't seem to breathe? Bella is on the floor right beside me, asleep, kicking. She must be chasing rabbits. I envy her. 

I am using Jack's laptop, checking my e-mail, my investments. The markets have been killing my portfolio lately. My accounts are way down. But, I have been around long enough to watch lots of markets to know that markets go up, and markets go down, and they go back up. The thing that worries me most is the falling value of the dollar. My dollar is buying less meat lately.

An emergency pack meeting is called or tomorrow night. Something is up. Didn't find anything solid the other night, in terms of werewolves. But other packs and other dogs might have turned something up. I am anxious to find out. 

Hailey, the cat, is curled up beside me on the couch. She, like Bella and Flecka, were very perplexed when they first caught onto my changing forms, from man to dog, and back again. But, she has also grown accustomed to it. The changing itself might have something to do with this. 

When a weredog changes it looks to the observer like a mild orgasm, except for the shifting physical form. On the other hand, when a werewolf changes, it looks painful, like he, or she, is going to explode. So much for the benefits of evil. 

I need to provide a little detail about my background. I know that. But, it is hard to know where to begin and how to approach it. So many years. So many wars. So many people. So many dogs. So much pain and love and regret and ...

I need to go now. I need to take Jack's vehicle and go find somewhere I can howl, long and loud. There's no moon tonight. I will howl without it.

Fresh meat to you.

My Family

Let me tell you about my family. Not my pack. I'll save that for another night. 

Jack and Sherry are the husband and wife. Sherry is 44 and a hotty, curly blond hair and a killer body. She walks like a dancer. Were I the wrong kind of dog I might be prone to humping her leg at times. Only problem with that plan is that Jack would kick my ass. Literally. She works as a nurse. She tells me I am handsome. She has good taste. 

Jack is 46, over six foot, and over two hundred pounds. He lifts weights, pounds a heavy bag. He carries kitchen knives like he is heading into a fight, along his forearm, concealed. He is a former Army Ranger. Knows what he is doing. He might even last half a minute with a werewolf. That's a long time for a human. He is also the kind of guy that goes out of his way to save baby bunnies. Long story.

Sven and Rick are their sons, my boys. They are both 12, almost 13, sixth grade. Both are tall. Sven is slender and fast. Rick is thick and powerful. Sven plays basketball. Rick plays football. Both are smart, Honor Roll.  But, they watch too much TV, cartoons, and play too much SPS. They should take me for more walks. It's hard to stay in shape to fight werewolves when your boys won't take you for walks but once or twice a week. I lay down each night in Rick's room. Flecka sleeps in Sven's room.

Braden is nineteen and in Iraq. I should be there with him. I worry about him. He is a tall, athletic and smart. But he is still a kid. I have no idea if he has a good squad leader or platoon sergeant. But, Jack taught him to shoot and hunt, and to track, to scan up and down, all around, not just down at the ground in front of your feet. They used to take me with them to watch Braden play baseball. He was a damn good shortstop. But, never basketball. No dogs in gyms. He is in the 82nd. At least there is that. The more elite a unit is the less casualties they tend to sustain. And who knows, maybe all those combat video games actually help him over there. Wish I was there to watch his back.

 

Flecka is my girlfriend. Well, not really. She is my buddy. I would do anything for her. She is a 10 year old black lab, about eighty pounds. She is not all together there, mentally, due to something that happened when she was a small pup. She has two bad wheels, he left front and right rear legs. She moves with a limp. So, she is a little slow. She has the biggest heart of any dog, human, or weredog I know. I would do anything for her. Woe to the werewolf that messes with my Flecka.

Bella is our alpha. Kinda. She is the oldest dog, at 12 years, and she is a little neurotic. She is a black lab mix, 45 pounds, white chest, high-strung. I let her be boss because it is just not worth it to do otherwise. And to be honest, I would rather face a pack of werewolves than face off with a pissed off Bella. She's crazy when she gets crazy, which is much of the time.

Hailey is the cat. Our cat. Wait. I know what you are thinking. That all cats are evil, spawns of satan. But, it's not like that with Hailey. Really. She is  small, back cat, about 15 pounds.  She and Bella struggle for dominance. She and I touch noses sometimes. I like her. She does not fear easily. 

I am tired. Up all night last night, searching for wolf scent, and no chance to nap today. I need to sleep. Flecka is looking very warm. I think I will change and snuggle up next to her.

Trouble Apaw

My family is off at some church outing. So, I have some time to catch up, make a post. Now that I have started this, I feel compelled to continue. There is no turning back. So much to tell.

I snuck out early last night, did not take either of our vehicles. Rex drove. His human has a Mustang GT. We love that GT. Even as a man I have the impulse to stick my head out the window. We spent most of the night looking into the suspicious murder the other night, seeing if we could pick up some scent. 

