Dog Transport

I did a dog transport today, with Jason. He was hauling 3 dogs. Said he does it ever so often. 

I met up with him in Raytown. Left my vehicle at a McDonald's. The dogs were coming from Texas, going to Minneapolis. They were loose in the vehicle, not in crates. Jason said it was better that way. 

Dassey, the oldest, stared at me most of the way. She wanted to know what I am. I told her I am friend, not to worry. The other 2, Killa and Sizzle, looked out the window and whined the first half of the leg, slept the other half. Dassey finally accepted me, relaxed, put her head on my lap and slept.

Jason said he was ready to launch. "Launch what?" I said.  

He said he's targeted 8 puppy mills, mostly in Missouri, a few in Kansas. "We have the people in place, and are ready to move," he said. 

"I want you on board," said Jason.

"Why me?" 

"I don't know. But, you got something. Skills, instincts, I don't know. But that raid you were with us on that op in September..."

"August."

"Whatever. I watched you, You knew what you were doing. And I sensed something about you when we were on target. It scared me.  I don't know what it was, but I want it on my side."

I shook my head. "You're gonna get someone hurt."

"Damn right."

"I mean someone other than the puppy mill operators. I mean innocents."

"There are no innocents."

"You prepared to whack a cop?"

"I am prepared to do whatever it takes to get this done," he said. "That is what people of vision and commitment do - whatever it takes."

I told him, "Kid, you don't know how many I've heard that, and how much it scares the shit out outa me."

We linked up in Spur, Missouri, passed on the dogs to the next leg driver. Dassey said she wanted to go with me. I said no. Explanation would have been wasted.

I am back at the house.  Jack and Sherry and the boys get back tonight. No telling when. So, I am heading back to the kennel. I will, miraculously turn back up in my cage, or a cage, tomorrow morning. I love a god joke. On the way back out there I am going to go stop by and see Warin. We need to talk.

Chester

chester.weredog@gmail.com

Xmas Visit

I went outside last night, in weredog form, to check on whatever it was making the cats, Rooster and Bailey, and I edgy. There was something, or someone, out there. I went to check it out.

I did two sweeps of the perimeter before I froze on the east side of the house, where the trees and bushes crowd, make it dark and hard to see at night, the best spot for an ambush.  I sensed them, felt them, even before I heard or smelled them. I snarled and jacked a round in the chamber of the .40 cal. 

"Wait," said a female voice.  "We come to talk."  Three dark figures emerged from the trees and brush. I did not raise the .40, but tightened my grip. The lead figure came into the small cone of light, enough for me to see.

"Diella."

"Glad you remember me."

"You'd be hard to forget. Who are these guys?"

Diella introduced her friends.  One was named Harod. The other was Pilet. Werewolves do have some formidable talents. Choosing names is not one of them.  Harod was small and overly friendly. Pilet was larger and not happy to be here. Both smelled distinctly of werewolf.

"Can we come in?" said Diella.

"Come . . . in?" I said. "To my . . . house?"

"You got a cave nearby?"

I had to hear what they had to say. So, I invited them in. Rooster was not happy. Bailey disappeared. 

I pointed them to the large couch in the family room, next to the fire. I wanted them sitting together. Easier to keep an eye on all three. "Want anything to drink?" I said.  "Coffee? Beer?  RC Cola?  Egg nog?"

"Got anything stronger?" said Harod. All six of their eyes shined expectant for my answer.

"Yeah."  So, I shared my damn Talisker with three damn werewolves.  

After a sip of the Talisker, and smacking of lips, Diella said, "Have you thought about what I said?"

"You mean about this new species you claim is moving in, that is a threat to us all?"  

"Yes."

I said I had. They wanted to know if I had talked about it with my pack, and we in turn had passed the information and invitation farther up the weredog latter, to other packs and leaders. I said I had taken the information to my pack, that we had discussed it, and that my pack alpha was taking it to other alphas, and I have not heard anymore than that.  They volunteered that there had been an incident at the casino. 

"Incident?" I said.  Diella would not elaborate. We talked more about what this new species might look like, how it might behave, how it might be identified. And we sipped more Talisker.  Before long we were watching It's A Wonderful Life and White Christmas on the TV and roasting marshmallows.  We drank all the egg nog, and nearly finished off my brand new bottle of Talisker. Rooster sat on the back of the couch and watched Pilet warily. Even Bailey returned, and sat in a corner, watching Diella.

Hard and Pilet fell asleep, curled up on both couches. Diella and I sat on the floor.

"Do you really hate us?"

"Missou fans?  No, not really."

"I'm serious"

"You're not like any werewolf I have ever known."

"How many have you known?" 

"A few."

"You're not like any weredog I've ever known either," she said. "We need you." She leaned toward me. "I need you."  Before I could respond, Pilet yelled. He had awakened to find Rooster sitting on his chest. "He likes you," I said.

