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Strange Bedfellows

[Kinky Friedman]

What happens in my bedroom after the lights go out? On most nights a lot of purring, scratching, and howling—not to mention heavy petting.

I
SLEEP IN
an old ranch house in the Hill Country with a shotgun under my bed and a cat on my head. The cat’s name is Lady Argyle, and she used to belong to my mother before Mom stepped on a rainbow. It is not a pleasant situation when you have a cat who insists on sleeping on your head like a hat and putting her whiskers in your left nostril all night long at intervals of about twenty-seven minutes. I haven’t actually timed this behavioral pattern, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the intervals were precisely twenty-seven minutes. This precarious set of affairs could have easily resulted in a hostage situation or a suicide pact, but as of this writing, neither has occurred. The two reasons are because I love Lady as much as a man is capable of loving a cat and Lady loves me as much as a cat is capable of loving a man. It is a blessing when an independent spirit like a cat loves you, and it’s a common human failing to underestimate or trivialize such a bond. On the other hand, it’s not a healthy thing to observe a man going to bed with a cat on his head like a hat. And, in the case of Lady and myself, there are observers.

The observers of this Van Gogh mental hospital scenario are four dogs, all of whom despise Lady—though not half as much as Lady despises them. The dogs sleep on the bed too, and they find it unnerving, not to say unpleasant, to be in the presence of a man who has a cat on his head. I’ve tried to discuss this with them on innumerable occasions, but it isn’t easy to state your case to four dogs who are looking at you with pity in their eyes.

Mr. Magoo is five years old and highly skilled at how to be resigned to a sorry situation. He’s a deadbeat dad, so his two sons, Brownie and Chumley, are with us as well. Brownie and Chumley were so named after my sister Marcie’s two imaginary childhood friends and fairly recently have been left in my care, as she departed for Vietnam with the International Red Cross, an assignment she correctly deduced might be harmful to the health, education, and welfare of Brownie and Chumley. The animals divide their time between my place and the Utopia Animal Rescue Ranch, a sanctuary for abused and stray animals. (It’s run by Nancy Parker and Tony Simons; my role is the Gandhi-like figure. For more information go to utopiarescue.com.)

If you’ve been spiritually deprived as a child and are not an animal lover, you may already be in a coma from reading this. That’s good because I don’t care a flea about people who don’t love animals. I shall continue my impassioned tale, and I shall not stop until the last dog is sleeping.

The last dog is Hank. He looks like one of the flying monkeys in
The Wizard of Oz,
and he doesn’t understand that the cat can and will hurt him and me and the entire Polish army if we get in her way. Lady is about eighteen years old and has lived in this house on this ranch almost all her life, and she doesn’t need to be growled at by a little dog with a death wish.

So I’ve got the cat hanging down over one side of my face like a purring stalactite with her whiskers poking into my left nostril and Hank on the other side who completely fails to grasp the mortal danger he’s placing both of us in by playfully provoking the cat. It’s 3:09 in the morning, and suddenly a deafening cacophony of barking, hissing, and shrieking erupts, with Lady taking a murderous swat at Hank directly across my fluttering eyelids and Mr. Magoo stepping heavily on my slumbering scrotum as all of the animals bolt off the bed simultaneously. This invariably signals the arrival of Dilly, my pet armadillo.

Dilly has been showing up with the punctuality of a German train in my backyard for years. I feed him cat food, dog food, bacon grease, anything. He is a shy, crepuscular, oddly Christ-like creature whose arrival brings a measure of comfort to me at the same time it causes all of the dogs to go into attack mode. It is not really necessary to describe what effect this always has on Lady.

After I’ve slipped outside and fed Dilly, I gather the animals about me like little pieces of my soul. I explain to them once again that Dilly is an old, spiritual friend of mine who is cursed with living in a state full of loud, brash Texans, and we don’t have to make things worse. Somewhere there is a planet, I tell them, inhabited principally by sentient armadillos who occasionally carve up dead humans and sell them as baskets by the roadside. Perhaps not surprisingly, the animals seem to relate to this peculiar vision. Then we all go back to bed and dream of fields full of slow-moving rabbits and mice and cowboys and Indians and imaginary childhood friends and tail fins on Cadillacs and girls in the summertime and everything else that time has taken away.

[
A dog’s pathos is that his mouth is his hand.—Dan Liebert
]

Doggy Love

[Scott Bradfield]

Tall, Dark, and Furry

I find it quite awkward all this silly writing about myself, but here goes.

I am a reasonably attractive mixed-breed Setter and blond Lab (on my mother’s side) seeking a companionable mate in the vicinity of Regent’s Park, where my master takes me most afternoons between four and five-thirty. I am three years old and, while still a virgin, my genitalia remain fully intact, which has led to some rather embarrassing confrontations with my master’s guests recently. Especially if they’ve been in contact with a female dog in the last, say, seven or eight hours.

I can’t help myself. I’m quite amorous by nature.

I enjoy grooming (myself and others), television (with the sound off), and most of Haydn’s late wind concertos, even though they are normally dismissed by the world’s dull-as-dishwater Mozart enthusiasts. I’m not disparaging Mozart, understand. I just think there were a lot of equally talented eighteenth-century composers running around Europe, even if their lives weren’t melodramatic enough to inspire an Oscar-winning film by Milos Forman.

