I was so excited when I first saw that thread. Thanks ever so much for raising my hopes only to, inevitably, dash them- leaving me feeling more hollow and enervated than ever before, if such a thing were indeed possible.
At first glance, I thought that there was some sort of requirement for gang members to kill 35 year old women. This would be perfect, I thought- my owner, manmouth, is exactly that age, and has very much deserves death. You don?t believe me? Perhaps I am too harsh? Observe what I am wearing. Moreover, observe that I am wearing anything at all. I am a dog. Clearly I didn?t dress myself in this sweater.

The person who has done this to me, manmouth, must pay for her crimes. The karmic wheel, however, moves very slowly when you a fur bearing quadruped wrapped in a dolly sweater whilst locked into an apartment constantly heated at a temperature somewhere between Lom Pok and hell. So I very much was interested in moving the process forward a bit. I don?t care if my complicity earns me reincarnation as a bug. Look at me? What could be worse than this?

I?ve tried to take care of this myself, but the one chew toy that hag bought me three years ago (before the crazy took hold real tight and I transformed from a dog to her couture wearing BFF sole confidant) is far too soft to make an effective bludgeon. I know, I?ve tried.

I simply had to maneuver manmouth into a position where she would be bound to encounter one of these swarms of youths looking to join a gang. I have heard they are swarthy and tend to wear white T-Shirts. Excellent, I thought, ever since El Guapes, her capoeira instructor fled back to Brazil or Paraguay or Tom?s River or wherever he was actually from to avoid her incessant voice mails and midnight stalkings replete with stringed gourd instrument, Manmouth has been drawn to Strong Latin types dressed in silly white clothes. Match, meet gasoline.

I managed to wriggle out a half-nailed shut cat door left by the previous tenants and ran immediately to the places mentioned by Tom. It?s a long way from Hamilton Park to Journal square. Particularly when you are dressed in a sweater and are chased by packs of dogs intent on using you the way that Mr. Guapes used manmouth. Except that she?s anatomically equipped for that, mostly. Fortunately greenvillechick?s dog made a rare appearance, and I managed to hide under a bush while the bloodhoundgang had their wicked way with him.

Christ, even Dachshunds laugh at me. Why God? Why have you made me with these stubby legs and lack of thumbs, and then allowed the malevolent forces of a cruel world to stuff me into this goddamned cardigan? Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?

It was the same story every place I went. No one was dead in Journal Square, no hordes of white T-shirted delinquents on Armstrong. Although, near city hall, I did see a drunken and disheveled man in Shirt tails staggering around near Majestic, but that was just the Mayor. No news there. I would breathlessly pant my way back to the computer to find out where the virulent swarm was, and then find my way there to be, yet again, disappointed. The leitmotif of my life. After all this I discover that it was all lies, from the very beginning. All these agents of destruction, holding forth the possibility of sweet release from the torment of my ?master?, like a cunningly dangled snausage, snatched away at the last moment, all was for naught. All is bitterness, and the taste of life has turned to ashes in my mouth. Or perhaps that?s wool. I don?t know. I just don?t know.