"We have to o," said Diella.

So, I spent Xmas eve with 3 werewolves, and shared my Talisker with them.

I cannot cover or remove their scent. Belle will have a fit when she gets back, barking and whining all over the place, wanting to know what the hell has been going on around here. I better come up with a story to tell her.

I got a few hours sleep after they left. Got up about 11:00, was antsy, knew what I had to do.

I went to the dog run. I drive Sherry's Lexus there, parked a hundred meters past the dog run parking lot, in a picnic area, no one else was there. Go figure. I went into nearby wood, shed my clothes, changed into dog form, and cavorted in the dog run for nearly two hours. Temperature was perfect. Amazing how many dogs and people were there on Christmas Day. Every time someone would say, "Whose dog is that?  Who is with him?", I would dart off to another part of the run.

Home now. Lots more to do. Much to catch up on. But, still, I am lonely, in spite of Rooster and Bailey.  I miss the boys.  I miss Sherry and Jack.  I really miss Flecka, even Bella, bossy little bitch that she is. 

But, I have lots to do around here. Might go out on patrol with Warin tonight. If not, wonder if there are any good movies on tonight. And I wonder how much Talisker we left. Not much, I think. 

Chester

chester.weredog@gmail.com

Xmas Eve

Here we are, Bailey and Rooster and I, just the 3 of us, at home, alone, on Christmas Eve.

I made a nice beef stew. Cats don't eat stew. Go figure. I miss Flecka. She loves stew.  Bailey sat on my lap. I've never heard of that before, a cat sitting on, or going anywhere near, a weredog lap.

I went out today, drove Sherry's Lexus. Pumped two gallons of gas to cover. Only went to get some things for the stew, and something for me.  That thing was Talisker single malt scotch. I like scotch.  Single malt is the creme of scotch. So, I ate the stew, Rooster and Bailey ate. . . well, nasty cat food.  We watched Christmas movies. I got a fire going. And I sipped some Talisker.

Rooster has been edgy since about 9:00.  He said something, or someone, was out there.  He was freaking. Fine, I said.  I went out, did a perimeter sweep. I froze me ass off, but I did it.  I took the .40 cal.  I found nothing. But, my hackles did rustle. And when your hackles rustle, when they stir, you should not ignore it.  I went out again, two more times. Something is out there. And one of two options are possible. One, they do not know what I am, and they will regret it.  Two, they do know what I am, are here for me, and still they are going to regret it.

We watched Bad Santa. Now we are watching the Vatican Christmas Eve Mass (prerecorded). It is interesting, I have to admit. But, I also have to say that this thing humans have for religion, we dogs, weredogs, will never understand.  Humans and religion is something weredogs cannot get our minds around. Sure, we have a sense of "Almighty" and powers beyond ourselves.

Ever wonder what dogs are doing when they howl at the moon?  Praying.  That's what we're doing. When we howl we are praying. Not like humans pray. We dogs, and all other animals, lack the key ingredient for human religion: guilt. No other animal species does guilt like people do guilt.

Hold on.  Rooster is freaking out again. Now Bailey is too.  Something is out there. Something is up. I'm changing to weredog form. Where are those extra 2 clips for the .40 cal?  I'm going out.

Merry Christmas.

Chester

Fwd: ScienceDaily: Why Do Pigs Die During Commercial Transportation?

This came across my radar recently, sent by a friend:

Why Do Pigs Die During Commercial Transportation?
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/12/081210091035.htm
Scientists have evaluated the factors involved in causing injuries or even death in pigs as they are transported to the slaughter house. The results show that the stress and suffering the animals undergo would be reduced if more time was spent on loading them properly onto trucks and the temperature was kept down.

I used to think this was not a problem. I changed my mind about it. A friend pointed out to me the large amounts of endorphins and other chemicals the body pumps into the body when in a state of fear, worse in a state of terror. The meat is, in effect, tainted. Bad for
whomever eats that meat.

You might ask: "Wait? You are a dog, a weredog. Have you never hunted?" Yes, I have, as a man and as a dog, and as a weredog a few times. But when a pack or lone hunter stalks and kills an animal, such as a deer, the kill is quick, with no time for the body flush with fear chemicals. What this article describes is very long periods that the pigs are transported, the entire time in a high-state of fear. Pigs are intelligent animals, I assure you. Some say smarter than dogs. I don't agree with that. Dogs are second only to man in terms of intelligence. But, pigs possess enough awareness to be terrorized, unlike steers and chickens, which more experience
discomfort, but not impending doom.

Years ago I worked in a meat packing plant in Omaha. That plant processed mostly steers, but also pigs and sheep. I thought it would be fun, surrounded by all the meat. But, it was not. After weeks I fell to a melancholy, the result being within and part of assembly- line slaughter. I have no problem with killing and butchering hundreds of animals.  But the assembly-line approach of the Kill Floor, of bloody animal parts being shuffled through shiny, metal chutes had its toll on me. It affected me on a primal level.