My ideal partner would be a mixed breed like myself, since I don’t want to get into a lot of weird social games about who pisses where. She should be attractive, with a nice rump, and enjoy the same things I do, such as catching flies, and illegally bathing in the duck pond. Also, it would help if her master got along with my master, kind of like in
101 Dalmatians.
My master, incidentally, is a very kind (and totally unattractive) human male who doesn’t like living alone any more than I do. When he’s not at work flogging surplus capital in the City, he lies around the house masturbating and watching Nazi documentaries on the History Channel.

No time wasters, please. Photo available on request.

This Lady’s Not for Stroking

Dear TDF,

I joined this service as a trial member a few nights back when I came across your profile. You sound really nice and yes, I, too, live within the immediate vicinity of Regent’s Park.

It feels sad joining a computer dating service, but I’m a middle-aged bitch who has never been on a proper date in her entire life, so I’ve got to start somewhere. I should mention right off that I’m not a virgin. This is due to an unfortunate week spent in the so-called “animal-friendly” Doggy-Do Kennels in West 14, when my mistress went to Barbados. It’s an experience I’d just as soon not talk about right now.

I hate trying to describe myself, so I’ve attached a recent e-photo. Sorry my mistress is in it, but she butts into all my photos. And yes, I realize she is pretty unattractive, even for a human female. But she has a good heart and walks me twice a day. So I guess I probably love her.

As for my likes and dislikes, here goes.

I like long runs at the beach; raw meat (though I can get along fine on cereal); and lazy days lying at home on the shag carpet with a good video. I guess it’s hard to describe my ideal mate, since it boils down to a matter of chemistry, but I value honesty and a good sense of humor above all else. And well, okay. A great-looking rump doesn’t hurt.

On the other hand, I hate phoniness and cynicism and needless cruelty to trees.

Hope to hear from you soon,
Denise

Russian Princess Seeks American Prince

Zdrastvuyte
from Mother Russia, where lonely Slavic princess find herself living with great-nippled Mamma and six beautiful lesbian sisters. I am being much fond of America and its peoples all the time, where I would like to visit shortly, preferring it be in company of tall handsome butch American so-and-so. Perhaps you may find yourself this hunky pup as described?

Perhaps we become pen pals and you help me with my troubled English?

Love,
Anastasia

P.S. My rump not so terrible for looking at neither. But why take my word for it? Check out my doggy action at wolfbitches.co.ru. And prepare yourself for hot humpy loving all night long!

Lovely

Dear Denise,

Thank you so much for your lovely photo. I had my doubts before, but perhaps this Internet dating service has its merits.

Time will tell, perhaps.

Please find attached a recent photo of myself on holiday last spring in the Lake District, a gorgeous country filled with so many brilliant smells you wouldn’t believe it. I know I’m no Rin Tin Tin in the looks department, but that has never left me wanting for female admirers, since I possess many compelling natural odors that are not convertible into rich text format.

Of course, this innate attraction to the opposite sex has never paid off in what might be called carnal dividends. Sure, I’m allowed to race and frolic with the ladies of Regent’s Park, but once the action gets serious? My master hits me on the nose with a rolled-up copy of
Private Eye.

I loathe
Private Eye.
I don’t know about you, but I genuinely loathe it.

Maybe we could meet sometime soon. My master and I usually arrive at Marylebone Green around four or four-thirty.

Is your mistress persuadable?

Your new friend,
Randall

Do You Yahoo?

Dear Randall,

I’m sorry I took so long getting back to you. My mistress was home sick and I couldn’t get near the PC.

What a handsome doggy, Randall; I’m really impressed. You’re definitely a lot better looking than you seem to realize. (Not that looks matter to me in the long run.) Actually, I still have my doubts about this dating service. With the obvious exception of yourself, Randall, the only people who ever write me seem like total creeps and weirdos. Russian pornographers, cosmetic surgeons, international loan brokers, and e-perverts of every species and description. It makes you wonder about the genetic imperative, doesn’t it? Reproduce or die. Is that what it’s all about?

Being a single female in the big city has made me a little cynical, I guess. As far as an assignation, I’ll see what I can do. There are two ends to every leash, as my old mom used to say.

Love,
Denise

Doggy Doggy Doggy Doggy

Doggy doggy doggy me love doggy doggy are me favorite me like big doggy me like strong mean doggy doggy get mad and bite me doggy get mad and chase me down and bite me hard like big strong doggy bite me hard miaow sorry for that miaow sorry for that me a big doggy me a miaow sorry sorry big mean doggy paws are too big for master keyboard miaow love the big doggy love the big doggy doggy love me?

Please write back please send photo of big mean doggy growling hot angry all night long photo please jpg format please big doggy so hot and angry me want you so bad me a very big doggy me very strong doggy please love me please.

