Dog to The Man: “Get Your Jackboot Off My Neck or I’ll Smooch the Life Out of You….”

Lamont Sets Epic Legal Precedent 

Lawyer to Lamont: “we know how it be for a Dog nigga. I’m Frank E. Hudson III, Esq., and I’ll be your white guy.”

Lamont: Yeah that Dawg nigga’s fucked. The judge aint’ gonna take it easy on a Dawg nigga.
Me: He be needin a laywer. Lawyer be some white dude willing to pretend to be your friend ‘n shit in front of the judge so you ain’t look so bad.
Lamont: Aw yeah, he be like “Look, Imma white guy, and I’m aksin nicely to take it easy on dis Dawg nigga. Fuckk dat!”

By Nate Thayer

June 17, 2014

As some of you know, my pal, Lamont, has continued to engage in what seems like an endless scrum with The State and The Power and Their Agents. Recently he was sued for $100,000, falsely accused of fracturing the skull of a fully insured employee of the U.S. Federal government.

Lamont, as was to be expected, refused to kowtow to the Jackboot of the man placed on his midget neck, and vowed to Fight Power With Smooches.

To see the background to this current story, you can read it here:

After the enemy forces of darkness realized they were up against Lamont, they have tried to extricate themselves from what they clearly have realized was a tactical error taking on the internationally renowned community activist, the storied mutt, Lamont.


Lamont responds to legal threats by The Man

Lamont responds to legal threats by The Man


Lawyers for the enemy team contacted Lamont’s long suffering butler and public relations damage control human–that would be me–who sometimes gets frustrated at the amount of angst the mongrel causes him via his mounting myriad of pickles, kerfuffles, pseudo lawless, anti-social, and unpredictable antics, and tried to negotiate their way out of their epic tactical error.

I told them: “Look, let’s set aside the fact of the total absence of merit to your legal bullying and extortion. What the fuck were you thinking suing a dog? The fact is, neither Lamont or I have any cash or assets. So, and I emphasize this is theoretical, even if we were to lose, you still wouldn’t get any extra change in your pocket. We are what you ambulance chasers refer to as “judgement proof.” And since I am quite confident you are not engagingin this legal action in the service of raising funds for dying children in the third world, again, what the fuck, are you thinking?”

Now I was talking their language.

They paused, silently. The Great Lamont had captured their Queen, and through sheer benevolence, was offering to let them keep their King, after sufficient squirming and wiggling and throat clearing.

We resume the story where we left off……

A few days ago, I received the following email:

Under penalty of perjury, I Nate Thayer hereby state the following:
On June 19, 2013, I did not have any liability insurance, Umbrella coverage, Renter’s insurance, or any other type of liability coverage which applied to me.
My total annual income for 2012 was $______________.
My total annual income for 2013 was $______________.
My total net worth as of the undersigned date is $___________________.
I understand that I am signing this document under oath and that I have had an opportunity to consult an attorney of my choosing.
_______________________________________________ ___________________
Nate Thayer Date
_______________________________________________ _____________________
Notary Date
Kirk Rankin 

Last week, I received the following email:

On Thu, Jun 5, 2014 at 5:31 PM, <> wrote:

Mr. Thayer:

Did you receive the Affidavit that Mr. Rankin emailed you regarding Mr.
McElhinney’s case?

Thank you,

Frank E. Hudson III, Esq.
Law Offices of Kirk Rankin & Associates
6231 Leesburg Pike, Suite 106
Falls Church, VA 22044
(703) 532-2700


Lamont Stands Tall in Face of Prison Time

Lamont Stands Tall in Face of Prison Time


Today, I replied to Frank III, Esq:

Mr Hudson:

I did receive Mr. Rankin’s affidavit. The delay in a response is attributable to me waiting to secure the services of an attorney to advise me whether there are any consequences I am not aware of in signing such a document,  on the strict condition they offer me their services for free (or pro bono, in your parlance).
Sadly, I regret to report, I have  failed to, as of yet, secured legal services based on those non-negotiable prerequisites–to whit, that they don’t cost me a penny.
As for the content of the emailed affidavit, as I told Mr. Rankin, I am more than happy to sign such a document if its entire consequences are, and limited to, and will not  be used for any other sordid tricks for which you and your kind have a well deserved reputation for engaging in. While Mr. Rankin represented to me that signing the said affidavit would be a simple, inconsequential, and straightforward act, he also advised I seek legal advise before signing any document.
As a Man of the Law, you, of all people, I am sure would agree that it would be unwise to trust you simply based on your word–not for the least of reasons that you are suing my pal, my dog Lamont, an insolvent, pea-brained, pan-sexual, black, unemployed, illegal immigrant, big-snouted, droopy-eyed, bow-legged, ridiculous looking, 8 1/2-inch-tall, two-year old mongrel canine born in a Mexican trash dump,  and employing a legal strategy that said mongrel step in and fix the broken U.S. health care system because your fully medically insured client fucked up and got snookered into signing his rights away by his health insurance providers.
The fact that your interests in this does not stem from a personal version of your offering a tithe to your church in the service of the common good, your God, or your country, but rather to skim off the top a fair chunk of the non-existent loot apparently dancing in your hallucinatory visions as laying at the end of this rainbow, has not eluded me.
So here is a thought, my friend: If you might be so kind as to put one of your brethren who would provide those free services under those strict conditions, that would most likely expedite a response from me regarding the affidavit in question that would be satisfactory to you, that may well be in your best professional and financial interests, as I will be God-dammed if I am going to spend a dime out of my already spartan pockets to play by the rules of the egregiously fucked-up state of current American tort law and its bottom feeding proponents who infest your sordid profession like lice on the mattress in a short time hotel room.
Lamont Ponders a Future Behind Bars