So, I guess there is this moral issue: Is there such a thing as correct killing? Does an animal deserve to be dispatched as quickly as possible? If Kant was right, in regards to the categorical
imperative, then all animals do. In nature there are cases of animals playing with their prey. Usually, it is to train the young, pups or cubs, to hunt and kill. But, for the most part, predators do not dally when killing. They do it as quickly and efficiently as possible.  To do otherwise is wasteful and depraved.

I believe that hunting is more humane than ranching. The prey in the open has a chance. The steer in the pen has none. And the meat is better from the wild, or open range, animal which is hunted, or killed by some other means other than long transport and entry into a slaughter house.

All creatures must eat. We must kill to eat. But, even wolves, I am told, have rules and ethics about killing and eating.

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com

Home Alone

I am here alone. Just got back this afternoon. And Bailey and Rooster, the cats. Thank Dog for them. I would not be able to take the loneliness without them.

Jack and Sherry decided, spur of the moment, to take the kids to Colorado for a skiing Christmas. Friends called saying they had room in a house they rented in Vail. Price was right. Off they go. Jack, Sherry and the boys will not be back until after New Years.

I have to be careful, such as with lights. Jack asked the Jergens to "watch the house". The Jergens are not watchful people. But can't have too many lights on, or the TV or music too loud. Would be awkward to have the cops come knocking. But, I am practiced at this.

Bella, Flecka and Sparkle are at friends' houses. Jack took me to a kennel way south, out in the sticks. I did not go with Bella and Flecka because it is thought that I am too high-strung. Jack dropped me off at the kennel on Saturday morning. I never saw it coming. That worries me. That night I let myself out, stole some clothes from a nearby house, and started making my way home. I had some stops to make on the way.

I checked in with a few dogs and weredogs. Rece and I go back a long ways, real long. Another story. He is living in Stillwell with a woman named Donna who cuts hair and has three kids. He is working as a sheriff's deputy. It is close to time for him to transition. He is not looking forward to it, worries about leaving the kids, and the woman. "How do I let these things happen?" he said to me, head down, shaking, voice heavy with regret.

Rece also wanted to know what I know about two things: Jason and Jessica, and rumors of a new species. Had I met with them, Jason and Jessica? Dalton wanted to know. Had I gone on any ops with them? Had any other weredogs checked them out, or joined them? Should we worry about this? he asked.

I had few answers for him. He reminded me of the history of wolves and dogs, of Cros and Man. "I know," I said. I told him I would get word to him, arrange a meeting with Jason and Jessica, if he wanted it.

I stopped off for bar-b-q, twice, checked in with another weredog, who is currently a family pet in Olathe, and finally made it to Warin's. Warin was surprised to see me. I explained the situation, asked if I could stay the night there, last night. He said, "Sure."

"By the way," said Warin, "Someone named Diella is trying to get ahold of you." He wanted to know who Diella is. I told him. He became anxious.

"What's the matter?" I said. He said nothing.

So. I got back here this afternoon about 3:00. Rooster spent 2 nights outside, 1 in an ice storm. He was glad to get inside. Bailey was glad to see both of us. I think she is getting sweet on Rooster, at least friendly.

My plans, until the family returns, is to catch up on lots of messaging, planning, financial analysis, and blogging. And cooking. I like to cook. And eat.

So, I am here at home, in front of the fire, catching up on e-mails, texts and voice-mails, watching the Boise State v. TCU game. Bailey and Rooster are on the couches, nearby. They missed me. I miss Flecka.

Chester

Heading to the kitchen for another brat. Might cook this one. 

Memory: Joe

I can't stop thinking about Joe. I hate it. Maybe if I tell the story I can get it out of my head, for a while. 

After Korea, where I served as a man, I needed time to unwind. It was
time for me to switch to dog phase anyway. I went to Indiana, Muncie,
and chose a family with 2 kids. Kids are always one of my prereqs.

Their last name was Baggins. Bill and Natalie had 2 kids, a boy,
Steven, who was 9, and a girl, Susie, who was 7. They were good
people. Bill sold insurance, had fought in WW2, in Europe,
artillery. Natalie was tall, slender, with a head of luscious dark
hair. She was the daughter of a Philadelphia physician, raised in
privilege, and was the one who took care of us dogs, fed us. The kids
were . . . kids. Enough said.

Joe was a beagle-schnauzer mix. He was the alpha dog of the family,
there when I arrived. Often an alpha feels threatened by newcomers,
feels the need to fight back, lash out, in order to protect his or her
position in the family, the pack. Joe was not like that. He welcomed
me, explained things to me, explained things to me in ways I still
reflect on. He was not perplexed at all by my wereness. (Which most
dogs are, at least at first.) We became friends.

