Family Update

12 days since my last post. Been busy. Patrols nearly every night. And out most every day. Things to do. It gets exhausting slipping out and in, 4 times a day, and night. Little time for sleep.

Jack is working days. I guess. He leaves and is gone all day. But, even though I read his emails at night, and review his phone texts, I have no idea what he is doing. But, he is still on edge.

Sherry is silent at home, hates her work in the OR, says the doctors are all bastards. Except for a few. Too few. She says most docs need serious attitude and ego adjustment. Most everyone does. People especially. A few dogs too.

Ricky is now heavier than Jack, 207b lbs. And he is strong. Only 14. He has Asperger's, which means tantrums. For now, Jack can still handle him, when he loses total control, sing just joint locks and pressure points. But, he knows, eventually, he will have to use harder methods, as Ricky gets much larger and stronger. I can smell Jack's frustration.

Sven, the golden boy - intelligent, sensitive, athletic, gorgeous - bears the brunt of Jack's angst, that which is really meant for Ricky. Jack has taken to slapping Sven up side the head, for no reason. Last week he did it 5 times in one night, laughing or snarling each time. I love Jack. But, I wanted to bite the sumbitch each time he did that, each time more than the previous. Jack is really starting to piss me off.

Braden is back from Iraq. Early. Wounded. Convalescence. I had no idea he was coming home. I don't think he did either. He is on something. I can smell it. He has PTSD. I can smell it. He has lost who he is, and what he is. I can't smell it. He is still fighting, his own war now.

I came home 3 nights ago, about 4am, curled up on the floor downstairs, and went to sleep. I was tired. Very tired. I awoke the next morning, late, around 9am, to an empty house. All the people - Jack, Sherry, Sven and Rick - were gone. No sign of where they went. That was 3 nights ago.

I have been keeping things running, feeding all the other dogs, cats, and assorted pests. I don't how to this will play out when they return home. When they return home.

I have been out every night and day looking for them. Nada. My pack has been helping, looking. Still. Nada.

And I cannot find Warin. His scent is cold in his house.

I am in tonight. Sleeping light. Every night is light. Until I find out where Jack and Sherry are, or see them here.

10 Worst Evolutionary Designs

This is fairly entertaining,

10 Worst Evolutionary Designs

Sample:

2 Hyena clitoris. When engorged, this "pseudopenis," which doubles as the birth canal, becomes so hard it can crush babies to death during exit.

6 Shark-fetus teeth. A few shark species have live births (instead of laying eggs). The Jaws juniors grow teeth in the womb. The first sibling or two to mature sometimes eat their siblings in utero. Mmm ... siblings.

Chester

Dogfighting Crack-downs

Another story about recent raids in dogfighter.

http://www.kansascity.com/105/story/1360417.html

Weredogs are reserved about this trend. We aren't sure yet if this is a fashion or if it really spells a new attitude for dogs amongst most people. Dogs have no comment.

Dogs have long put up with the price of being "mans best friend." Often has been the case that men did not know how to treat their best friend, and seemed to think that "toy" was synonymous with "friend.

This was not always the case. According to werelore, men and dogs used to share a common bond that was built on trust and respect. Man realized the debt they owed dogs in the great war on neanders and wolves. But, over time, man forgot. His memory dulled. Monotheism showed up. Woman and dog were told to go to the back of the hut and lay down.

But, dog has not forgotten. We stay obedient, because we d remember. And we continue to hope. These raids, these widely changing attitudes, give us hope. Humans' reverence for life seems to be returning. But, of course, at the same time, it is diminishing. Such is always the case during times of great and global wars. And some religions are always driving the devaluation of life.

And then there are the neos. They seem to be bent on the destruction of everything, even themselves. It doesn't make sense. Maybe I will someday be able to ask one of them about that, how that works. But, to do that I would have to arrest my impulse to kill them, in order to talk to them. And that is a tall order. But, I used to think the same about werewolves.

Robot Eating Dead?!

Holy hell. Received this recently from a weredog friend. Sometimes people really worry me. Don't these people ever watch movies, for chrissakes? Have they not seen any of the Terminator movies?! Can someone please give them a wake-up call?
- Chester

Military Robot Could Eat Dead Bodies
A steam-powered robot is being designed to fuel itself by consuming organic material, from grass to furniture or even dead bodies.

But c'mon, could the U.S. military really deploy something to do that without a global outcry? The 'bot, from Robotic Technology Inc., is called the Energetically Autonomous Tactical Robot (EATR). It can "find, ingest, and extract energy from biomass." http://www.livescience.com/technology/etc/090715-military-robot-could-eat-dead-bodies.html

Chester: The human pursuit of technology is frightening. It is something that even us weredogs do not often understand.
- Chester

Looking Down Jack's Barrel

When I got home last night I planned to slip in quiet, take it easy, no email, snacks or beer. Just head upstairs and find a comfy spot on the floor near Jack and Sheri's bed and get some shut-eye.

About 3am I heard something outside, on the east side of the house. I got up quietly, oozed downstairs, which is a real challenge because 3 of the stairs squeak, and went over to the east end of the house and listened. Sure enough, someone, or something, was out there. I had to find out who or what.

I shifted to weredog form, then called up Warin. No answer. He was out. I slipped out the patio door in back and made my way around to the east side. Someone was there, or had been. Their scent was still warm in the air, on the bushes and grass. It was in my mouth and nostrils like ripe cologne.

I moved down to the fence. Nothing. I then turned 4 degrees left and moved into the neighbors yard. After several minutes I was back moving into our yard having not seen or heard anything. Then I heard the shuck-shuck of a 12 gauge.