Lamont Ponders a Future Behind Bars


I have always been under the impression that it is a fundamental rule taught in mandatory tort law class in Law School, as strictly a matter of financial self-interest, that an attorney should conduct due diligence and ascertain whether a potential defendant is–I believe in informal legal parlance it is referred to as–”judgement proof” before moving forward on incurring the expenses of civil legal action.
Prior to accepting Mr McElhinney  as your client, it seems–and I realize I am tiptoeing out of the boundaries of my formal training to opine on this in the first place–it would have behooved you to have conducted said due diligence that would have saved you from this embarrassment you are now trying extricate yourself from and avoided the profoundly delusional impressionism that, somehow, I could be Your Man to mug, take into a dark alley, hold me upside down by my feet and shake some loose change from my pockets to pay the monthly lease payments for your sports car or a percentage of your undoubtedly copious hair care product budget.
If you had done so, you would have found that I indeed have no job (and therefore no salary or wages from which to garnish), no assets, no property, own no no domicile, and have no motorized vehicle (and therefore no assets to seize), a negative bank balance (and therefore no financial accounts to freeze) and no medical, rental or any other insurance of any kind (and therefore no opportunity for any personal injury lawyers to engage in heavy petting with your usurious first cousins, the insurance industry, and then jump into bed together and do what you both specialize in–that is the non-consensual rough sex fucking of the average Joe consumer).
Of course this is all information that has long been in the possession and knowledge of your now increasingly costly-and-time-consuming-and-absent-of- nigh-a-whiff-of-any-chance-to-prove-a-lucrative-relationship-to-you-client, Mr. McElhinney, and is documented in numerous written exchanges between myself and him.
It might have saved you the $85.00 an hour you paid a private bounty hunter –otherwise known as a court summons process server–for the ridiculous task of “tracking me down.” Given that I am a minor public figure with a website, a blog, a Twitter account, two Face book pages, and several email addresses using my real name–all of which have my home address and phone number and email address etc and so on and so forth publicly available to anyone who chooses to simply look if desirous of employing them.
 If you get around to mastering “Google Search” and enter my name, it will result in over a million “hits”, most of which would require the skills of an average 5 year old to locate and contact me.
So the fact that the James Bond character, whom you paid for out of your pocket to secure his impressive sleuthing skills, claimed to have tried to access me but failed for three months, is a bit of a stretch. You got taken for a ride on that bill, I am afraid. He showed me the contract over beers. We both, for different reasons, had a bit of a chuckle over that one.
The fact that he posed as a supporter of my writings and messaged me the day I began a fundraising campaign endeavoring to publish my book “Sympathy for the Devil: A Journalist’s Memoir from Inside Pol Pot’s Cambodia” and said he wanted to support my professional work financially as a ruse to serve my dog a $100,000 lawsuit, is really rather pretty amateur stuff.  You put me potentially $100,000 in the red before I even got the fundraising campaign off the ground, Frank III, Esq., baby
Lamont at his most intimidating self

Lamont at his most intimidating self


But the trump card is the only one who is going to end up paying a red cent is you, at least for the God knows how much ridiculously absurd hourly “fees” you charge for your “work” or onpass to your “clients.”
All he had to do was knock on my door. Which when he did, I opened. And by the way, he was–and this was at noon–already a bit, as the Brits like to say, euphemistically, ” more than a bit tired and emotional.” I invited your employee in to my then home, where I offered, and he accepted, several more beers, while sitting at my dining table, on the clock, in your employ, charging you $85.00 bucks an hour.
I also took a couple dozen photographs of him playing and smooching my surly and dangerous mutt, Lamont, while the copiously tongued 8 1/2 inch tall mongrel–the focus of your lawsuit, was committing felony assault by smooches with Your Man the entire time. The photos came out rather nicely.
And by the way, I have since been evicted from that said domicile for–you got it–inability to be able to meet my rent obligations. But rest assured, my contacts remain the same. You are welcome to hire “James Bond” again and he can call me and I will invite him in to share more beer where I am currently hanging my hat, on your dime, of course.

This, of course, does not even address the wholesale absence of any merit’ to your libelous allegations besmirching the highly respected name and reputation of the renowned international problem solver and community activist, my pal, my dog, Lamont.

In fact the only communication I have received from you before the one this week that this entire absurd correspondence is in reference to, was a message you sent to my dog Lamont’s blog. You can view it here:

Let me repeat that: You send a correspondence to a dog. Who you are suing for $100,000.

Pause for a moment and let the full weight of that sink in to your legally trained mind.
I repeat it here in full, date May 21, 2014:
Frank Hudson

Mr. Thayer,
I write you on behalf of the Law Office of Kirk Rankin & Associates. Mr. Rankin represents Peter McElhinney in a lawsuit against you in DC Superior Court. You were served with the Summons and Complaint but have not filed an Answer, so the Court has entered a Default against you. Please contact our office at (703) 532-2700 to discuss this matter.

We have not even–you may have noticed—addressed the merits of the legal case here. That is for two reasons: You don’t care a whit whether there is any merit to the case. You are engaging in what we non-lawyers call blackmail or extortion–trying to use the legal system of the United States of America to bully common, innocent citizens to threaten me with bankrupting me unless I cry uncle and “settle” offering you whatever your personal price for a biblical piece of silver is to not force me to pay the tens of thousands of dollars in legal fees for the court to rule, that my mutt–and his “per se” co-defendant–that would be me–are innocent.
Which we happen to be–100% not guilty of any of the allegations, as more than 30 eyewitnesses to the incident would unanimously testify as fact.
Which they won’t have to.
Lamont asked me to pass on this message to you—something he picked up while studying who the fuck would sue an innocent, insolvent, half breed, 2 year old, illegal immigrant dog for $100K.
(With thanks and apologies to Tyrone Biggins) 
Lamont’s script for a late night TV advert for a personal injury lawyer with offices in a suburban strip mall, preceded by his definition of said lawyer’s function:  :
A white guy you pay to convince the judge/jury that you didn’t do it.”
Roll Tape:
Lamont: Yeah that Dawg nigga’s fucked. The judge aint’ gonna take it easy on a nigga.Me: He be needin a laywer. 

Lamont: Dawg Nigga, what?

Me: You know, Dawg nigga! Lawyer be some white dude willing to pretend to be your friend ‘n shit in front of the judge so you ain’t look so bad.