Joe was an even-tempered dog. He looked after the kids, stayed beside
Ella most of the days, all day. Bill liked to take us dogs fishing.
Joe would be moving all over the shore, checking on the kids, sitting
beside Bill, checking out any noise or scent that needed
investigation. I spent most fishing trips following Joe's lead. But,
when I was satisfied with the safety o the area, I tended to take a
lot of naps.

One day Ella was clipping Joe's claws. Joe's claws grew fast, got long
if not clipped at least once a month. This day Joe moved his paw, by
accident, and Ella clipped a claw too close. Claws, of dogs, and other
species, are filled with nerves. They hurt like crazy when they break,
snap, or are cut too close. Joe yelped and bit Ella. It was an
impulse. Joe loved Ella, would never hurt her intentionally. But, the
bite left a mark, a small red half-moon. Joe felt sick about it. He
whined about it all night, kept going to Ella. She just petted him,
kept telling him, "It's all right, Joe." But, Bill, on the other
hand, gave Joe dark scowls.

The next day Bill loaded both kids and both us dogs up in the car for
a drive. I knew something was up when Ella did not get in the car.
We drove off, left her crying at the curb. The kids were making
noise, messing with each other, singing silly kid songs, talking
nonsensically. Joe got quiet. He moved over by me and began whining
quietly. I tried to console him, tell him things were fine him. But,
could not really console myself.

We drove for an hour into the country, off the paved highway, onto
dirt and sand roads, past miles of pastures and fields, dozens of
barns, some newly painted, some falling down. The smell of various
manures and crops was intoxicating. I had my head out a window, and
was starting to relax, when Bill pulled the car over. The cloud of
dust billowed up to and past us as Bill got the kids and Joe out f the
car. Not me. Bill told me, "Stay." My heat sank.

Bill walked Joe and the kids back down the road, the way we had just
come, and stopped in the middle of the road. The kids were quiet.
They didn't realize it, but they knew something was up, sensed it.
They stood there, looking up at their dad, not saying anything,
waiting. Joe sat between them, expectant, silent, hoping.

The windows were open, my head was out, so I heard Bill when he said,
"We're leaving Joe here." The kids thought he was kidding. Bill
convinced him he was not.

"But, why, Daddy?" said Steven. Bill told them that Joe was a bad dog
and that he would not have a bad dog in his home, biting his family.
Then he took both children by the shoulder and guided them back to the
car.

Joe sat for a moment, trying to be obedient, but afraid of what was
happening, trying to figure out what was happening, what to do. They
were ten feet away from him when he barked and ran to them. He barked
and aran around them, trying to get their attention.

"Don't look at him," said Bill. "Don't say anything to him." The
children started crying. Steven was sniffling. Susie was sobbing.

Joe was barking desperately as we drove off. I barked too. "Don't
worry!" I barked to Joe. "I'll come back for you!" Joe ran behind
and kept up with the car for nearly a quarter of a mile, his short
legs moving like a bumblebee's wings. Then, gradually, he disappeared
in the cloud of dust. The kids were still crying when we got back to
the house.

I went back for six weeks, nights, looking, but never found Joe. I
searched as a dog, as a man, often as a weredog, sometimes all three
in the same night. I asked around, of coyotes and foxes, of local
dogs, and even cats. But, nothing. I never found any sign or telling
of Joe. He just disappeared. I like to think that someone, a farmer,
rancher, or some city family visiting country kin, picked him up and
adopted him. But, I don't know. And it still bothers me. It is one
of my many memories that still bother me.

It is no small irony that there is no word or scent for "betrayal" or
"loyalty" in dog consciousness. It would have never occurred to Joe to
betray or abandon Bill or Ella, or the kids. He would have given his
life, gladly, for any of them.

So, that is Joe's story, at least the part of it that haunts me. I cannot imagine that Jack would ever do anything like that. But, Jack is no Bill. Thank God. Jack is more the type of guy who would bury a boot up the butt of someone like Bill. And, I could not not intervene or get involved in any way. Because, I am a dog. Mine is to serve. Not judge. And I do that with pride and a deep sense of duty and pride.

And I still have big problems with anyone named Bill.

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com

Party Aftermath

Just now I am able to post this. Everyone's gone, except us dogs.

I'm still exhausted. What a crazy weekend.Had a party here Saturday night. What a party it was. Itt was for Aaron's 40th birthday. Aaron and Sherry used to be lovers. They are still
friends. He is an out-of-the-closet gay who does sales for a medical equipment company, does mixed martial arts competitions on the weekends, and teaches cooking on Tuesday and Friday nights. He and Sherry are still friends so they can complain to each other about men.

I was sent to stay the night with friends who have a golden named Goldie. She's a good dog. Not too bright. Thinks rabbits are deformed puppies, eats her poop for snacks (like Flecka), and lays on her back to beg. Like I said, not too bright.Bill is the husband. He runs our of gas all the time due to forgetting to put gas in his car. So, I knew slipping away would not be a problem. Bill put me out and I waited half an hour, then shifted and slipped away. I went to Warin's and changed clothes. Warin was not there, and there was an odd odor in the house that I could not  quite identify.I went to the party, my own house, trying to act like I had never been there before. Weredogs do not tend to be good actors. So, it was a challenge.

