Today there were three. Three black walnuts sitting on my door step. Those rat bastards really know how to yank my collar. I’ll get them. I. Will. Get. Them.
My name is C.U. Frank. I am a Boston Terrier and the alpha canine in
A/I/K/E’s rescued pack. My full name is
Crazy Uncle Frank, I was named after a beloved relative that seriously went off
the deep end. I had…issues. I was
sick. I would hide dirty socks in my
human brothers back pack, steal his shoes and bury them in my cave/crate, pee
in his room. Hence the C.U. I’m much better now and I prefer not to think
of my puppy mill days.
There is one other in our pack. Buster. If we were a
village, he’d be the idiot. The happy
idiot. He cluelessly prances around,
oblivious to the world around him. Everything
is a fucking bright and shining, glittering, rainbow adventure to him. It’s
damned embarrassing to call him a dog, let alone a member of my pack. It is Buster who started the squirrel taunting.
Buster, the live action version of Pepe
Le Pew, the dumb ass, the happy moron. When
he was a puppy, I had to protect him from the Crows and Blue Jays that would
swoop down to peck at his head as he chased them. I hoped an Owl would swoop down and get him. But Owls have this thing about not eating
things weak in the head. Stupid Owl code
of ethics. Now Buster thinks he can chase
and play with those fuzzy, ball swinging, nut eating, thieves. (I had balls once. We won’t talk about that
either.) He has no idea what they are
capable of. Of their endless teasing menace.
It all started when Mom bought the dolt an endless supply of
unstuffed, squeaky, squirrel-like toys. Blissfully
he runs around squeaking the damn things. All day, all night, all I hear is squeak!
We have this big glass door that goes out to something Mom
calls a ‘deck’. I was lying in the sun,
keeping an eye open for mischief, and out prances Buster with his dead squirrel
toy. Squeaking up a storm. Suddenly there’s a squirrel in the tree. And then one hanging on the stucco on the
side of the house, and two in the grass in front of the deck. They were wild eyed and pissed off. One tossed his walnut shell on the deck and
started making stupid clicking noises. The others started shaking their tails. I grabbed the end of Buster’s toy and, with Buster still attached to the
other end, led him into the house. The
dumb ass. He thought I was playing with
him! Buffoon! I don’t ‘play’, I patrol!
Now those fuzzy degenerates sit on our deck, in front of the
glass door, driving the poor little simpleton into a frenzy. They sit on our window sill. They crawl up the stucco of our house to the
roof and throw walnut shells at us! They
make that noise, oh that noise!
Buster goes ballistic. I seethe.
The walnuts on the door step was a message that they are still
watching us. Screw 'em. I'm watching
them too. One day they will feel the wrath
of the fierce, angry, canine beast known as C.U. Frank…and I will hide their tails in my