Justice For Georgie

Justice For Georgie

Friends, you simply cannot imagine how harrowing and difficult the past few weeks have been for me.  And so I will tell you, in great detail.

I was born in the Gulag, to a poor peasant dachshund.  In spite of my humble – impoverished, even – circumstances, I overcame my indigence to become the successful entrepreneur and dachshund rights activist that I am today.  But it wasn’t easy.  There were many obstacles and hurdles placed in my way, by those who resented my ambition and even those who claimed to love me.

Eight years ago, I was adopted by Daddy and Mama Dog.  They brought me to live with them in their run down shack in the middle of nowhere.  While my new surroundings were only slightly better than the gulag, I was at least part of a loving, caring family … or so I believed.

The entrance to our hovel is impeded by a fragmented pile of ruptured concrete, which my family refers to as “a porch.”  Daddy Dog has staunchly refused to repair this death trap – he believes, apparently, that it will serve as a deterrent to unwanted salesmen and wheeled robots. Over the years there have been numerous injuries stemming from this dangerous assemblage of mutilated rock.  Mama Dog fell once and her injuries almost resulted in the amputation of both legs.  And still, Daddy Dog did nothing.  Negligence is what I call it, but … whatever.

Which brings me to my current condition …

A few weeks ago, I was outside, doing my dog chores.  I had checked in (verbally) with all the “damn gophers,” and conducted a thorough physical examination of all their communications portals.  As it was a sunny day, I spent a little extra time recharging my haunches and enjoying the warmth of a particularly potent sunbeam.  It was quite restorative and lovely.  Because it had been almost a week since my last mandatory ablution, I had built up a substantial musky veil and I was exquisitely pungent.  I felt powerful and robust.  Invincible.  My fey instincts should have warned me that menace lurked in the shadows … but they must have been dampened by the days’ solar emanation.  Or maybe I was just sleepy.  In any event, I was unsuspecting of the impending calamity.

Later that evening, I prepared for my nighttime retirement.  I had taken a fairly substantial pre-bedtime nap and was looking forward to settling in with my cookie and the new issue of “Noveau Viking Cuisine.”  The Big Kid began his silliness … dragging me out of The Family Bed and trying to sweet-talk me into going out into the dark, frigid night for one last constitution of the day.  I went, against my better judgment.  I did my business – we don’t need to go into detail about that. I announced my readiness to come back into the house.  The Big Kid ignored me.  I cried out again – it was cold and I was quickly losing core temperature. Finally, he came slowly out to free me from my shackles.  I sprinted toward the door.  I leaped onto “the porch,” and suddenly … I felt a wrenching, agonizing, excruciating pain in my foot.  My rear passenger-side foot had become wedged in one of the deep chasms riddling the mass of debris.  I let out a wail of distress.  The Big Kid was unsympathetic – he insisted I quit lollygagging and get in the house.  I cried out, trying to communicate my pain to him, but he was impatient and unmoved.  Finally, in a final attempt to gain his attention, I barked out one last groaning bellow.  He belatedly knelt to see what was troubling me and discovered my predicament.

Gentle readers, the pain from this incident was beyond unbearable.  Panic began to set in as the Big Kid clumsily tried to free me from my bondage.  He wiggled and yanked and tore at my limb until I thought I was going to black out from the torment.  At last, he called for Daddy and Mama Dog, who came slowly, grumbling about my inconvenience and inconsiderate temperament.  When they realized that I was injured, they instantly became solicitous – no doubt in an attempt to avoid litigation.

Daddy Dog was able to wrench my foot loose and I was free to move.  Unsurprisingly, no one offered me medical attention, nor did they offer to carry me to bed.  They immediately went back to their television program, leaving me to limp painfully to my cold, solitary room where one tiny cookie waited.

I passed the night in terrible discomfort, alone, unloved and betrayed by the family who was supposed to be my support system.  I was distressed to say the least.

The next morning, after Bachmann witnessed me limping into my office in the Family Bed, he suggested that we might be able to seek legal justice for my suffering.  I gave him a small retainer and told him to get to work on a case.

Now, Bachmann isn’t really a very good lawyer, but he does work cheap.  Even so, he was able to determine that because my family doesn’t actually own the shanty where we live, I cannot sue them to recover medical expenses, nor can I seek punitive damages for my pain and suffering from them directly.  However, Bachmann also determined that I can seek legal recourse from the landowners … which, as luck would have it, include Tootsie Wootsie – my human grandparents’ chubby, yippy, silly, insufferable faux-dachshund.  Well, isn’t that just a big basket of day old toast?  Ha, ha, ha.

Unfortunately, while he works cheap, Bachmann is terribly undependable.  And just as we were beginning to build a strong case against Tootsie, he absconded with my retainer and fled to the hinterlands of the Little Nokasippi wilderness to pan for gold with his childhood friend, Arlo.  I haven’t heard from him in days.