Interesting mix of people - neo-yuppies, metroxsexuals, rednecks, old, young, white, black, brown, tan, you name it. Some were loud; some were quiet. The music was loud and the wine, beer, and vodka was overly abundant. There were so many smells and scents. Most of the people had good or OK scents. There were two I kept my eye on the entire night.I told Sherry that I was a friend of Aaron's. I told Aaron I was a friend of Sherry's. Jack asked what I was doing there. I said, "You invited me." He nodded. "Glad you're here," he said. "You can help
me tend bar and keep an eye on things." So, I helped pour beers and wine, picked up dirty plates, and mingled.

A woman named Tabitha liked my scent and started giving me the eye. I liked her eye. But, I could not allow it to go anywhere. I had to get back to Goldie's that night and be ready to be picked up the next morning to go home. Rooster would be waiting for me, hungary.

Jack and Sherry never looked at each other. You would not have known they knew each other, much less were the hosts of the party. The only time he did watch her was when she was dancing and grinding with some young pup. I decided early that I would intervene if Jack went over the edge, got pissed, let out his wolf.Some blonde in a red dress started doing lap dances. I happened to be sitting on the right couch at the right time and got my dances. It was hard to have that booty in my face and not sniff it. A young women named Mindy told me afterward that whores and strippers are all the rage, that most women have fantasies to do, at the very least, lap dances for a strange man. She said it has to do with raunch feminism. I had never heard of such a thing. How can those 2 words go together?

Jack and some guy wearing a ruffled black shirt almost got into it. I think the trigger was politics. The other guy was about 10 years younger, 10 pounds heavier, an inch taller, had sideburns all the way down his jaw, and lots of attitude. He did not have a bad scent, particularly, just drunk, or young, or both. Jack shut him up by saying that he was about
to rip the guy's head off, shit in his lungs, then boil his head till the skull shined, and drink the rest of the vodka punch out of it. I love a lot of things about Jack, and his creative use of language is one of my favorite of his talents.

I linked up out on the deck with a bunch of guys talking about Nam and Iraq. I had to be careful, I always do, when talking about past wars and soldiering.  One guy, Jerry, was Army, 1st ID, and shows signs of PTSD. He was loud, near yelling, in conversation, and tossing down vodka punch and beers like their were doggy treats. He started telling a story about going to see a guy who was in his unit over in Iraq, who lost an arm, and about how they go into an argument over crack, how to cook it. He was yelling in his telling. I was sure everyone in the neighborhood could hear him. Another guy asked him if he could not yell so much. He said, "What do you mean?" But, his scent was good.

I went to go get my coat in an upstairs bedroom and got ambushed. Tabitha grabbed me and pulled me into a bathroom ad commenced to trying to undress both of us at the same time. I have to say, I was impressed. But, what really got my attention was her aroused scent. It was not altogether human. And there was something about her eyes, the coloring of the iris. And she was much stronger than she should have been for a small woman, which she is. I had to draw on some werestrength to disentangle myself. She was not happy when I slipped
back into the hall.

Sunday Sven and Rick came to get me. I was sleeping next to Goldie under the kitchen table. She is warm. I was tired. There is nothing as comfortable as sleeping with a dog, even for a dog. They never even knew I was gone the night before, just figured I was digging around in the yard.The whole day was spent doing post-party clean-up: pressure cleaning carpets with a rented Rug Doctor (the sound it made was worse than vacuums), washing and hand drying dishes and glasses, picking up, spot cleaning, laundry, taking down tables and chairs, loading it all up into vans and trucks to be returned, etc. I, of course, just napped, or tried to, through all the noise and commotion. Flecka and I napped together upstairs, out of the way. Bella spent the day hanging out in the kitchen, waiting on scraps to fall.

Jack and the boys took us to the dog run about middle of the afternoon. It was getting cold. I loved it, ran around like a wild dog. There was a dog there that looked just like Joe, a dog I used to know.

Monday, yesterday, Jack was home all day, looking for work online, making calls, searching sites, sending off and posting resumes. He was not in a god mood the whole day. Bella, Flecka and I each tried to cheer him up by putting our head on his leg. Didn't work. Each time he told us to go away. Jack is also short with the boys, tending to yell more and more. He told me last week at the bar that he hates this, but feels powerless to stop it.

I heard something late last night, went out to investigate, in human form, because of the doorknob. It was snowing, small, fast moving flakes. They left a crust of white on the ground. On the east side of the house I found tracks. Wolf. Not werewolf. Wolf. It didn't make sense. Why would a werewolf assume wolf form in suburbs? Only werewolf and human made sense in cities. I quickly did a perimeters sweep. No more tracks, other than those going in, and going out the same way. The scent was cold.

