By Mark David Blum, Esq.
It all started, as they all do, innocently enough, when world class photographer and all around amazing business woman Lauren Comerford posted the above picture. Well the jokes came from far afield and from dark corners of the perverted minds that lurk about the internet. It got so bad, that I began to openly ...speculate not only what the dog was thinking (oh, so THAT is where they hide the treats) to a more philosophical assuage where I pondered the view of life from the perspective of a dog. Surprisingly, there were no cat jokes; probably a better idea.
At some point, the conversation morph'd. I was dared to write an essay about the photograph ... from the dog's point of view. Sounded like great fun and in an hour, what follows is the result. Essay writing is my art and I love to be challenged. This challenge was way outside the norm and I was looking forward to it. With that all being said .... and be forewarned, the short tail is a tad ribald. But then again, look at the dog's view.
So first let me tell you what I, as a human being, think of the picture. There is the obvious: a beautiful woman, a cute dog, a provocative and seductive stance, encapsulated by the strictness of black and white and caged by the trees. The contrast between black and white and black and black is crisp and helps focus the eye into the three dimensional portrait offered. In other words, its’ a pretty cool shot.
But, at the request of Lady Comerford, this essay is not about me, but rather how a dog views the world. To help bring that to life, I need to change and rearrange some parts inside my head so that my worldview changesbark. Woops. Changes. How can anybody write as a dog if they are not in fact, lurking behind the eyes of one – especially those puppy eyes in the photograph focused on the truest of all beautiful things in life.
Excuse me while I lick myself. You don’t like that. I can tell. Everytime I lay here and slowly and with great ease, lick all my most sensitive boy parts, I see a sneer in your eye. Telling me to “stop doing that” is just blather. You think I know what you are talking about? You think I care? Jeez, if you just left me alone to lick myself, we could all get along much better. Besides, its’ what we dogs do. If we cant lick it, fuck it, or eat it then who needs it. The ability to lick myself is where I know my life is much better than a human’s. They cant do what I do and I bet that drives them insane sometimes. You may hear me barking, but you will never know I am just laughing at you and going “neeener neeener neeener – I can lick myself and youuuuuuu cannnnn tttt.”
The other fun thing I like to do that drives you nuts and you cant stop me is watching you when you have sex. It is so much fun getting right up to the edge of the bed and sticking my wet nose into some crevice where it doesn’t belong. I laugh so much because you don’t think I know what you are doing or whether I am passing moral judgment on you. Me, I do it because it’s just fun to watch. There is also that sweet sweet smell of sex that permeates the room and makes me so horny I want to go out and fuck a bitch.
My housemate is a screamer in bed. When she screams, I howl along. She screams louder in response and I continue to howl. Eventually she starts laughing and from what I can tell, they are ‘done’. Hay, being an asshole is a dog’s life.
But I have to admit it is indeed a dog’s life to be the “precious little love bug” of a 20 something young woman with a fabulous sense of style. Every day its the same thing; she comes home, I go running over, she bends a little, and I get to jump right into her arms. She lets me lick her tasty face all over and smell her yummy perfume. I paw at her breasts and she thinks its’ so cute. Over and over she tells me how much she missed her “precious little love bug” and asks me if I missed her. Yeah lady, I missed you – now get me a god damned treat. I’m hungry. She always sets me down and asks, “would my baby like a treat?” … to which I charge headfirst into the kitchen cabinets. (My toe nails give me no traction and don’t stop me on tile floors, dammit).
As I gnaw on my rawhide treat, I watch her as she leaves a trail of clothes stripping out of her work garb and headed to her bedroom for them ugly clothes. Oh my god, if anybody ever saw what she wears as comfy clothes, they would run screaming. I have tried to get her to stop wearing them but she insists. Puking on them, crapping on them, pissing on them, drooling on them, wiping my butt on them … nothing works. Every damn night she doesn’t go out I have to see that same ugly color combination. At least in summertime, she abandons clothes altogether – unless that infernal air conditioner is on.
