Better than an All-night Drunk

Every now and then, the Boss takes me along on a business adventure. This time it’s downtown to a warehouse where he’s designin’ a nightclub for some fool with more money than God.

The place is a wreck, but the Boss don’t care. He knows the fire marshal will back him up and as long as he’s got enough auto sprinklers, he can kick-ass the design.

So we get there and I’m tryin’ to be cool, but I just smell rats everywhere. I follow him inside and listen while he’s going on with the owner ‘bout how sexy the place will be, etc. I don’t care. The music’s probably gonna be too loud most of the time for me. I’m more interested in the dumpster out back where the construction workers are throwin’ their leftover lunches. I know there’s rats in that dumpster. Gotta be.

So I slip out the door and circle the dumpster. Shoulda known the fuckin’ feral cats would be on it before I could get a good sniff in sideways. Nonetheless, there’re pussies, sittin’ on top of the dumpster walls waitin’ for me to kick some rats to the curb. Man’s game. Step aside.

There’s a lot of paint and spent sheet rock mud and well, let’s just say, I come up smellin’ and shitty lookin’. Ever seen a Brussels Griffon lookin’ like Casper, the Friendly Furry Ghost, all dolled up in white. Well, no never mind. I’m busy flingin’ rats outta the dumpster for the cats to snatch away. Sorta like fishin’. Snag ‘em and jag ‘em. Then throw ‘em back for more fun. The cats don’t see it that way. They’re haulin’ ass away as soon as they snatch a broke-necked one. I’m about wore out when the Boss whistles. Now, mind you, I look like shaved shit, only much more stinky. I’m havin’ too much fun to care.

The Boss shakes his head. I know the hose is next. Don’t care. Had a helluva time. No hangover in the mornin', either.

Doggin' Cats

I wouldn’t be a canine without doggin’ on cats. There’s a certain dogliness to it, sort of like guys getting’ all jacked up on football. I’d love to toss a few furry things around, too. “Go long, go long. Oh, no, Peterson drops another cat, I mean catch.” So much for the Vikings’ shot at the Super Bowl.

Gotta hand it to cats, though. Unlike my bark-happy brethren, cats know to be quiet, sit back, and cough up a fine fur ball now and then. Lots of times you don’t even know they’re in the room… but if you do spot one, you know what those condescending cocksuckers are thinking: “Putting out the Limoges? You can’t be serious! Her friends always bring only beer.” Don’t make no difference to me. I’m right there when they spill it on the travertine.

The Boss don’t care, either. Good taste should never take a holiday.