On Marxanoma

I survived. I have an incision as long as the great wall of Communism, but I survived.

My doctor erred in her first attempt to close the incision, after removing the "lump", and I had to seek treatment at a top notch veteran's facility that, as you can imagine, understood the need for closing a Super Spy Dog's incision with Adamantium stitches. I blew the gut stitches out the first time I jumped after a commie squirrel.

Yes, friends, I am very much alive.

The doctor called yesterday. The lump was benign, she said. HA! It wasn't benign to begin with. Some covert commie spy grafted that horribly malignant and aggressive tumor near my manhood after drugging me heavily while I was most vulnerable, undoubtedly whilst I was making sweet love. The medical name for the type of tumor is Marxinoma. Fortunately for me, my Super Immune System easily defeated that unholy lump of Dialectical Materialism. My starred and striped antibodies pounded the unnatural red cells with surgically precise FNA bombs. Yes, friends, FreedoNucleic Acid. So far FNA has only been found in my body. You can bet that my friends at the DOD have been studying it for years.

I will live to love my Sainted Mother another day.

More later,

B

On Gramma and Commies

*sigh*

My even-more-sainted-than-my-sainted-Mother Gramma just left. She visits from time to time to stroke my silken fur, whisper sweet nothings in my flying nun ears, and generally make this life paradise on earth. Alas, she has departed.

Gramma makes my mom look like a dog owner who would chain one to a camper. She is just that awesome. I look forward to her visits as the American People look forward to a State of the Union by G.W. Bush. This time, however, I know she came to call out of worry.

Some days ago, my sainted mother found a small lump on the inside of my thigh. Frantic with worry, she drove me to the vet, who confirmed my worst suspicions: it is a Commie bug implanted to track me on my missions. My vet has secured the services of a bomb squad, the Secret Service, and some communication experts from the Department of Defense. Together, they will attempt to disarm the insidious tracking device tomorrow.

Please think of me, friends, as I undergo excruciating surgery without anesthetic tomorrow, even though it won't hurt, because I'm not a pansy.

xo,

B

On a Mission

Friends,

I only have a minute. I'm in an undisclosed location fighting Communism. More later.

Keep the faith,

B

On The Interloper

Thank you all for your heartfelt encouragement. Although this brindle stud is accustomed to attention, the comments from sophisticated doggers are always appreciated.

<-Here's a little fuel for the fires of your devotion.

On the Interloper.

My new daddy (the "Interloper") is a socialist. He's European, which means only two things: (1) he is not sufficiently grateful that we saved his arse in WWII; and (2) he's skating along the dangerous abyss, dabbling in Socialism and (gasp) Communism. I thought I had forever rid my home and sainted mother of his filthy clutches just last week, leaving me time to address my many fans and lie at the feet of my Sainted Mother (who, it can never be said enough, has the voice of an angel). Imagine my dismay, nay, disgust, my friends, when I found him returned only Friday night. He was, it seems, away on a "business trip."

Friends, you and I know the French do not work. They are a lazy, shifty people. This "business trip" can only mean one thing: the Interloper has fallen into the crevasse of Communism. He is at the very least a dirty pinko and I fear he may be a full blown red.

Exhibit A

When he first moved here in a disgustingly transparent attempt to woo my Sainted Mother, he wore very tight jeans. Although she quickly informed him that this fashion faux pas would not do, the fact that it "did" for him is evidence of Eastern European or Fascist roots. Only the Russians and Germans wear tight jeans.

Exhibit B

He does not speak good English. This in and of itself should be sufficient evidence supporting my theory.

Exhibit C

He repeatedly and shamelessly defiles my Sainted Mother, a prime example of the American Dream, with his woefully inadequate props. I have photographic evidence of this one, too graphic to post to the internet.

In short, friends, the time has come to take action. As I formulate my plan to rid my home of the Interloper and this fair nation of a Communist threat, I may be less than available. Your comments, especially as they may pertain to removing the Interloper from my turf, are very much appreciated.

xo,

B

Welcome

At the request of my many fans, I have created this blog. As those of you who know me already know, I am extremely busy protecting the free world from communism, my Sainted Mother from that Interloper, et al. I will, however, endeavor to post a bit here from time to time to satisfy the throng of ladies who favor brindle warriors.

For those of you who do not yet know and love me, a short introduction is in order. My name is William John Gavin, or "Billy." I am an eleven year old border collie/pitbull/heinz mixed breed dog. I live in an urban midwestern neighborhood with my beloved Mother (who can do no wrong), my fat whore of a sister (a seven year old rottweiler), two cats (Mia and Three), and my new Daddy, who sucks. I am sworn to uphold the American Way and have, at various times, acted as special attache to the president, secret agent, and soldier.

My mom adopted me from the animal shelter some seven years ago. At the time, I had just returned from a rather harrowing mission in Siberia, and I had a rough case of kennel cough, and some other ailments. I was incarcerated at said shelter by Communist Agents who wished to keep me from protecting this fair nation. Recognizing my glory right away, my Sainted Mother adopted me, and I have continued my missions with her blessing since that time. However, when adopting me, my Sainted Mother failed to notice the GIANT BOLD PRINT in which I had written "NO SISTER" on my adoption paperwork. She therefore stuck me with a fat, lazy rottweiler by the name of Grace Anne. Grace Anne is large, unwieldy, and annoying. I hate her.

Speaking of hatred, I also hate my new daddy. He repeatedly attempts to manipulate the attentions of my Sainted Mommy in his own favor, despite his woefully inadequate equipment, which he rarely cleans. I continue to work on a solution to this problem.

More later, my friends.

B