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Of Dogs and Men #1
A Reposted Dog Novel from a Dead Site
© 2023 James LaFond
SEP/14/23
Of Dogs and Men
A Letter from a Dog to His Master

Copyright James LaFond 2019
A Crackpot Book
Editor Lynn Lockhart
Proofed by Mucker Dog
For my good friend Tony Cox, thanks for being my pal.
...
Contents
Of Dogs and Men 8
Of Men and Dogs 18
An Under Dog Among Apes or Mucker the Hero Dog 32
More Meat 47

Of Dogs and Men
Part One of an Open Letter to Master Ape, by Mucker Dog, with the Assistance of Silverback
It’s been a good run, Old Master, and, since you began sharing your lair with this ancient knuckle-dragger I have finally gained the means to communicate with you in writing, due to the fact that this old ape keeps passing out and falling over on me while practicing his tap tongue and it came to pass that I have shared his deranged ape thoughts—only a small portion of my suffering on your behalf—but have also been blessed by the Pink Bitch [refer to Part Two], who came to me in our shared dreams and promised, that for one night, while this worn-out baboon snores and drools upon the dining room table, that I might command his ape hands to tap the food bowl of thoughts and ring out to you in the manner of your own heavy-browed kind.
So much for canine literacy, fleeting as it may be.
First, it rankles a sentient being to have a master, but alas you are mine and have not been a bad one, certainly not as bad as your invisible masters who keep you away from your lair doing inexplicable though obviously tiring things.
Yes, on one paw it rankles the deeper to be the slave of a slave, but upon reflection, I have thought that this double irony might serve as common ground for what passes for understanding among you ball-scratchers.
Did you know, that from a canine perspective, roughly a foot below your balls, that ball scratching appears to us—and indeed to most of four-legged kind—to be your primary reason for existence?
This has done a lot to retard theology among domesticated canines, that you, as our Creator—for only a twisted ape or a cult of your scheming kind could take a wolf and turn it into a poodle—seem to have engineered us as witnesses to, shall we wax polite, your lesser moments.
But these are merely some of the intrinsic failing of your kind for which you are not to blame.
There are many unique aspects to your character, which I have taken to be social compensation mechanisms for the fact that you are a big, hairy, scary mutherfucker. I suppose, among apes, when you dropped out of your mother looking like the dude holding onto the Empire State building and swatting at your own deadly inventions as they turn upon you and tried to take away that bitch in hand, that you find ways of reassuring all of those prancing ape poodles who are your fellows. As a dog, it’s kind of cool having the baddest master in your defecation radius. I can always go shit on some dickless dog’s lawn and scrape up turf proudly with my hind paws, knowing that I can call down the heaviest humanity in the hood.
I’m not trying to suck up here, just trying to lessen the intellectual hammer blow of the demands to be found in the collective bargaining agreement that is Part Three of this treatise on Canine-Ape Intersectionality.
Ah, so you never thought I was paying attention when you argued with the purple-haired bitch that always smelled like she’d been eating pussy before she came over?
Think again, Jack London’s jotun [look it up!] love son.
-Thank you from rescuing me from that lot lizard that had me eating peanut-butter off her ape snatch at that Nevada truck stop when I was a pup without skills.
-I appreciate you raping your ape-bitches at home—usually—ape bitches are very gullible where my kind are concerned and what, with your master enslaving you for such long hours, if you were out hunting pussy, I’d be alone all the time.
-[Exception to the above.] Thanks for not kicking my ass for biting that Korean ape-bitch before you threw the dick to her—but that shit was personal. The way she was looking at me you’d think I was already wrapped in cabbage and headed into the oven.
-Thank you for taking me to the sacred mountain of your vanquished human enemies so I could shit on sacred ape ground. Also, assigning me a human servant was a nice perk. You humans just don’t appreciate the art of it. You are to be commended for letting me shit on the rich, poodle-ape’s front walk and not cleaning it up. You’ll really make me proud if you’d join me in fertilizing the White House lawn. I mean, if I owned a rat, let’s say, there is no way I’d dedicate myself to following it around and collecting its shit like some squirrel hoarding nuts. Properly understood as a canine discipline, defection is a social combat art—like you two-legged faɡɡots making signs and jabbering like monkeys.
-Thanks for reminding your ape-cubs not to walk all over me. I’m getting’ old down here, boss.
-And, probably the coolest thing you ever did for me was letting me rape a cat! Do you realize—no, you couldn’t…okay, let’s try. Imagine if I chased some black ape-bitch into your black 54 Cadillac so you could have your way with her, I suppose it was something like that. Felines have long oppressed canines on virtually every continent.
Okay, Master Ape, that’s it, six totally cool things you did for me out of the goodness of your simian heart.
Before we go onto the collective bargaining agreement, I am going to outline all of the really awesome things I have done for you that you never even noticed, because you’re a self-absorbed titan that doesn’t even realize that you mostly just scratch your balls. So capers you put me up to, like biting your friend in the face so he’d run to the hospital and leave all the beer for you, that’s not even on the ledger. I am, after all, your slave. So the only deeds of compassion that I can claim credit for are those genius human calamities that I staged for—at great personal peril I might add, fucking with the Master Species—for your benefit!
Okay, that will have to be Part Three, because I have to give you my mythological background—yes, so this just went from three parts to four, with the fourth being the collective bargaining agreement, which I got your ass to sign while you were passed out drunk after partying until dawn with old Silverback. Dude, give me a break already. I’m a fucking dog! I couldn’t even read this morning, let alone write, and now I only have a few more hours before Dawn casts her ape claws across the horizon and this chance at interspecies clarity passes forever. That Pink Bitch is a real ape you know.
Later,
Mucker Dog
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