Lamont: Aw yeah, he be like “Look, Imma white guy, and I’m aksin nicely to take it easy on dis Dawg nigga”

Break for “Lawyerly Sounding Voice”:

“Here at the Law Offices of Kirk Rankin & Associates, we know how it be for a nigga. Haters don’t think it be like it is, but it do. But we do. I’m Frank E. Hudson III, Esq., and I’ll be your white guy.
Lamont:  What Da fuuu…!!????
Lamont doesn’t need a lawyer. But you, Frank E. Hudson III, Esq, may well be in need of a a very high powered, expensive public relations crisis control specialist if you don’t stop fucking with my pal, Lamont.
Believe me, let me give you some friendly advice from a voice of experience. You are going to lose to the wily Mutt.
Lamont doesn’t recognize your game and refuses to play by your rules. Fuck, they don’t even let dogs into the building of the Superior Court of the District of Columbia.
Plus, he refuses to soil the essential vital institution of rule of law and an independent judiciary by partaking in your blatant abuse of this basic tenet of what makes Lamont a Free Dog in a Free Country.


Lamont thanks his Legal Defence Fund who insists the effort was a joint venture for the Good of the People and the Nation

Lamont thanks his Legal Defence Fund who insists the effort was a joint venture for the Good of the People and the Nation


I will end this already wasteful distraction to an otherwise day well spent with a quote from one of my favorite men of letters, Dr. Samuel Johnson from his London: A Poem:
“By Numbers here from Shame or Censure free,
All Crimes are safe, but hated Poverty.
This, only this, the rigid Law persues,
This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse.
Dr. Johnson also wisely advised:
“All the performances of human art, at which we look with praise or wonder, are instances of the resistless force of perseverance….If a man was to compare the effect of a single stroke of the pick-axe, or of one impression of the spade, with the general design and last result, he would be overwhelmed by the sense of their disproportion; yet those petty operations, incessantly continued, in time surmount the greatest difficulties, and mountains are leveled, and oceans bounded, by the slender force of human beings. It is therefore of the utmost importance that those, who have any intention of deviating from the beaten roads of life, and acquiring a reputation superior to names hourly swept away by time among the refuse of fame, should add to their reason, and their spirit, the power of persisting in their purposes; acquire the art of sapping what they cannot batter, and the habit of vanquishing obstinate resistance by obstinate attacks.”
In summation, Mr. Hudson III, Esq., when you fucked with Lamont, you fucked with the wrong Junkyard Dog.
Although I would encourage you to get the advise of a public relations crisis control expert, I suggest you quit while you are not farther behind—much, much farther behind.
I, and Lamont’s substantial support network, many of whom did not emerge from the womb of polite society, eagerly await your response. You have our contacts.

With exactly all due sincerity and respect,
Nate Thayer

Medical insurance refuses to pay for fractured skull

Lamont responds to power with smooches

By Nate Thayer

June 4, 2014

My pal, my dog Lamont, is going to be the ruin of me yet. The lovable but insufferable mutt has dragged me, once again, into another kerfuffle with polite society, this time plunging me into the deep end of Big Trouble.

Recently, agents of the United States government stormed Lamont’s Washington D.C. home and served the 8 ½ inch tall insurgent mutt a court summons to appear in the Superior Court for the District of Columbia, Washington, D.C. in Case No: 2013-CA 8469 B in front of Judge Laura A. Cordero, for a lawsuit demanding the midget mongrel cough up $100,000 for causing the fractured skull and other grievous bodily harm to a human.

He has a court date to appear in Judge Cordero’s chamber next Friday, June 13, 2014.

The U.S. federal government’s latest strategy to fix the broken U.S. health care system is to ask my pal, Lamont, an insolvent, pea-brained, pan-sexual, black, unemployed, illegal immigrant, big-snouted, droopy-eyed, bow-legged, ridiculous looking, 8 1/2-inch-tall, two-year old mongrel canine born in a Mexican trash dump, to step in and solve the American health care crisis.

Lamont Ponders Future of his Cookie Supply if his Human is Incacerated

Lamont Ponders Future of his Cookie Supply if his Human is Incacerated

While Lamont couldn’t be reached for comment, his spokeshuman—that would me—made clear he is innocent of the allegations. As is taught in the canine version of Dr. Martin Luther King’s tactical guidelines for non-violent dissent, Lamont intends to fight Power with Smooches.

Sources close to Lamont, recognized as the swashbuckling Nelson Mandela like problem solver of his species, said he was busy playing with his tennis ball in the park and then, after snacking on cookies, would be taking a nap. Privately, the sources acknowledged Lamont was unavailable for comment mainly because he doesn’t say anything because he is a dog and can’t talk.

Like other world celebrities Bono, Cher, Pele, Snooki and Madonna, Lamont uses just one name.

Despite being a selfless internationalist and cross species public servant of substantial renown and accomplishment, most agreed a national health care policy which has been reduced to seeking the financial intervention of an insubordinate midget dog, might better benefit from a bit more tweaking.

Here are the facts:

The Plaintiff: Peter J. McElhinney, a U.S. federal government employee with full medical coverage who fell and broke his skull while jogging in Washington, D. C.

The Defendant: My pal, my dog Lamont.

Under “COUNT 1-NEGLIGENCE”, Lamont is being sued for “causing severe physical injuries requiring ongoing medical treatment, severe pain, suffering, mental anguish, lost wages, and other damages.”

Under “COUNT TWO-NEGLIGENCE PER SE”, Lamont’s long-suffering human—that would be me, Lamont’s co-defendant—accused “of not having actual or constructive knowledge of the propensities of his dog, ‘Lamont.’”

Let me be very clear on one point: I am in full possession of the “actual or constructive knowledge of the propensities” of my terrorist mutt, Lamont.  The subversive mongrel appears to be a fifth columnist agent, having sabotaged most aspects of my personal and professional life.

Lamont has effectively reduced me to the role of his butler.

Ever since he was born in a Mexican trash dump two years ago, smuggled himself into the cargo section of a United Airlines flight to Washington’s Dulles International Airport, gave U.S. federal TSA agents the slip, and sought humanitarian sanctuary on my doorstep, the seditious mutt has been responsible for most everything that has gone awry in my life.