Today Jack has been gone since just after 9:00 am. It is still snowing outside. The flakes are large and falling slow. Drifts are collecting on the deck. Various and numerous birds are coming to the feeder on the deck, which, thank God, Jack remembered to refill with seeds this morning. Fleck and Bella have slept most of the day. I
slept some, but had much to catch up on. 

I called for a pack meeting. I need to report about the tracks, and about Tabitha. 

Tonight Warin and I go out tracking, in the fresh snow and frigid temps.

Chester

Dogs and Sensuality

I was at the bar tonight with Jack. He was pounding beers like Flecka
goes through doggy biscuits. I bought Jack a Jack, straight up.
Didn't take long for him to start opening up about misery at home.
Before I sensed her incoming, a woman named Jalecyn homed in on him
and his unhappiness like a shark on fresh blood.

Jalecyn had cougar tattooed on her inner thigh. I could smell it. She
had come in with a friend, a blonde with hoop earrings big enough to
shoot three pointers through. The blonde left and Jalecyn stayed. It
took her less than 3 minutes to be standing at the bar next to Jack.

Within 5 minutes Jack was smiling, all misery forgotten, telling
Jalecyn lies and intimacies, things I did not even know. Finally, to
my amusement, he began telling all about his dogs. And call me
biased, but he talked more about me than Bella or Flecka. So, I sat
there on my stool and listened to Jack tell all about me, how I bark
at everything, am a picky eater, love to pick fights with larger
males, have the most gorgeous yellow and gold coat, and noble muzzle.
I almost said, "Oh, stop."

Jalecyn was transfixed. What do you know? I thought. She's a dog
person. Or an animal person. Or something. She said she thought men
who understand dogs are sexy. Jack's nostrils and pupils dilated to
about the size of my eating bowl. She went on at length, describing
her doberman, how she likes to let him sleep on her bed, especially in
the winter, even though she knows she shouldn't, how she like to sleep
late with him weekend mornings. She described petting him, around his
head and tummy. She was turning Jack on. Hell, she was turning me on.

This ties in with the common knowledge that you can tell how sexual a
woman is by how she is with animals, particularly dogs and cats.
Watch a woman, or a man, and how she or he is with a dog, how she
touches the dog, pets the dog, and you know a lot about that woman's
sensuality, how she would be horizontal. People who feel compassion
and attachment for dogs tend to be the same with people. People who
will not allow themselves to love animals are probably stingy with
their love for other people. They see love as a liability, not a
liberation.

I figured at one point that I would have to throw a bucket of water on
Jack. But he turned to me and said, "Time for home." I said, "Right
behind you." Then I remembered that I had to go home on four paws and
slip back into the backyard before Jack got there. Jaclecyn could
tell he was wrapping up. She tried to get him to stay, with looks and
eyes and yearning, and said, "Why don't you stay?"

Crap. Someone is coming downstairs. It's Rick. Gotta shift.

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com

Fwd: Man Barks at Judge

This was in the news recently.  It is about a guy who robbed three Dunkin Donuts. (Don't those dumb SOBs know that cops hang out there.)  In court, before the judge, he started barking. Mr. James also barked on the phone when talking to another legal authority.

This is a link to the story: http://www.miamiherald.com/news/florida/AP/story/801428.html

I found a vid of him in court. His bark is pretty authentic. Maybe he is a werewolf, or weredog gone nuts, and is asking for a translator.

Chester

chester.weredog@gmail.com

Hard Times

Jack gave up looking for work. I know because I use his laptop and
read his e-mails. It's OK, though. Someone needs to watch over him.
So, he is out of the employment game. For now. No one hires this time
of year anyway. And Christmas is on our backs, as Jack says. Sherry
is freaking out, about parties and presents and decorations and
appearances and being able to enjoy it all. Enjoy Christmas. Yeah.
Right. I've been through too many Christmases to buy that bridge.

Anyway, Jack will start again in January looking for work. He will
have to put up with Sherry's griping until then. Or maybe Christmas
will be enough distraction for her.

Jack thinks he has it bad, he and lots of other people now. They
spent all day looking for work online and think they have it bad. I
spent The Great Depression in Wyoming, in the valley north of
Jackson. It wasn't bad. Times were tight. Sure. But, overall, life
was good. I lived with a rancher's family. We had cattle, and some
hogs and chickens. Sheep were also easy to come by locally. We grew
our own vegetables. Everyone did.

There were som foreclosures. But, not as bad as other parts of the
country, like Oklahoma. Everyone knew how to sew. Mending and
patching were necessities. We threw out nothing. I was also a fair
cobbler. A good pair of boots was nearly as valued as a good horse.
Canning was also a necessity. I still love pickled beets. I'll even
eat them as a dog. Yes, I was also in human phase during that time at
the foot of The Tetons. I was a dog on a ranch, and then was a cowboy
on that same ranch. That is another story.

