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Oct 31, 2024
Like an old deer pursued by a pack of ravenous jackals in deep snow, I, Augustus Megatron Bulldozer Kingsbury the hunter, officially announce my demotion to the hunted. I share this with you in the hopes one of you hairless, nap-prone apes or fluffer-headed dogs in my pack can protect me from a fate what ends in me being eaten alive.
I am deaf. Stone deaf. Stone cold deaf, which, I am told should not be confused with “Stone Cold Def.” I can admit this now. I have come to terms with it. I can only “hear” through vibrations in things like wooden floors and Don’s comically and freakishly low-toned voice. Don thinks himself a wisecracker by asking me questions like, “Breakfast?” “Dinner?” “Treat?” — Trigger words what make me look like a rube when I don’t respond. And Don dehumanizes me like that for a few chuckles from a gaggle of pale, flabby, gawking tourists.
Question: How could I know what Don says if I am totally deaf?
Answer: I taught myself to read jowls. You can be sure Don is naught but jowls.
As many bipeds can attest, losing one of the five basic senses can lead to the fine-tuning of the other senses. In my case these are, Smell, Touch, Vision, Taste, and an intense, burning hatred of Yakoff Smirnoff.
Smell – Though my sense of hearing is decrepit, I can determine Dinner Time more acutely with my sense of smell. Breakfast is readily apparent – we get it first thing in the morning after pee-pees & poopies. But Dinner is more complex. My superior sense of smell allows me to determine the moment any food bin in the neighborhood is opened. And my Sixth Sense tells me when Dinner Time is approaching so I can stare reproachfully at the Bipeds for hours and hours lest they forget my Dinner.
Touch – I don’t need my ears to determine Walkies is close at hand. When I feel Marz shove his putrid tennis ball in my face and Zinnie going berzerk, I am the first at the door. Unfortunately, they both capitalize on my infirmities to shove me around such that I am last out the door. I have made an inner peace with this inevitability.
Vision – I would rather lose my sense of hearing than my vision. That old duffer Big Dumb Buddy lost both. He ended up walking into walls. You can be sure Don used this to great effect in the shop for drumming up sales. I tell you now that I shall never play the central rube in one of Don’s pathetic marketing blitzes as long as I have one brain cell connected to one voluntary muscle.
Taste – Since my deafness, the thought of eating stuffed-toy bunting strikes me as an incredible delicacy. OH DEAR DOG, WHAT HAVE I BECOME? A COMMON CUR CAPABLE OF SELF-INFLICTED INTESTINAL BLOCKAGE?!?!
Intense, Burning Hatred of Yakoff Smirnoff – Same as ever.
It is with this pale overhang I beseech you: Don’t let my end be at the hands of monstrosity or mediocrity. Allow me the honor of a Roman falling on his sword, or by the samurai’s Tantō blade.
I beg you.
A fear with stupefying venom what liberally courses through my heart and veins like ice water has re-surfaced. A fear what transcends basic needs like food, shelter, warmth, and camaraderie. Every day I suffer terror from the anticipation of another Evil Vet’s wicked attack. Although it is true my other four senses are precisely honed, without my full senses I am the proverbial sitting Duck Tolling Retriever.
My comrades refuse to have my “back.” They are your typical tiring, over-privileged, reactionary American Canine debris. And then there’s Don, the Biped version of Magilla Gorilla.
My comrades care not a tinker’s cuss regarding my previous battles with these glorified assassins, nor how I protected them from certain death throughout the years. And they certainly do not care whether I meet the Great Black Dog being tortured at the hands of these Evil Vet swine, eviscerated by roving jackals, or pass away peacefully on my dog bed.
One thing IS clear to me. Without a bulwark such as myself, these half-wits would have been swiftly eliminated.
My silent mind engages in all kinds of ruminating folly. Is my slow descent into deafness a prescribed retribution from The Evil Vets? I would expect super glue in my prescription eye-drops from them, but a long, protracted, stealthy infliction of deafness upon me? I couldn’t conceive of it.
These ugly, nonchalant monsters interfere where no interference is warranted nor necessary. Who else could have engineered such a masterful slight-of-hand?
It could only be The Evil Vets, I tell you.
Not only am I forced to suffer total deafness every moment for the rest of my compact dog life, but I have now succumbed to seizures as well. My highly-paid team of physicians tell me they have never encountered the symptoms I express in my sufferings. My case remains a conundrum to all the experts. I suspect those physicians will one day appear on “60 Minutes” to discuss my case, or at the very least on “To Catch a Philanthropist,” and be thrown into the neighbor’s poison ivy bushes by law enforcement.