Left in the lurch, so to speak, I was unsure how to proceed until Hobart the Holiday Hedgehog came to see me two days ago with an interesting proposal.  Apparently, he has spent quite a bit of time clerking for Bachmann and felt that he could handle my case on his own.  He had put together some notes on a plan of attack, and after looking them over, I felt confident that he could do at least as good a job as that no account beaver.  I hired him on the spot.

Hobart enlisted Ernst to clerk for him and to be assistant counsel.  While his verbal communication skills are lacking in almost every way, Ernst actually has quite a keen legal mind.  Hobart set him to work researching case law and precedent.  And after I provided him with a wide-button keyboard, Ernst was able to write several briefs and file multiple motions against Tootsie, who has evidently decided to represent herself in court.

This morning, during our consult, Hobart informed me that he has secured Judge Molly Mae – a very wise, fair-minded half breed who lives in the neighborhood – to oversee the court proceedings.  And he also mentioned that he’s hired Raoul the Raccoon as an investigator, to see what other dirt (besides being a slum lord) he can dig up on Tootsie.

I am trying to heal, both physically and emotionally.  The pain, though … the deep, deep pain is with me all the time.  Some of my Companions have sent cards and notes of well wishing, though I suspect they are secretly happy to have a hiatus in their training regimens.  I have consumed many cups of bone broth, prepared for me lovingly by my Mama Dog, who saw the error of her callous treatment and is now working hard to make amends.  Daddy Dog has still not fixed the gaping maw in the “porch” and I am forced to try and maneuver around the mocking fissure every time I have to go number 1 or number 2.  I am considering naming him as an accessory in my lawsuit, especially after a humiliating incident this morning.

I was deeply cold and tired and Daddy Dog’s fat haunch had taken up the entire seat of the comfy couch that was in a strong sunbeam.  I needed the restorative power of that sunbeam to help me heal on a cellular level, which he well knew.  But not only would he not move over and make room for me, he would not reach down and offer me any assistance, instead choosing to make me attempt a dangerous jump that very well could have exacerbated my injury.  And when I was unable to make the jump from floor to furniture … he laughed at me.  Cruelly.  Fuckler.  So.  We’ll see if he’s laughing so hard when I slap him with a subpoena and name him as a co-defendant in this suit.  Won’t we?

This is a photo of the crevasse that almost claimed my limb and very possibly my life.  Notice the dark, evil vortex shafting down into who-knows-where.  Can’t you feel the malevolence oozing from it’s depths?  I certainly can.

Justice For Georgie

Here is a close up … (Warning:  This photo is not suitable for children)  It’s TERRIFYING, isn’t it??

Justice For Georgie

I will keep you posted, dear readers, on the status of my legal struggle, as well as my journey back to health.  I know the road will be long and arduous and I do ask for your thoughts and well wishes.  Donations to my legal fund can be sent in care of this blog to:  Justice for Georgie, PO Box 123, Family Bed, postal code 56789.  I look forward to speaking to you again from a stronger and more vigorous status.  And as always, I thank you for your support.

Dachshund Chronicles:  Chapter 30 Welcome Home Mandrake

Dachshund Chronicles: Chapter 30 Welcome Home Mandrake

After several awkward moments following Harley’s unorthodox speech, the group filed quietly into the Brownstone, where, in their absence, caterers from the Southside Cafe had set out a buffet of food in the dining room. Harley directed everyone to change out of their ‘going somewhere’ clothes and then gather in the dining room.  A Welcome Home Mandrake party was in progress, with guests from all over the Under Dome in attendance.  Everyone was excited to meet Mandrake … and find out what he actually was.

The dining room table was laden with an array of sumptuous foods, and additional tables had been brought in to hold even more. Harley’s instructions to the caterers has been explicit: “If it’s made from cheese, meat, or gravy – I want it.” Consequently an endless supply of rich, cheesy dishes was laid out over one entire table. There were cheese sauced Brussels sprouts and several different versions of macaroni and cheese. A copper fondue pot bubbling with white cheddar surrounded by cubed bread, chopped vegetables and crispy tater tots sat in the center of the table next to a tall cup filled with long wooden stiicks. A second table held platters of deli-style meats, cubes of ham, kabobs of chicken, jerky, and colorfully wrapped meat sticks. Both of these tables were cordoned off with red braid attached to brass poles and marked with signs declaring, “No Buffaloes Admitted.”

Another table boasted a gravy fountain, gravy punch in a decorative bowl, gravy shooters, sparkling gravy, and a gravy keg that was just being tapped.

And yet another, significantly smaller, table was filled with vegetable trays, colorful vegetable and fruit juices in tall glasses with fancy straws, fruit platters, fruit and vegetable kabobs, grilled vegetables and a large beverage dispenser filled with what appeared to be wheat grass juice. Gordy and Prescott moved in that direction and both filled glasses with the thick green liquid, gulping it quickly before swiping hooves across their mouths.