Folks were still talking about the war, The Great War in Europe. Many
of the men fought in it, as did I. Few believed that it had been the
war to end all wars, especially the men who fought in it. They saw
it. They knew better.

I fell in love in Jackson. First with an Irish setter named Sheila,
them with a nurse named Pauline. Both had beautiful coats and limbs.
And both broke my heart. Another story.

It was then and there that I also first met and got to know a
werewolf. I spent much time in the woods, with my people, my family,
my friends and cattle. It was a warm spring day, I was collecting
steers to be inoculated. I looked up and saw a wolf, sitting,
watching me. I knew it was a werwolf. But, it was not displaying any
signs of aggression. She was just sitting there, watching me.

Jack should have been back by now. He's been gone a long time. I
wonder what he is up to.

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com

Clipping Claws

I am sitting here, doing e-mail, and watching the birds at the feeder
outside on the deck. Mostly, they are sparrows, some doves, and the
occasional cardinal. The males bring such red to the scene.
Incredible. But the females are beautiful too, with their own uniques
shades. The sparrows feed mostly from the feeder, suspended above the
deck from a curved 7 foot rod. The doves tend to feed off seeds
littered about the deck. I can still see patches of dried blood.

Jack clipped our claws yesterday afternoon. I hate getting my claws
clipped. It is too easy to clip too close. I am the hardest. I tend
to bite, even Jack, when it comes to claw clipping time. At those
times Jack tends to hit. Jack has a wallop. My bite against his
wallop. Bella says it is fun to watch. I trust Jack. But, I don't
trust that damn tool of pain he uses to clip our claws. In the year
2008, you might think that modern medical science could come up with a
less painful means to clip claws.

Flecka does not bite. No. She shakes uncontrollably, so bad that she
must lay down. But, that makes clipping her claws harder. Flecka is
a docile creature, except when it comes to food. But, today she
fought Jack and his instrument of pain. She did OK with the rear
paws. But, on the front-left paw she twisted and turned so much that
Jack cut one claw waaaaaay too short. It bled. And bled. And bled.

Jack got the antiseptic, dabbed it on. And left her outside. It was
a warm afternoon. I stayed out with her. Why not. Nice day and
all. But the claw kept bleeding. I could smell it, coppery and
warm. She kept licking it and I kept trying to tell her not to. But,
we dogs lick. It is one of the things we do we. Or a lot. I can
never remember which.

Flecka started barking, to get in, as the temperature started
dropping. Eventually Rick let us in. But, Flecka had not stopped
bleeding. Jack came back upstairs after ten minutes to find red spots
all over the carpet. The yelling began. But, he settled down soon,
realized it was his fault, settled into the task of carpet cleaning.

There is no better way to track than on blood. I prefer it even to
piss or shit. Blood calls to the senses. Shit repels. I'm no shit
roller, don't mind the smell all that much, and occasionally find some
interesting nuances in fresh piles of shit. But it does not call to
me, ever. Not like blood.

Jack is gone for the morning, running errands, getting ready for a
party. He and Sherry are hosting a holiday and birthday party for one
of Sherry's wild friends. Ought to be interesting, them hosting a
party, here, with them not getting along so well. I have to be here,
so have to figure out how to let me stay. Bella and Flecka are going
to stay at friend's.

Gotta go. Have to pay bills and check Facebook before Jack returns.

Chester
chester.weredog@gmail.com

Sleeping Arrangements

The family is gone to a game Sven is playing in. Jack says he is a damn good center. Rick too. But, they are on different teams.  I wish I could see them play sometime.  I really do.  But it is not possible. Dogs are not allowed in the school gyms, and the game are during the days. Too risky for me to shift and go to a game. I wish someone would shoot a vid. At least I would have that.

I worked late last night on Jack's laptop, with Bella and Flecka at my paws. I mean feet. I kept the fire going. Jack meant to let it go out. Bella and Flecka like fire, here in the fireplace or around a camp fire, such as at the ranch.

I was up so late that I was not on my game this morning when Jack let us out and fed us.  After eating I curled up behind the couch, next to a heat register.  I awoke half an hour later to Jack's voice, saying, "What the hell is this?" He was standing at the top of the basement stairs, holding Rooster, a look on his face that I could not discern between surprise or anger. I had forgotten to put Rooster back outside this morning. 

Piles of laundry are stacked on the floors of all bedrooms.  Sherry does that when pissed, to make a statement.  The intent is for Jack and the boys to fold it and put it all away.  Bailey and Bella like to sleep on the laundry piles. I've tried it.  Too small for me.  