Lend me your ear (assuming it works reasonably well and is in acceptable hygienic condition), and I shall describe my seizures as best I can in the hopes one of you dunderheads can help me.
The seizures only happen in the morning, and only when Don and/or Liana wakes us up with the exciting, brimming promise of “GOOD MORNING! GOOD MORNING! GOOD MORNING!!”
I shan’t lie to you. Many times I have lain in bed for hours waiting for that Biped Breakfast sweet song. Not only do I anticipate breakfast at these wee hours, but I anticipate medicines, any Biped Floor Breakfast, Walkies, ear-rubbies, and treats at the store.
Then, at approximately 2pm there’s pee-pees & poopies across from the shop which means a small treat like a lamb ear or duck foot for afters.
Then there’s Dinner and the possibility that Don will want nothing more to do with us for a half-hour and give us all a frozen cup of applesauce (Editor’s Note: Unsweetened. There are others too, like strawberry, blueberry and pear). Don calls them Pup Cups, though I would imagine Starbucks would serve him with nasty papers indeed if they should even breathe he was calling them a name they had copyrighted.
My recollection of the seizures is shaky. Pun not intentional. They say I become rigid and collapse on the rug. My eyes roll up into my head, I twitch all over like I was at some frat party dancing to “Rock Lobster.” Then I void my bladder like most frat party attendees. Though I suspect Don conjured the last symptom for comedic effect.
Whenever it happens, Don and Liana are on the floor by my very side, stroking my fur gently and whispering soothing, gentle burble into my ear.
A minute after that, I am on my feet and racing towards my food bowl. It is empty. All the dog bowls are empty, as a matter of fact. My first suspicion is that the scoundrel Marz or that floozy Zinnie had absconded with it. Then, despite my lightened bladder, I realize I wasn’t even let outside for Pee Pees & Poopies. I am let out to perform number two, my bladder having already been voided on the rug.
There are no lasting effects from my seizure like fatigue, shaking, disorientation, or loss of appetite.
Don says my affliction reminds him of the fainting goats of long-ago interwebs fame, and their condition: myotonia congenita.
Yet I have not seen a fainting goat void its bladder on the family rug. And I have watched hours upon hours of those videos
Seriously, is this the only way an old dog can get his fur stroked gently on the carpet? To contract a grievous medical condition and collapse on the floor?
My team of highly-paid physicians remains flummoxed. I suspect they are all addicted to ether.
If you thought the two conditions I outlined previously are the only maladies afflicting this thirteen-year-old dog, you would be grossly mistaken.
A “growth” appeared on my left foot about a fortnight ago. I could tell it was fraught with malignancy, so I obsessively gnawed at it, attempting to rip the cancerous cells from my own body. Thank Dog the Bipeds noticed and gave one of their highly-paid physicians a bunch of money to remove that little hate ball in my paw.
The decision was swift. Operate. Remove the offending tumor. Rehabilitate. I ran the proposal by my lawyers. They were all in agreement.
And so they anesthetized this thirteen year old dog and dug a malignant tumor from his foot. I was impressed and relieved there were no visible filaments of malignancy anchored in my paw. The tumor was removed cleanly.
I was not allowed to keep the slipper, though I feel it really brought out the color of my Rabies Tags.
Dear Reader,
Do not misunderstand me. The decision to remove my tumor was surely timely, and it had to be that way for it to be successful. The operation was professional and streamlined and expensive, and therefore successful. And the days I was forced to wear a solitary purple slipper were limited. I am extremely grateful to be writing this now.
Yet I feel The Bipeds took unconscionable advantage of me whilst I was anesthetized and ordered my teeth cleaned. I was told my breath was putrid from the moldering socket my extracted canine enabled.
I have asked both Don and Liana to quote the paragraph of the US Constitution what demands I have crystal clean breath. They brush off my demands as though I am merely instigating them for an early dinner.
After dozens upon dozens of times trying to communicate my inherent rights with these beasts in a civilized discourse, I have been forced to contact the ADCLU (American Dog Civil Liberties Union). They have assured me they shall represent me. They are the same law firm what successfully spearheaded the half-treat compensation lawsuit.
They are confident of recovering around $12 million for my non-consensual tooth cleaning, and another $5 million for Biped treat abuse.
There is no more to report at this time.
I remain,
Augustus Megatron Bulldozer Kingsbury
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