Frankly, he is lucky he is not human or he long ago would have been dead or in jail.

Lamont in the Early Days When his Reputation was Still Intact in Abraham Lincoln Park, Washington, D.C.

Lamont in the Early Days When his Reputation was Still Intact in Abraham Lincoln Park, Washington, D.C.


But in a rare exception to Lamont having a dark paw in most incidents of social upheaval, community outrage, and threats to national security that have occurred within a wide radius of Lamont’s presence since then, the insufferable mutt is innocent of these—and perhaps only these–charges.

Let’s set aside briefly—very briefly–the absurd state of affairs where a U.S. Federal Government employee with full medical insurance who was delivered by ambulance unconscious to hospital with numerous life threatening injuries, including a fractured skull, bleeding on the brain, permanent hearing loss, and a broken collarbone, deems his best option to avoid personal financial ruin rests in seeking financial assistance from a 8 1/2-inch tall, 30-inch long, goofy looking, unemployed, sexually ambiguous, financially insolvent–and I would emphasize–innocent, illegal immigrant dog to pay for his medical expenses.

I am not trying to shift responsibility away from the serially seditious mutt. The Incident with the Irish Jogger comes on the heels of numerous other cases of mayhem and turbulence resulting from Lamont’s antics that preceded Pete’s encounter with the concrete walkway and his resulting fractured skull and other critical medical calamities.

My pal, Lamont has an impressive fan club. They run the gamut from the drunks and homeless who frequent the park benches who he never fails to individually greet, to a diverse community of canines and their humans.

But, despite a considerable loyal support base resulting from his considerable charm, infectious personality, unique pluck, innate intelligence and devastating, non-traditional good looks, there has also been a small cabal of opponents.

The leading cadres consist of a coalition of a small but fervent minority of other canines, who Lamont has shown a propensity to beating up for no good reason, who are in league with a group of short humans under the age of eight.

Lamont has a particular fetish for young human children, preferably under four. The feeling is mutual, usually.

There was the time that Lamont tackled the young child whose guardian turned out to be a person of some renown and influence.

One day, Lamont and I were bounding about the park when he spotted a said short person, accompanied by a couple of adults and a dog. Lamont came to a halt. He stared straight at her. He began to whimper and wiggle furiously. Then he bounded at full speed to give her a personal greeting. As all eight inches high of Lamont galloped towards the base of the statue of Abraham Lincoln, he passed ignoring her dog and he passed ignoring her grown-ups. Then lift off! Wheels up, Lamont with tongue wagging was airborne and made full body contact with the child who, also, became airborne, crash landing on her back at the base of the statue of the author of the Emancipation Proclamation, Lamont’s tongue smooching her face furiously, the copious moisture of his saliva mixing with her equally copious tears.

Arriving seconds behind him, I freed the poor child from the grip of Lamont’s unquenchable affection and, on my knees, looked up into the eyes, peering over his glasses perched on his nose of the ravaged child victim’s adult guardian, which were skyward, about one meter above, framed by a very decided scowl, staring at me. They belonged to Senator Carl Levin–as in Senator Carl Levin, Chairman of the Armed Services Committee, Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs, Subcommittee on Federal Financial Management, Government Information, Federal Services, and International Security, Subcommittee on Oversight of Government Management, the Federal Workforce, and the District of Columbia, Chairman of the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations, Ad Hoc Subcommittee on Contracting Oversight, and Select Committee on Intelligence. Both Lamont and I fled.

“Lamont, pal,” I huffed as we exited, “If you aren’t more careful you are going to get us both in BIG trouble.”

Lamont looked up at me and said: “Relax! I had fun. What’s wrong with you people?”

Lamont being stubborn

Lamont being stubborn

Lamont is also committed to protecting political freedoms and canine civil rights.

Lamont insists on Proclaiming his Emancipation from the bondage of the modern day chains of repression, the hated Leash Laws, and engaging in what he considers a personal act of non-violent civil disobedience by daily walking the leash free picket line in solidarity with all those in bondage, past and present.  Lamont considers running free in the park named in honor of the heroic icon of freedom, the American president, Abraham Lincoln, who was also our first gay, mentally ill head of state who went to war to end slavery, the canine equivalent of sitting at a Whites Only lunch counter.

As a first generation immigrant, he appreciates the opportunities afforded by civil society defined by rule of law and Lamont is committed to his civic duty to defend freedom for all. Especially his own, to frolic and romp unchained without armed agents of the State intervening to stifle his pursuit of happiness.

Technically, it is against the law for a dog to be unleashed in Washington, D.C. and violations can result in arrest and detention without habeas corpus benefits, the right to a trial, an appeal, a jury of one’s peers, or to even present a defense.  Penalties can include arbitrary sentencing to indeterminate incarceration, and even state sanctioned death. From Lamont’s perspective it is unjust that there is a little publicized parallel canine judicial system—a Dog Gitmo in the heart of the cradle of liberty, Washington, D.C.

He remembers the wise adage of the rise of fascism. “First they came after the Jews, but it wasn’t us so no one cared. Then they came after the Catholics, but it wasn’t us. Then they came after the Gays, and when they came for the Dogs, there was no one left to fight to keep us free.”

Or something like that.

There was the storied event when Lamont led a community protest confronting Neo-Nazi protestors who rallied in Washington’s Abraham Lincoln Park in the fall of 2012.

As a rising, internationally renowned cross species rights activist and international peacemaker, Lamont was credited by Law Enforcement officials with single-pawedly diffusing a dangerous racial and religious confrontation in the nation’s capital after the notorious anti-dog, white human supremacist hate group, the Aryan Nations, gathered at the headquarters of the canine superhero’s turf, Abraham Lincoln Park. Ordained minister Morris Gullet, the leader of Aryan Nations ensconced in his rural Louisiana underground bunker, said: “Jesus said ‘give not that which is holy unto the dogs, unto the beasts of the field, or to the Negro.’ This statement is a racial message– and the words are ‘beasts of the field’ translated ‘dogs’ in the Scripture. Well, we have many beasts of the field in our country at this time.”