Rick's bed is the best sleeping place in the house.  It is a plush queen and always a mess - sheets and blankets and comforter twisted and tossed all over the place, like some wild animal's den. I love it.  Some days, all 3 of us dogs will sleep there during the day, when everyone is gone.  Bailey even joins us sometimes, but stays toward the head, so as not to get crushed by rolling and stretching dog bodies.  The problem is our hair, which sheds and stays on the sheets and blankets, a tell-tale sign of our trespass.  Usually I will get up and get us all down, and shift with enough time to shake off the hair, to hide our signs. 

Sven's bed is a bunk. It is the realm of Bailey and Rooster, the only pets who can get up there. That drives Bella crazy.

So, the Rooster is out of the bag, so to speak. Jack threw a little fit this morning asking everyone who brought the stray cat in and what the hail did everyone think we are going to do with it.  Sven said it was him. God bless him. Actually, he and Rooster hit it off right away. I saw them. So, no more cat in the closet. But, will Rooster be able to live the domestic life?

Now I am going up to take a nap in Rick's bed, in dog form. Dog naps are best. Human physiology is not really designed for naps. 

Dog note: If truth be known, cats rule the nap world. That is part of their problem.

Chester

Werewolves, Evil for Certain?

Brandon asked how can I, or anyone, be certain that all werewolves are evil. 

That is a tough question. It used to be easy. Things used to be so much easier. There was a time when dogs and men and wolves were all one way or another.   

The modern world has made things more complex. It has made werewolves rethink their place, their role, their nature. As such, it seems that all werewolves are not intent on death and destruction as all werewolves used to be.   

The 2 female werewolves I have recently crossed paths with give me food for thought.  Their howl and scent was authentic. It stands to reason there are others, like them, who have given up their old, evil ways. At least to some extent.  

But, keep in mind, we weredogs and werewolves have been at this a long time, longer than the Israelis and Palestinians; longer than the Christians and the Muslims; longer than the English and the French; longer than even that of cats and dogs, and even longer than Chiefs and Raider fans.  

Hate is  a hard habit to break. It is harder to kick than booze or meth or sex or online gaming. It is a very reliable companion. It will never let you down.   

Yes. There are werewolves, and small packs and pockets of werewolves, that seem to be intent upon and able to live in peace with men and dogs. But, they are the exception and not the rule. 

How does one know which is which, who is who, and whether the raised lip that bared tooth is after your friendship or your flesh?  And who wants to take that risk?

I don’t know, don’t have answers, but d have some impure thoughts about some shewolves. And that is where it begins.

Rare Wolf at Risk

Just caught scent of this.  Jack is gone, so I am able to get on our . . . his laptop.  

- Chester

Rabies Barrier To Save World's Rarest Wolf

ScienceDaily (Nov. 30, 2008)

A team of Oxford University and Ethiopian conservationists are battling to save the world's rarest wolf from a rabies outbreak by creating a 'barrier' of vaccinated wolf packs.

The Ethiopian wolf is on the brink of extinction with less than 500 animals surviving on a handful of Ethiopian mountains. In their stronghold in the Bale Mountains National Park wolves live in close contact with the Oromo people. 

Whilst this coexistence is encouraging, it places the wolves at great risk of catching the rabies virus from the dogs the Oromo use to herd livestock.

Entire article:

http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/11/081119175533.htm

Chester:

This grieves me.  There are only 500 of these wolves left.  Rabies could easily wipe them out.  Borophagus and Osbornodon were wiped out from lesser forces.  I hope these scientists can halt this epidemic.  

Confused?  I do not hate wolves.  Wolves are not werewolves.  I am not even so certain anymore if werewolves are werewolves.  I have spent lots of time in the wilderness.  As you might recall, I was born in the wilderness, on a farm in the wilderness.  I have spent much time in the woods on many continents, mostly North America.  And as such, I have spent much time around wolves.  They are my cousins.  We get along.  I don't get invitations to wolf reunions.  But, there is no animosity.  That is reserved, or always has been reserved, for werewolves.  I won't got there now.

Rabies is our plague.  We dogs and weredogs do not fear AIDS.  We are nervous about ebola.  But, even the most courageous weredog's blood runs cold at the mention of rabies.  There are few things as terrifying as a weredog with rabies.  Even werewolves do not compare.  Rabies is almost a type or lycanthropy.  It changes dogs in worse ways. It is a horrible way to die. A pack will kill an infected member.  Seem cruel?  Past early stages, there is no cure.  It is a mercy. 

Yes, we get cancer, as my Bella can attest. All living beings get cancer.  Just the way it is. Cannot be helped. But, it is very different. Cancer leads only to pain, not madness, not rabies madness. 

Too many canines have been lost to the world.  We don't want to lose any more. But, these scientists have a hard task before them.  Ethiopia is a dangerous place, not ideal for conservation efforts.  Avoiding being perforated with lead is hard enough in Ethiopia today. 

Also, you got to admit, those are some good lookin' canines.  And the fact that they look a lot like me has nothing to do with that. 

chester.weredog@gmail.com