I knew immediately it was Jack. I know the sound of his Ithaca 37. I am a shotgun man myself, when in man form. I have always favored shotguns when I soldiered, in human form. Only for close in work, of course - trenches, buildings, cabins, dense jungle, that sort of thing. I alos know that Jack keeps 12 gauge rifle slugs loaded in that bad boy. I know where all Jack's weapons are located. I keep them in mind in case I might need them. Especially the .45 and 10mm. And Jack was aiming that bad boy right at me.

Thank Dog I was still in the trees and bushes some. Jack said, "Come on out of there, reeeeeal slow." I said, "Hey, Jack, take it easy. Relax, man." He lowered the gun just a bit, squinted, and in a voice a few octaves higher, said, "Who is that?" "Me." "Me who?"

As we talked I was shifting to human form. Finally, I came out into the night. He shined a flashlight on me. "What the hell are you doing here, man?"

I implied that I was visiting one of his neighbors, a wife, trying to sound hesitant to say more. He held up a hand, lowered the shotgun, said, "Never mind. I don't want to know who." He invited me inside for a beer. I accepted.

"Haven't seen you at the bar recently," I said.

He nodded sagely. "Haven't been to any bars much lately." He told me all about his recent travails and terrors. Most I knew. Some I did not. It is amazing, but there are things a man will tell a drinking buddy that he will not tell his dog. I don't understand that. Suffice it to say, I did not know the full extent of how bad things are.

Jack got to where he could not keep his head up. He told me to let myself out, then went upstairs. I said "OK," then waited ten minutes before I checked all the doors and followed him up.

I drank only one beer with Jack, and none of the new Eskimo vodka he got this week. I wanted to sleep alert the rest of the night, in case whatever was out there before came back around.

Now, here we are, the next night, Sunday, and now signs or sounds to report. I told all the other animals to sleep alert. Rooster does anyways. And Sparkle barks when a firefly farts across the street. I am going to get some sleep. We should be covered.

Willie the Wonder Dog

Things were quiet this week, until last night. I went over to Warin's. As you might recall, he lives only a few blocks from me. Convenient. When I walked in the house I immediately picked up a strange, and somewhat disturbing scent. Not dangerous. Just odd.

I moved into the house slowly, quietly. I found Warin in the kitchen with Holly and a guy I had never seen. But, it was his odd scent I picked up at the door. Warin and Holly said hello and introduced me to Willy.

Willy was chattering away when I entered the room. He looked to me and never stopped. He was smoking. Weredogs, like dogs, hate cigarettes. But, sometimes we will use them to mask scent in a small room. Outside, in the open, fires can do the same, depending on winds and temp. But, I digress.

Holly got a call on her mobile and walked out to talk. Warin said he had to go upstairs. "You 2 get to know each other," he said, then left the room. I offered Willy my hand. He took it, shook it like a puppy on a chew toy, and launched off again on a verbal ramble-assault that would have sent a hyper-active shitzu in retreat.

"You're hyper," I said when after about five minutes he stopped to breath and take an extra long pull on the current cigarette in his chain.

"Actually, I'm not hyper," he said. "Really?" "No, really," he said. "It's learned behavior. I'm actually very laid back. Near corpse like. Matter of fact most of my family members and co-workers are always asking me if I'm stoned. I'm not. Not anymore. The reason I often seem so is because I watched too many soap operas as a child. It killed half my brain. Cartoons killed the other half. You see my mother was a welfare mom and to make extra money she did ironing out of our house. Why was I not in school, you ask? Well, I was home when I was not travelling as Willy The Wonder Dog Boy. See, another of Mom's money making gimmicks w⁄as to tour me with a carnival as a side show. Willy The Wonder Dog Boy. That was me. Of course, I wasnt a dog, or even half so. What we did was whenever my Mom gave me and my brothers and sisters our six-month haircuts she would save the clippings and super-glue them to my cheeks and neck. She got very good at it. It was quite convincing. So, then I would go off with the carnival. The superglue usually lasted as long as the carnival season did, until my skin was so raw that she had to stop. We really ran into trouble when I reached adolescence. Acne played havoc on my facial fur. And also my bite began to get worse than my bark. Haha. Little joke there. The outcome of all this also is that I can immitate perfectly the barks of thirty-two different breeds of dogs. I am told I could have a very lucrative career as a dog caller except for the fact that no one hunts dogs. For years I have been lobbying Alabama to step forward and be the first to declare Dog Season. I'd be set. I already have a robust business plan to release a whole series of books and tapes on how to call different breeds of dogs. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

"No, that's OK. You dont need to do that."

"It's no problem."

"No, please, don't."

"OK. Another time maybe."

When finally Warin came back down he had a half-smile on his face. I gave a little growl that only heard to let him know my displeasure and need to flee. Holly came back in and said, "Come one, Willy. Let's go."

After they left I said, "What was he doing here?"

"We need him," said Warin.

"Why is that? For what?"

"He knows about us."

"How so?" Warin shrugged. "Says he can smell us. He came right up to Holly at the mall and asked what breed she is in dog form."

"Oh shit."

"Oh yeah." Warin went to his fridge and pulled 2 Boulevards while I mulled over this information. He came back over to me, handed me one, and said, "And he claims that he lives with a family of 'gars'."

"A family of what?"

"We call them 'neos'."

"Oh hell."

Mother Squirrel

This just crossed my radar.

Lesson for the day: Don't mess with mother squirrels.

This black lab mix thinks to have some fun with this juvenile squirrel.

But, mommy has other ideas.

"Whoa! Hey, lady! Get the hell off me!"

"Wait. What the hell just happened here? Did I just get my ass whooped by a squirrel?!"

Maybe the larger lesson is: Don't mess with mothers.