We didn't. Well, nothing solid. We caught some strange scent. But we don't think it was werewolf.  

If it is a human psychopath, a man gone over the edge of sanity, a serial killer, we let the police handle it. But, if it is werewolves, the police cannot handle it. Then it is up to us.

Now seems a good time to explain our mission and relationship to you humans, and to add clarification to any other weredogs that might be reading and following this. 

Our mission is to take care of man. Man, in turn, takes care of us. Every so often you will hear some young pup complain, say that we don't need man, that we deserve to sit at the table and sleep on the bed. They yelp and whine until you remind them that man takes care of us, that it is man who makes the houses and cars, the factories that crank out the dog chow and, most importantly, the ranches that raise the cattle. Dogs don't care much about TV. But, weredogs, when in human form, can't live without it. I don't need my MTV, as I did in the 80s, but I sure do now need my CSI. 

We have a mutually beneficial relationship, weredogs and man, that goes back many thousands of years. It goes much deeper than table scraps. Weredogs and man have a duty to take care of the earth and all the other animas. Even cats. To any dog that questions our status with man, I simply ask that canine, "What is God spelled backwards?" Can it be a coincidence what they named their God?

OK, got to go. They could be back any moment. And I still have to check my e-mails. I did not bother to put on clothes, so I am naked, upstairs, in case I have to change back quick. I am staying home tonight. So, will post something late. And Flecka sleeps better when I am around.

Night Activities

Seemed like it took forever for everyone to go down for the night tonight. They are not late nighters, luckily for me. I need my nights. Some nights I am up al night. That makes for a tired dog. But, that is OK. Moat days I have much opportunity for sleep.

I change form at night, to man, so I can do those things only a human can do, things that require fingers, and English. I get on one of the computers, watch TV and DVDs, make calls. VoIP is a God-send or me, let me tell you. Sometimes I take the care out. And it is at night when we have our pack meetings. 

I never eat any food from the fridge. Rarely do I eat food from anywhere in the house. My humans would notice. They never notice an fifty extra miles on the odometer. But a missing yogurt cup and they are ready to call Area 51 and demand its return. They know exactly what is in the fridge at all times. I need to learn how to set back an odometer, and keep forgetting to look into that. 

I like all the CSI shows on TV, even though I am not exactly certain how many there are now. And there is never anything bad on Animal Planet. AP rocks. Don't laugh. Got to figure out how to orchestrate how to get Jack to take us to Africa. I dream of running across the Serengehtti. Literally. Really. I mean it. I dream about it several times a week. They are great, until Sven wakes e up from these dreams, which he does whenever he sees my legs twitching. Damn kid. I'd bite him if I didn't love him. 

Bella, the oldest (12) and smallest (40 lbs.) dog, just jumped up on the couch, ready to watch TV. She watches TV with me most nights while I check e-mail and investments. Flecka is on the floor, at my feet. I reach down and stroke her coat occasionally as I tickle the keys here on Jack's laptop. My nightly transformations still unsettle Bella. She always gives a little growl ad whine. But, after the first night she saw it, Flecka has ever given it any mind at all. 

Better end this. Got a message from Rex about a strange murder near here recently. A young woman was murdered and mutilated. Part of our duty is to look into all strange and especially brutal murders, to see if they are werewolf related. So, I will borrow the car tonight, go sniff around about this murder, see what scents I pick up.

This Blog Will Probably Mean My Death

But the truth compels me to do it. And, I need to be able to keep all my weredog friends up to date on my life, and a blog seems the best way. For now. I and all, well, most, of my memories are in agreement that if any people read this, then it is time for humans to know. We have waited centuries. It is likely we will wait more centuries, as many weredogs claim that people are quickly forgetting how to read.

Some clarity: My name is Chester. I am a weredog. Actually, that is a label designed for human benefit. The name we call ourselves, our kind, is something so alien to your vocal chords that you cannot hear or pronounce it. Believe me. I have tried it on a few of my humans. 

I live, for now, with a family in a suburb that is part of the greater metropolitan area of Kansas City. I have two boys (score), a woman, a man, two other dogs, and a cat. Yes. A cat. More on that later.

By day I am a yellow dog, a German Shepherd mix. By night, most nights, I change. Nights I take the form of a man. That is when I take care of my accounts, banks and investments, check on things, pay bills. Sometimes I take one of the cars out. I eat, but never from the fridge, or anything in the house. Why? Stayed tuned. 

Most nights I watch TV. I like all the CSI shows. Occasionally, my pack meets. I am part of a pack of weredogs. That's right. I am not the only one. And ours is not the only pack in the Kansas City. There are others. I don't even know how many there are. I am not sure anyone does. 

That's it for tonight. Things to do. If I am still alive tomorrow or the next day, maybe I will publish another blog post. There is a hell of a lot to tell, a couple hundred years worth, or a couple thousand, depending on your point of view.