A particularly creative organizer Lamont gave extra effort to recruiting to ensure their full participation

A particularly creative organizer Lamont gave extra effort to recruiting to ensure their full participation


Gulett refused to show up at his own rally after Nazi forward observers reported that Lamont intended to personally lead a counter demonstration.

And there was the armed Washington D.C. Metropolitan Police Officer on a bicycle, who made the mistake of riding past Lamont in Abraham Lincoln Park under the misimpression that his assigned patrol area included penetrating Lamont’s area of operation.

The Peace Officer, fortunately, did not shoot Lamont after the mutt chased after him insistent on biting his jackboot and nipping at his heels.

And let’s not neglect the impact Lamont has had on my personal life. One friend, who was a potential love interest fool enough to express a desire to meet the storied mutt at my domicile, had her reciprocal affections quite quickly extinguished when Lamont ripped her pierced earring out in his signature less than suave attempt at wooing affection from others. The future ex-wife-never-to-be was rather affable regarding it all–that is once the diamond stud was retrieved–and fled my house with remarkable civility and grace, though a tad unnerved.

Then there was a woman, with whom I was rather smitten, who fled my bed (which, of course, was shared with Lamont) after objecting to her “so-called sex life”, proclaiming she was “tired of being the meat in a Lamont and Nate sandwich“ as she stalked out of my house in protest one morning.

These do not include the uncountable kerfuffle’s Lamont has instigated with other canines.

Exhibit A: My hand after one week of breaking up violent assaults instigated by the mutt, Lamont on other mutts

Exhibit A: My hand after one week of breaking up violent assaults instigated by the mutt, Lamont on other mutts

So, this whole wiggling-vigorously-whenever-he-sees-me, smooching-me-all-day-and-night-like-the-insatiable-attention-slut-he-is, crying-out-as-if-he-is-being-waterboarded-whenever-I-leave-his-presence, gazing-at-me-with-dreamy-goo-goo-eyes-beneath-my-feet-all-day shtick comes with a very dark side.

Let’s be honest here: there is no arguing Lamont has a few life lessons that need to be pounded into him before he realizes that earth does not spin on the axis he seems to think it does.

Meanwhile, in the wake of the current legal crisis that threatens to bankrupt his butler—that would be me—and threatens to interrupt his cookie supply, Lamont is currently asleep on the couch and remains unrepentant, wiggling and smooching and thinking that life remains just grand, unfazed by the court action asking him to step in and take responsibility for an utterly failed national health care policy in the most powerful, wealthiest nation on earth.

The lawsuit in U.S. Superior Court reads that “Defendant NATE THAYER carelessly, recklessly and negligently failed to have his dog ‘Lamont’ on a leash” and that “ ‘Lamont’ ran onto the trail and collided with the Plaintiff PETER J. MCELHINNEY causing him to fall to the ground” and “suffer(ing) severe physical injuries requiring ongoing medical treatment, severe pain, suffering, mental anguish, lost wages, and other damages.”

Let’s take a look at the legal merits of the current court action filed against Lamont.

Other than the “mental anguish” part, which I can attest Lamont has a history of inflicting, not irrelevantly targeting me, the remainder of the legal accusations are pure poppycock.

My pal, Lamont, and I were enjoying our evening constitutional around 6:00PM on January 9, 2013 in Abraham Lincoln Public Park, a public space in the shadow of the White House where citizens, both canine and human can take in exercise and fresh air after an arduous day of running the machinery of the Free World.

As dusk fell over Washington, D.C., near the base of the statue of the man who authored the Emancipation Proclamation and freed the slaves, my nation’s first mentally ill, gay head of state, Lamont was romping with his canine buddies, racing at the speed of football wide receivers round and round yapping and barking and growling and engaging in faux fisticuffs with each other, the ten-pound-when-wet-mongrel demonstrating his impressive athletic skills and evasive maneuvers on a grassy field where a few dozen canines and their humans gathered nightly.

Abraham Lincoln Park was first the location of a Union Army hospital during the American Civil War in the mid-19th century.  On the night of January 9 last year, it was, once again, the scene of bloody carnage, and, as has proven the norm whenever disaster strikes, Lamont was in the vicinity.

The horrific sound of a skull cracking against concrete behind me forced my attention away from keeping an eagle eye on the antics of Lamont, and I turned to see a man, outfitted in spandex, with an IPod attached by Velcro to his arm, and earplugs in his ear, splayed unconscious, bleeding from his forehead and ears, his body motionless, unconscious and lifeless.

A grim loud silence enveloped the entire Abraham Lincoln Park, as all dogs and humans came to a halt, as happens when a potential tragedy is occurring in one’s midst.

Lamont showing off his most impressive physical feature

Lamont showing off his most impressive physical feature

Pete McElhinney, an Irishman working for the U.S. federal government as a curator at the Smithsonian Museum, had apparently been jogging on his evening constitutional, went airborne,  and landed on his head on the concrete walkway. I say apparently because of out of the 30 or so humans in the vicinity, all of whom were watching their dogs engaging in the canine version of the evening’s cocktail hour, no one actually saw Pete fall. Because we were all watching our dogs. Who were not on the concrete sidewalk behind us where Pete lay unconscious. And none of whom had collided with Pete.

But I rushed over to the Pete, stabilized him, administered first aid and called an ambulance.

“Don’t move,” I said, as I held his head firmly down with my left hand while restraining Lamont from bestowing smooches on the man with my right hand.

On my knees, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911. “I need an ambulance in Lincoln Park,” I said.

What happened?” the Emergency response dispatcher asked calmly.

“A jogger has fallen and is unconscious.”

“OK. Listen to me closely. Is the man conscious and breathing?”

“Yes. He is complaining of head and neck pain and bleeding from the head.”

“OK. Don’t let him move. Hold him still. The ambulance is already on its way and will be there within a few minutes. What is his name and where does he live?”