Harley surveyed the room and nodded in satisfaction. “This is great!” she enthused. “Just what I asked for.”

Looking around, she noticed Mandrake and B.H. hovering at the cheese table. Mandrake was pointing at one of the macaroni and cheese casseroles and B.H. seemed to be explaining something to him. Mandrake shyly put a small amount of casserole on a plate. B.H. handed him a fork and the young hippo timidly took a tiny bite. Suddenly, his face split into a wide toothy grin and he began to quickly shovel the remaining macaroni and cheese into his mouth. When he was finished, he helped himself to larger portions of the other varieties of casseroles on the table. After watching his clear enjoyment of the fare for a few minutes, Harley turned her attention to her own growling stomach.

She moved from table to table, filling her plate, sampling the offerings as she went. The thought crossed her mind that she should be paying more attention to her guests, but that was quickly dismissed upon her discovery of tiny grilled cheese sandwiches. After her initial pass was complete, she took a moment to survey the crowded room.

Roper, Fluffy and the children had arrived at some point. Roper was surreptitiously sipping from a flask he pulled out of his jacket pocket, all the while glancing furtively at Fluffy, as though he was afraid she would notice. Meanwhile, Fluffy herded the children around the various tables, putting food on their plates and continually cautioning them to hold the plates steady. When at last they had all they wanted, she scooted them out the door onto the back patio where the Southside Cafe Catering Company had set up tables and benches. Once she had settled the children, Fluffy returned to the dining room, filled her own plate efficiently and quickly and, with a slightly disgusted look in Roper’s direction, joined the children at their table.

Some of B.H.’s friends and their parents were there, as well. They spent a few minutes making small talk with Harry, then introduced themselves to Mandrake, congratulated B.H. and moved on to partake of the bountiful buffet.

Harley, munching on a cheese covered little cabbage, watched with amusement as Harry tried to talk Roper out of his little flask. Finally, after Roper had snatched it back for the third time and hidden it deep inside the pocket of his dark purple blazer, Harry shook his head and began to fill a plate for himself.

B.H. suddenly appeared at her side, tugging gently at her leg.

“Hello, B.H.,” she said, swallowing the bite in her mouth. “Are you having a good time?”

B.H. nodded vigorously.

“It’s a nice party, isn’t it?” Harley agreed.

B.H. nodded again.

“Is Mandrake enjoying himself?” she asked.

B.H. nodded and looked over at Mandrake, who was still standing beside the cheese table.  He waved, and Mandrake waved back.

Harley followed his gaze. “So, I guess Mandrake likes the macaroni and cheese, then?”

B.H. giggled and pantomimed eating with great gusto.

“Well, that’s fine.” Harley nodded. “That’s just fine. He’s going to fit in great, isn’t he, B.H.?”

B.H. nodded once more and then scampered off to join Mandrake. When he touched Mandrake’s hoof, the hippo glanced down, smiled, and continued to eat happily.

The party began to wind down and guests left a few at a time. It was, after all, a work day in The Under Dome, and many had come only for a few minutes over their lunch break. Most wanted to get a good look at this new Water Horse creature Harley had brought to live among them. And all had enjoyed the free food.

As Fluffy carried, steered, and drug her children towards the door, Roper followed behind looking everywhere but at Fluffy, who was casting pointed and irritated looks at him. Seeing that Fluffy needed assistance, Harley stepped in and picked one of her nephews up and took the hand of a niece. She led them out onto the front porch, chatting with Fluffy.

“He’s not much into paws-on parenting, is he?” she asked her sister-in-law.

Fluffy growled and glared over her shoulder at Roper, who had now stopped in front of the mirror by the door, and was preening.

“I’ll be honest,” Harley confided, helping the children into their car seats, “if it weren’t for those boy-parts he flashes every chance he gets, I’d swear he was a female.”

Harley heard Fluffy’s snort of laughter, then saw her quickly cover her snout with her paw. She tried to level a stern look of reprimand at Harley, but failed completely and let a giggle spill out. Shaking her head, Fluffy continued to buckle the quadruplets into their seats, then turned to make sure the twins were also fastened in safely.

Turning, Fluffy let out a shrill whistle, which made Roper turn abruptly from his primping. Seeing Fluffy standing by the passenger filled Vole-Vo station wagon he rushed down the porch steps and across the lawn.

While Fluffy situated herself into the passenger seat, Roper addressed Harley.

“Thank you for inviting us to your little party, Harley,” he said politely. “Even though I don’t know what a Water Horse is and despite the fact that you didn’t bother to put out any of the foods I like to eat, it was quite festive. I guess. I think twinkle lights, some glittery party hats and maybe some of those fancy paper lanterns would have added some pizazz, though. But, whatever. I think Fluffy had a good time and maybe that will translate into some log time for me later. I’ll have to let you know about that.” He got into the driver’s seat of the car and roared away down the street, narrowly missing the mailbox on the corner.