Your obedient doggy need discipline now,
Rosco the Very Big Doggy Definitely Not a Cat Miaow

A Perfect Day

Dear Denise,

What a lovely day in the park. Even if the best part did only last a few seconds. I love my master and remain devoted to him. But if he ever goes near you again with that rolled-up copy of
Private Eye,
I’ll see to it personally that he spends the rest of his life learning to sit on one buttock.

Will write more later but I can already hear his feet on the pavement and smell his awful signature odor wafting through the kitchen window. I can’t help myself.

I just start barking like crazy.

Will write more soon,
Randall

Counter-conditioning

Dearest Randall,

What can I say? I detected a pretty convincing whiff from our correspondence, but as soon as I smelled you coming across the children’s playground I knew you in my bones, Randall. You make me feel like radar.

It was so perfect. The bits of sun shining through and the green grass and the dusty pollen everywhere. Racing and snapping at each other and then you caught me (just at the moment I let you) and please, don’t blame your master for getting strict with that rolled-up rag. We both kind of deserved it.

That weird orange cat freaked me out, though. Slithering through the nasturtiums and purring and hissing and licking himself. What a creepy guy.

Do you think our respective masters hit it off? They hardly looked each other in the eye, which, considering their appalling features, is pretty understandable. And the smell!

How can they make love face to face?

Love,
Denise

Brainy Hunk Seeks Same or Better

As you can see from the attached photo, I’m a great-looking, well-exercised, full-blooded German Shepherd who believes in maintaining himself both in body and mind. As such, I spend large parts of the day contemplating life’s inpenetrable mysteries, such as the meaning of existence, or the corporate destruction of animal life. Not to mention I once caught thirty-seven Frisbees in a row at the beach.

Do you ever wonder what’s really going on inside the heads of our bizarre and often useless masters? Do you ever wonder how healthy, intelligent dogs such as ourselves kept in touch before this marvelous invention called the Internet? Do you feel it’s time for a revolutionary change in the cause of animal rights? And I’m not just talking about the poor cows and pigs being chopped up for sandwiches. I’m talking about us dogs, who have been unfairly restricted from attending our nation’s churches, schools, and government buildings for centuries.

When was the last time you saw a dog run for Congress or Parliament? And considering the woeful state of our Western democracies, who could it hurt?

If you ever stay awake nights worrying about these and other questions, please drop me a line. And don’t forget to attach a photo of your hairy posterior, just so I know our chemistry is clicking.

Love,
Rex

So Long You’ve Been Gone

Denise? Honey?

Every day we go to the park and you’re not there. I know it’s hopeless in terms of a long-term relationship. I know our masters are too hideous to develop an attachment to each other. But I can only think about tomorrow, Denise. I need to see you.

Even if it’s only for an hour or a minute.

Will I? Soon?

Love,
Randall

Someone to Share the Magic

Dear Randall,

Can’t talk now. I’ve been doing a little research and you won’t believe what I learned. I feel so ashamed for all those silly, cynical things I said about Internet dating services! Hold on, baby! We’re almost home.

Love,
Denise

Oriental Beauty Seeks American Male for Much Loving

Do you often wish for lovely Oriental bitch with much loving for to give? Do you live in a warm climate with many electrical appliances for personal entertainment and comfort? Do you much desire small bundle of Chinese love to cuddle in your big soft doggy bed? Me would wish enjoy such cozy doggy bed much time soon.

Perhaps you consider marriage or cross-breeding or even cohabitation with little Chinese beauty of much loving to give.

Please send photo of esteemed doggy self along with photo of sunny backyard, photo of local trees and vegetation, photo of master(s) and/or mistress(es), and especially photo of cozy doggy bed.

Me looking forward often to hearing from you much time early.

Love,
Yinyang

First Contact

Dear Reginald of Regent’s Park,

Please believe that I never evinced myself in this brash manner previously, but I was browsing the singles Web sites and consequently made visual contact with your photo and profile under the mutually intriguing title “Lonely but Loving.” What a fortuitous circumstance of formidable complexity!

Perhaps you will not recall an incident of such inherent triviality, but we actually encountered one another in Regent’s Park last week, or more accurately, our canine associates encountered one another in what might have developed into an unwholesome public display had you not intervened with your handy magazine, of which I am likewise fond on many occasions.

I have considered your scent often in the many weeks since our encounter and cannot get your attractive buttocks out of my mind. You will have to pardon my American bravado and vocabulary. I believe you refer to it as your “bum,” and might consider it gauche for a strange bitch such as myself to speak of it openly in free correspondence.

Please excuse my American candor, however, and perhaps my resultant awkwardness in formal composition regarding these matters. But I felt I must write you since it has caused me much joy to contemplate our reencounter in a parklike setting of our mutual convenience.

Perhaps I might put this more bluntly. Could we perhaps meet sometime soon? Since you are the male aggressor in such matters, I will leave the time and place to your decision totally.

Might it not be pleasing to our canine associates to come along for the encounter? I am sure they have learned their lesson, and will not grow excessively amorous in any way disturbing to public decency, especially that of the English.

In case you are lachrymose in recalling my attractivity, I have enclosed an e-photo of my most compelling feature. Please use it as you see fit, say as a screen saver on your computer, which would remind you of my charms periodically and will arouse your semen-delivery mechanisms.