I held the phone to my ear with my shoulder, while one hand kept Pete’s head firmly immobile and the other tried to restrain the whimpering, now guilty-looking, droopy eyed Lamont from smooching Pete. “What is your name? Don’t move. An ambulance is on the way. Where do you hurt?” I asked him.

“Pete,” he moaned, clearly in seriously pain, in a thick Irish brogue. “My head–I think I dislocated my shoulder.” There was a marked bulge where his arm, normally, should have been attached to his shoulder.

“Pete, where do you live and what is your phone number. Do you have a phone number for any family or friends I should call. Don’t move. Help is on the way,” I tried to reassure him. He groaned cooperatively, as my mongrel pal, Lamont, with a chagrined expression sat staring up at me sat next to me, fearing his cookie privilege’s might be in jeopardy.

I stayed on the phone with emergency medical professionals taking their instructions and administering them to Pete for the 20 minutes before the ambulance arrived and Pete was attended to and placed on a stretcher and inserted into the emergency vehicle, and departed.

The only reason Pete, who was still knocked senseless by the time paramedics arrived, knew my name was because I took down Pete’s phone number and I slipped my card into his pocket as he was wheeled by stretcher from the park.

I called him in hospital to check in on his well-being. Pete was released from hospital after a week, the doctor’s having determined he fractured his skull and had bleeding in the brain. There was a threat, because of the location of the skull fracture, that spinal fluid might leak and cause permanent paralysis. He remained deaf in his right ear, but the doctors were hopeful it would return after time. He did not return to work for a number of days after his release. Only after a month was the medical device holding his injured shoulder removed.

But Pete did return to the dog park immediately upon his release to thank those of us who had helped him during his horrific accident. Specifically, he extended effusive gratitude to me for my rather minor efforts on his behalf. When he returned to thank us for our assistance at the park, the affable Irishman said he remembered nothing of the accident and we all chatted about who had seen what trying to reconstruct the events. “I don’t remember anything. I just remember I was running and then waking up in hospital,” said Pete.

There were about 30 other humans and their canines who gather nightly in Lincoln Park who also were nearby when Pete fell and cracked his skull, and after Pete was carted off by stretcher, we all asked each other if anyone saw what had happened. Everyone remained baffled, each saying they first heard the sound of someone smacking into concrete and then saw Pete sprawled on the concrete facedown, unconscious.

Pete and I kept in touch, calling each other numerous times in the weeks and months after his accident.

Pete wrote me in one email: “Thanks so much for all your help when I was injured. I don’t remember anything that happened. The last thing I remember was jogging and then I woke up in hospital.”

Within weeks Pete became decidedly unimpressed with the U.S. healthcare system. An Irishman, he was used to countries where one gets free national health care when one suffers grievous injuries. The issue of accumulating bills capable of bankrupting the victim simply is not an issue.

Within a couple of months, Pete complained to me that his insurance was refusing to pay for medical bills that had now exceeded $17,000 for the hospital stay, and thousands more for the ambulance ride, the doctor’s bills, physical therapy sessions and more.

His insurance company argued to him that the ambulance ride to transport his unconscious self and his fractured skull to the hospital emergency room was unnecessary and initially refused to cover the costs. The insurance company initially refused to pay for his week in hospital, arguing it was not their responsibility because he was admitted under the category of “for observation” and therefore his injuries were not serious.

They argued that the fees for his medically ordered physical rehabilitation therapy sessions to help him regain full use of his shoulder were unnecessary and said they would only cover $50 of the $150 dollar charge per session.

They contended they were not responsible for the medical bills to continue to treat and monitor the recovery of his still limited hearing damaged by the blow that fractured his skull.

And arguing with the medical insurance companies was driving him crazy, Pete told me. It was endless paperwork and telephone calls and being put on hold and demands to provide documentation.

“Pete,” I said. “Do you have a lawyer? Do not talk to the insurance companies. If they know you are not a lawyer, they will nickel and dime you with the intent to wear you down to try and get away with paying as little as possible.”

But it was too late by the summer of 2013. Pete had already been bullied into signing paperwork agreeing to the insurance company demands that they were not liable for a host of the medical bills Pete had received.

“Did you sign anything with them? I asked him.

Yes, he had, he said. He had agreed to outrageous terms allowing the medical insurance company to legally refuse to cover the costs associated with his broken head and related life threatening injuries.

His insurance company had refused to cover his injuries. His bills were mounting. Bill collectors were calling. And, on top of his bills for his physical injuries, Pete was being driven mad by the uniquely American experience of having one’s life threatened with financial ruin because of a collapsed national health care policy.

Pete said he had a relative who was a lawyer who he had consulted to try and figure out who could possibly be able to pay for his medical bills. The problem was Pete had been snookered into signing his rights away by the usurious thugs who run the medical insurance industry.

Pete had investigated if the city was possibly liable, but Abraham Lincoln Park is actually federally owned property, administered by the National Park Service. Pete inquired as to whether they might foot his medical bills. Since it didn’t appear the National Park caused Pete to fall, I did not think that was a worthwhile pursuit.

Ever Vigilant, Ever Free

Ever Vigilant, Ever Free


By July, Pete was broke, being driven mad, and desperate. “I just want someone to take this whole problem away. It is ruining my life and driving me crazy,” he told me.

Pete even inquired as to whether asking the people who gathered with their dogs each evening in Abraham Lincoln Park and helped Pete when he was injured could chip in and help pay his mounting bills.

“Do you have any insurance?” Pete asked me.

“Nope,” I said. “Besides, even if I did they wouldn’t cover it because I didn’t do anything to cause your injury.”

“Pete, first of all, you are talking to the wrong guy. I don’t even have medical insurance, little less cash reserves.”

Pete was at the end of his rope, but remained good natured and effusive in his thanks for my sympathy and advice. I had just previously offered to get a lawyer friend to look over his medical bills pro bono and the documents he had signed with his insurance company after his injuries to see what his advice might be.

Then an ominous email arrived on July 17, 2013.

“Hi Nate,

Good to talk to you today. I really hope we can work together to cover my medical expenses for my fall back in January. I really am not a litigious person, but my insurance is not covering the bills and they are mounting.