“Boy, I sure hope he doesn’t let me know about that,” Harley muttered to no one in particular. Then she turned and went back into the house to oversee the clean up. And make sure that no food was thrown away.

She reentered the dining room just in time to hear Gordy and Prescott direct the caterers to load out all the leftover meat and cheese trays and disassemble the gravy fountain.

“What?!” she said, rushing forward. “No! No, no, no, no,” she said, snatching trays from the paws of the vole staff. “These things are to be left here,” she said firmly. “I paid for this food and I don’t want to waste any of it.”

Prescott snuffled loudly.

“I don’t care what you say, you-you-you Buffalo!” she sputtered. “This is my party! Well, mine and Mandrake’s party. And B.H.’s. It’s our party and we’ll keep this food if we want. Which we do!” She moved to stand between the Buffaloes and the tables.

Both Buffaloes snuffled again, louder.

“Huh uh!” Harley growled. “I’d be willing to donate some of the food to one of the homeless vole shelters down town, but I will not recycle a bit of it. Unless by recycle, you mean put it in my snout.”

Gordy shook his shaggy hump. Prescott snuffled again, but softly.

“Fine,” Harley said, then turned to the caterers, who were standing well away from the fracas of the bison/dachshund argument. Stories about their ‘disagreements’ were legendary around town and the voles on staff at the Southside Cafe were well aware of Harley’s feelings towards food.

Harley spoke to the service manager. “I want all the vegetable trays, fruit and vegetable juices and that wheat grass juice loaded into your trucks and taken directly to the Home for Homeless Voles and Moles over on Butterscotch Circle.” She ignored the loud snuffle and huffing from the Buffaloes and continued. “Take all the leftover desserts down to the wiffle ball diamond and let the Brown Dogs little league team sell them as concessions at their game this afternoon.”

She looked smugly at Gordy and Prescott. “All those yummy veggies will provide very nutritious meals for those poor homeless voles and moles. And think of all the money that will be raised for those sweet little kids through selling concessions. Maybe they can even afford to buy wiffle bats for next season so they don’t have to use breadsticks anymore.” Satisfied that her orders would be followed, she left the room, swishing her tail at the Buffaloes on her way out.

She wanted to know if Mandrake and B.H. had had fun at their party, so she began to look for them. They weren’t in the family room, the kitchen, or down in the new water park arena. Walking back upstairs, she heard laughter and what sounded like mooing coming from B.H.’s room.

The door to was slightly ajar. She paused outside, listening for a few minutes before carefully peeking in. She saw B.H. perched on a chair talking animatedly. Shifting slightly she was able to see Mandrake, sitting on the bottom bunk eating something.

She knocked lightly, grabbing B.H.’s attention. “Can I come in?” she asked.

B.H. nodded and leaped up from his seat to rush over and open the door all the way.

“So,” Harley began, looking from B.H. to Mandrake. “Did you have a good time at the party?”

B.H. nodded eagerly and began to chatter excitedly about all the fun he’d had, the food he’d eaten and the people he’d met. Mandrake didn’t look up from his snack, but grunted and snorted occasionally.

Harley tried engaging Mandrake in the conversation again. “So, Mandrake, I see that you liked the food. What was your favorite thing?”

Mandrake glanced up briefly before returning his attention to the container he was dipping food from. He grunted again.

“Oh,” Harley nodded. “The macaroni and cheese. Yes, I thought that was tasty, too. You know, Mandrake, macaroni and cheese is one of my favorite foods as well.”

When Mandrake didn’t respond, only continued to spoon food into his mouth, Harley sighed. Maybe she and Mandrake weren’t going to be as close as she’d hoped.

Her shoulders sagging sadly, she stood up. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your snacks and conversation. Maybe later we could watch a movie together in the family room? Mandrake, have you ever heard of Mary Lou Retton?” she asked as she walked toward the door.

Mandrake’s head snapped up and he grunted loudly.

“Yes, I think she’s pretty amazing, too,” Harley said, feeling better. “Let’s watch her Olympic Gold Medal winning performance on the vault together after supper, okay? I know B.H. likes that video a lot.”

Mandrake grinned suddenly, his mouth full of macaroni. B.H. laughed excitedly and began to chatter to Mandrake about his Mary Lou Retton t-shirt. Harley was smiling, too, as she left the room.

“I need to see if Jose has enough time between now and supper to make a bionic hippo sized Official 1984 Olympics Gymnastics Team Warm Up Suit replica,” she planned out loud. “After all, we can’t have Mandrake feeling left out when the rest of the family suits up for a Retton-Fest.”