« four awl intensive porpoises, were back! | Main | Legal Immigrants for Sale »

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.

Comments

what's with the nighmarish duck?

You're asking me? Look it up.

If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck and flies like a duck but is over five feet tall then it can only be the mythic meat-eating monster mutant mallard of Alpo Grape. Few dogs have seen it and lived to tell the tale.

I may have passed to another plane in 2005, but I am watching you two. In fact, now I can see EVERYTHING you do, no matter where you are. You think you can makeup any kind of crap and the idiots on the Net will swallow it. Alpo Grape my ass! You were lazing around a pool in Vegas the whole time. Hah! Thought you were rid of me...

Email this entry to:


Your email address:


Message (optional):