All the best for now,


Uh Oh. Pete appeared to have made the acquaintance of one of my countries notorious personal injury lawyers.

I called Pete, who turned down my offer of help a bit abruptly and, thanking me again, said he was going to “pursue options on his own.”

My pal, Lamont, both where he feels comfortable and welcome---between my legs

My pal, Lamont, both where he feels comfortable and welcome—between my legs

Fast forward a few months to March of this year.

In early March, I launched a crowd sourcing campaign to fund the production of my book “Sympathy for the Devil: A Reporter’s Memoir from Inside Pol Pot’s Cambodia”, where I asked for support where people could pre order copies or makes donations to cover the final pre-publication production costs. Immediately, the response appeared encouraging. On March 4, I received a message posted as a comment to my website from a fellow who indicated he wanted to support the publication of my book.

“I’d very much like to give you a donation to keep on doing what you do so very well. Unfortunately, I’m against paying via the Internet and phone as I have been burned in the past….Is it possible to meet somewhere sometime over coffee or a beer or two,” He wrote., concluding “Thank you for all that you do. I truly enjoy reading the truth. No one else reports on what matters, and if they do, I can’t seem to find it.

Sincerely, & thankfully,

Stuart W. Macpherson”

I called Stuart, who was effusive in praise claiming he had read my work extensively and wanted to support the book project with what he implied was substantial financial backing.  As Stuart lived in my city of residence, Washington, D.C, I agreed to his request to meet in person and invited him over to my house to meet over coffee.

Stuart arrived a few days later, and I welcomed into my home. Once across the threshold of my doorway, he gave me a smarmy, guilty insincere smile.

“I am not here to donate for your book. I am here to serve you court papers for a lawsuit against you,” he said.

That is when I learned that Pete is suing my dog, Lamont, and, “per se”, me.

Not only had the mutt,Lamont, snookered me into a legal action threatening to bankrupt me, he managed to put my book crowd funding campaign $100,000 in the red from the get go to boot.

Lamont has his own blog, On it, he describes the purpose of his musings at

“My name is Lamont.

I was born a poor little black dog and discovered abandoned, buried in a trash dump in an obscure corner of rural Mexico on April 4, 2012.

I smuggled myself across the border seeking a better life and now live happily in the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Washington D.C., where the Big Dogs who control the Free World live.

Daily, I patrol my domain to greet My People, attentively observe the state of my world, and schmooze with the canine and human hoi-poloi as an active participant in the dog equivalent of the high powered social circuit.

Here I write my observations, from the perspective of a eight inch high, 10 pound immigrant mutt, of the entertaining, if peculiar, habits of the Washington power elite, offer my observations and commentary on vexing problems of local, national, and international import , detail the goings on of the sometimes-but-not-usually mean streets of Urban America, and update The People on the various antics I get up to in the process of enjoying my life immensely.

I gather these musings, always keeping a keen observant eye open, while I pee and sniff and smooch my way around my new domain of the Capitol Hill neighborhood.

Much of my time is spent paying homage in the nearby park named after that heroic American icon, Abraham Lincoln, our first gay, mentally ill president, where I Proclaim my Emancipation daily from the bondage of the chains of the dreaded modern day leash laws and frolic with my many new human and canine friends.

I am always accompanied by my butler and public relations damage control human, Nate, who sometimes gets frustrated at the amount of angst I cause him as I find myself in a myriad of pickles and kerfuffle’s caused by my unpredictable antics. But we will always be best pals.”

The Superior Court of the District of Columbia legal action concludes by “demanding judgment against the Defendant for compensatory damages in the amount of One Hundred Thousand Dollars ($100,00.00), plus interest, costs, and what further relief this Court may deem appropriate.”

On May 21, Lamont received a comment on his blog page from Attorney Frank E. Hudson the 3rd.

“I write you on behalf of the Law Office of Kirk Rankin & Associates. Mr. Rankin represents Peter McElhinney in a lawsuit against you in DC Superior Court. You were served with the Summons and Complaint but have not filed an Answer, so the Court has entered a Default against you. Please contact our office at (703) 532-2700 to discuss this matter.”

My recommendation to Attorney Hudson is: If you want to try and hold the black, pan-sexual, illegal immigrant, mongrel canine born in a trash dump in Mexico responsible for the collapsed U.S. health care system, while skimming a few bucks off of the top to line your pockets with one third of the winnings from the poor fellow with the fractured skull, good luck to you.

If you are going to try to out smart the wily canine, you are going to lose. I know about these things, believe me.

Lamont has chosen to be judged in the court of public opinion.

My guess is the insufferable mongrel will come out on top in his usual, inimitable way.

My pal, Lamont, both where he feels comfortable and welcome---between my legs

My pal, Lamont, both where he feels comfortable and welcome—between my legs

Lamont Gets His Balls Cut Off–For all the Right Reasons, Sorta

Mutt Reasonably Inquires: “Well What About Your Balls?”

Nate Thayer

August, 20, 2013

Lamont, pal, I have some very bad news for you.

Despite your personal policy of refusing to sit when I ask you to unless you have irrefutable evidence there is a cookie involved, as your best pal, I am suggesting you really need to sit down for this one, buddy.

Your balls are causing me problems.

I know, pal, you are very fond of them. I am quite smitten with mine, too.

But, please, for the love of God, take my word for it, your balls are causing you problems, too, buddy.

I am arranging–actually financing–a sharp metal instrument be applied to hack them off the base of your penis, tomorrow.

By this time tomorrow, you will have been restrained by humans in sterile, very scary uniforms who will wield a sharp knife and slice into the base of your dog cock and remove your testicles, depriving you of your’ dogmanhood.

I have authorized and taken a command decision to cut your balls off of your ridiculous looking, incredibly smoochable 3 foot long 7 inch tall body, Wednesday, August 21, 2013.

Your personal De-B Day.

This gives me the profound heebie-jeebies and I want you to know that this hurts me more than it will hurt you.

That is the bad news.

The good news is we may soon be pardoned by the Dog Nazi’s and, perhaps, regain unfettered access to your favorite place on the planet—the Dog Park.

