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    June 29, 2006

Sour Alpo Grapes

chigger

I am a dog. I have been a dog for virtually my entire life of 70.8 years. I have always felt that being a dog carries with it certain responsibilities such as loyalty, friendliness, joyfulness, protection, respect, guidance, perseverance and the ability to train a human to shake your paw before you let them give you a treat.

Chigger in pain

But now, after suffering through two years of complete and total degradation, I must add another responsibility to that list. And that is to bear witness. I must tell you, as dispassionately as I can, about the despicable humiliations we were subjected to in the notorious Alpo Grape prison. (My story will be accompanied by photographs that were surreptitiously downloaded from the cell phone camera of some pathetic conceptual artist who saw our condition as nothing more than fodder for his next pathetic exhibition in some pathetic 7th-floor-walk-up gallery-and-discount-frame-shop in Chelsea. Sheesh. I can remember when an MFA meant something.)

Chigger in pain

The details of how and why we were abducted will have to wait until we've ironed out the small print in the movie rights deal, but I can certainly tell you about the numerous instances of sadistic, blatant, and wanton criminal abuse that were perpetrated upon us.

It started as soon as we arrived. Gangs of young women came into the room and held us down while an older human stuck long needles in us. Oh wait, that wasn't Alpo Grape, that was the vet. Let me start over.

Gangs of young women can in and forced us into a tub-like thing and began spraying us with a high-pressure water hose. I panicked but they overwhelmed me and continued to spray me in all parts of my body. Then they rubbed some chemical foaming agent all over my body. Then more water. When I couldn't answer their questions, they tortured me with some kind of hot-air gun weapon. They grab my paws and took each individual toe and slowly cut off the end of each nail with a medieval cutting device, all the while sneering derisively, "Is that okay? Then we're going to do another one." And when I still didn't talk they tore at my fur with a multi-toothed torture device that pulled huge quantities of hair from my skin.

Woody in pain

Over and over again they hollered questions at me: "Do you want to go for a walk? Do you want to walk?" I didn't know what they meant, and when I didn't answer they tied a long strap to my neck and forced me to follow them outdoors and trudge around the building complex. My arthritis was killing me.

Later they forced us to wear clothes and hats and laughed derisively as they took pictures. Often we were forced to assume humiliating poses, sort of like those poor weimaraners that that Wegman fellow abuses. They made us go for rides in cars but wouldn't let us put our heads out the window.

Woody in pain

As the torture escalated, they forcibly prevented us from eating cat turds, and refused to let us smell human crotches or even other dogs' butts. The tortured us psychologically by picking up sticks and feigning to throw them long distances while hollering "fetch," when in reality they were merely transferring the stick to their other hand and hiding it behind their back. All the while we were becoming increasingly disoriented by our failures to complete the task.

I could go on, but what's the point? You can imagine what they fed us: garbage like cooked vegetables and rice while gourmet-quality rotting raw meat was thrown into trash cans, out of sight, but not out of smell, just to torture us. And when they brought out the giant military ducks (without muzzles) to frighten and intimidate us, I thought Woody was a goner.

Woody in pain

Anyway, I'm sure you'll read elsewhere about our heroic escape, the way we played dead and then jumped out of the pick-up that was taking us to the horse-food factory. How we crossed the river by jumping from ice floe to ice floe and slew the great white whale, how we followed a yellow brick road to a Moroccan piano bar named "Rick's" where we met Inigo Montoya and saved him from the six-fingered man, and how he later helped us outwit the Queen of Hearts in a game of croquette. But I've said too much already. It's only going to hurt royalties.

Just let me say that it's nice to be back.

    June 28, 2006

four awl intensive porpoises, were back!

woody

wolf wolf wolf! it is with a micks of grate pleasure end extreme releap that eye report two ewe awl that we… the won end only blogdogs… our back!!!! eye no eye no, most of ewe want two no “wear ewe bin”? and eye no sum of ewe wrote inn end axed “hay dog-breads, wears my money”? as four sadie and daisy, jest quit barking long enough four me to explain. ginger meant nothing two me. it is ewe eye care about. we can settle this without lawyers.

sew lettuce cut two the chase. did we get board, run out of ideas, end quit? eye should say knot. did we, as so many speculated, run off two dog island? eye wish! did we just get tired of righting? us? shirley ewe jest.

the reel and shocking truth is that we, yor loyal end devoted bloggers, have, as outrageous as it sounds, bean held against hour wills as illegal retainees at the notorious ALPO GRAPE prison for moor than 15 dog years. end we half got the pitchers two prove it!

Lynndie & Woody

soon, eye will tell ewe moor. butt four now, my brain must drain, my paws must pause. bare with me while I sort out this sadie/daisy/ginger confusion end isle get write back two righting sum moor.