Of course I am always at her side when she makes dinner. Dinner, bah. She never eats ‘dinner’. She throws something in the microwave, grabs leftovers from the frig, orders pizza or Chinese, or just makes a sandwich. There I sit though, loyal and loving as a dog should. Yeah, she says “no” repeatedly, but her eyes say you are my “precious little love bug” and eventually I get a taste or three of human food. Best is when she gets into the wine because she tends to be more aggressive in her cooking efforts and drops half of it on the floor for my fine dining. Before she eats, though she is always kind enough to fill my bowl with dry flavorless animal waste product food advertisers tell her to feed me. Gee thanks; as she slowly chews her medium well done steak. Leftovers coming!
After dinner, its walkies time. As her “precious little love bug”, wag my tail furiously and jump about knowing its my first time today to get out of the house and schmooze with the neighbors and sniff around to find out who has been by. Of course, I will do my daily constitutional, but hey we all gotta go at some point and she gives me that angry look when I poop in the house. ‘Snap’ goes the leash and off we go.
Barking and yapping and driving her nuts by pulling at the leash, I drag my feeder person down the street. At least she isn’t a yanker and doesn’t yank back on the leash when I pull. Instead she lets me drag her until I am hoarse. I don’t mind though because I got an agenda and she is holding me back. What I have always wondered is that after she bends down and with a plastic wrapped hand, picks up my poo to bring home, what aliens would think seeing this transaction. I bet the aliens would think I was the dominant species on the planet; having trained animals to follow behind us and pick up our poo (and feed us, house us, and take care of us for free. I hear some of them actually go to prison for hurting one of us. Cool). We dogs are truly the master race.
Sometimes on our walks I spy a hot guy that I think my poo person might like. I stop walking and start barking at him, “hey, listen to me … she is in heat and loves doing it doggy style”. Since he doesn’t speak “dog” all he hears is noise. But, she starts pulling back and apologizing to the hunky guy. Meanwhile I shove my nose into his crotch to make sure he is an good match for her and whether I am willing to tolerate that stank around the house. They talk. I meander about their feet. Whatever happens, happens. If she is happy, then I am happy.
One day as we were enjoying an autumn walk down our favorite tree lined street. I spied a guy. This time, I wanted to try something new. Instead of pulling her toward him, I just stopped. She stopped and looked at me weird. Why is it every time I do something new, she acts all surprised. I am not a machine. I am neither dependable nor predictable. I am a dog.
So I see this hunky guy and get her to stop. She kneels down, takes off my leash, strokes me and asks me in her kindest most gentlest voice, “what’s wrong, my precious little love bug. Are you OK?” I just looked up at her with puppydog eyes. She stood up and decided she was going to get all alpha on me.
Hands on hips, glaring down at me, me looking up, she was insisting that we continue. “Up yours lady, I am up to something. Shut up and give me a chance, you will appreciate it,” I barked back.
As she was glaring down at me, I skidded forward and adjusted properly. Looking at the hunky guy standing down the street, now aiming a camera, I slid right between her legs and shot my eyes up into her honeypot.
He snapped the picture. I turned to him and barked, “come get her. She is ready and ovulating.”
The question now is whether and how much of the residuals being made from the sale and distribution of that photograph will go into my catnip fund.See More — with Lauren Comerford.
(Response by Ms.Comerford: "Brilliant!!!! YOU MADE MY DAY MARK!....A Masterpiece! I would love to post and share, but you know how protective I am of my sterling reputation and well...there is profanity. It's an A- (you didn't double space). A solid 15 minutes of laughter as I re-read this essay 4 times. The first time quickly, a bit horrified, in a state of semi-shock, dazed, confused and ever so grateful you didn't share this creation on my biz page and the other 3 times slowly, savoring every word! You have clearly expressed your canine-self in a compelling, somewhat scary way. Your mind works in mysterious, glorius ways! Genius."