The reason we now are on strict probation in the dog park and, now that I think of it, most other places inhabited by humans, is because of your balls.

Your balls are making you do dumb things.

You have a tendency to think with your balls. And they make you, at times, act goofy, causing you public embarrassment.

I know about these things, pal.

My balls have been known to contribute to me doing really, really dumb things, goofy things, things that make me look like an idiot.

Lately, Lamont pal, you have been doing some really dumb and goofy things, because of your balls, although I think the looking like an idiot stuff I still trump you on.

I know, I know. There is a very decided upside to having balls, too. They can be scrumptious and, God knows, they can make you feel good.

It really isn’t fair that I have the power to remove your balls and you have exactly no power, whatsoever, under any remote circumstances, to even think about depriving me of mine. So just divorce yourself af any thoughts contrary to that.

Here is a partial list of things you won’t do after I cut your balls off:

1/ Pee on the rug—repeatedly: With full knowledge it is really dumb and unnecessary and makes me yell at you. God know, you don’t need to pee on the rug. I take you uncountable double digit walks a day, for Christ’s Sake. You do that because of your balls, buddy

2/ Beat up other dogs 10 times the size of you: This never ends well. You are darn lucky you aren’t dead. If you were a human, you would be in jail. Plus, invariably, I have to stick my hand in the middle of this ridiculousness to save your sorry butt and I then get bitten. Again, the lucky you aren’t dead bit.

3/ The strutting around like you own the planet shtick. This really is not such a bad attitude. In fact, truth be told, I secretly like that about you—a lot. But you don’t own the planet, buddy. For example, I know you don’t like huge trucks driving by, really loud. But without your balls, you may not be under the delusion you can attack said trucks and win. You can’t.

Your balls are sending you dangerous messages.

4/ This ridiculous habit you have to dominate everything else with a circulatory system. Like pinning other dogs to the ground because, well I have no idea because why. But you do. Or insisting that you sit on the top of the couch lording yourself over me while I am reading, just so you can be above me. That is quite goofy, pal. After all, you are 7 inches tall. I am 6 feet 2 inches tall. If you think you can dominate me, you are wrong.

That delusion is your balls talking. They are making you look goofy.

5/ Your balls are making you be quite confused about strategies for effective reproduction. Have you noticed how many people laugh at you when you try to hump a fetching young lass dog—by the head? That isn’t how it works.

That is your balls talking. Frankly, you are embarrassing yourself.

So tomorrow we are going for a walk to the dog doctor to surgically remove your testicles. During this procedure, during this horrible process that requires me to have a double vodka just to pontificate on, your dog testes and testicular epididymi will be removed along with sections of your testicular blood vessels and spermatic ducts, otherwise known as vas deferens or ductus deferens.

The good news, buddy, is the remainder of your dog cock structures, including your prostate, urethra, penis, bulbis glandis, testicular blood vessels and spermatic ducts will be intact. Basically, that stuff that produces sperm and testosterone—vamoose! History! Sliced off of your incredibly cute but ridiculous looking self.

Really. It will be good for you, pal. And it will be good for the rest of the planet. The world might not survive another Lamont. It might qualify as a direct and present threat to world peace.

One of you is just perfect. Two of you might well be a threat to international stability.

I have scoped out where this abomination will be taking place. Mainly because it is immediately next door to Larry’s Lounge.

You won’t be in there for long. Less than an hour, buddy.

Meanwhile, I will be at Larry’s Lounge. There, triple rail vodka’s are 9 bucks a pop. I will need them immediately and copiously.

I suspect my bar bill will be bigger than your medical bill, pal.

Believe me, pal, I have no doubt I will suffer at least as much as you will during this unspeakable, angst inducing thing.

But your balls are a problem.

And don’t even have the cheek to ask me: “What about your balls, Nate?”

That is why you are a mutt and I am a human. You don’t get to ask those questions.

That is part of the deal, buddy.

My pal, Lamont, gets kicked out of the dog park

August 15, 2013

Lamont, I told you, pal, if you didn’t reform and cease beating up other mutts in the dog park it was not going to end well for you, buddy.

I know, I know, that over-bred, snooty canine equivalent of a Goldman Sachs-country-club-enemy-of-the-people clearly deserved it for being, well, just for being. Which seemed to be your sole point for, unprovoked, grabbing him by the throat and sucker punching him, sending him fleeing with a high pitched squeal and then sulking in embarrassment for being fully exposed, outed, and humiliated as the vacuous wimp he is.

Not to mention he was prancing around full of himself, annoying the hell out of the both of us with that ridiculous, expensive haircut which probably cost more than you did to accomplish your riotous egress from the fetid Mexican trash dump from whence you came.

Let us not even get into the airhead, overdressed, probably coupon clipping, make-up slathered “woman” and her clearly closeted, cuckolded, designer clothed “boyfriend” who were the guardians of the inbred canine.

After the revolution, they will be dealt with.

I am fully with you on these matters, pal.

But the fact is we got kicked out of the dog park.

I am going to have to do some serious schmoozing and muster up my diplomatic A game as a result of your philosophically correct but entirely misguided antics a few moments ago.

I am not particularly known for excelling at tact to avoid offending others, either, pal. So I get it. Especially in situations where I feel soiled to engage skills requiring smarmy smoothness, insincerity and outright bald misrepresentation of my true feelings as a way to attain one’s own tactical ends and avoid any unpleasantness or–as in the case of this particular kerfuffle–outright hostility, as a tool of expediency or prudence in an effort to not antagonize those who exactly deserve to be antogonized, in order to protect one’s own strategic interests.

Because it was the second time you beat up the mutt, the decidedly dirty looks and scowls directed at exactly you and me together, pal–because we are a team, as you have hopefully noticed–forced us both to put our tails between our legs and take the long walk of shame out of the dog park towards home.

As you know Lamont, pal, this is only the latest in the long line, the very, very alarming to some long line, of mutts you have similarly vented your entirely understandable, legitimate disapproval towards.

We will figure it out. Don’t worry pal. We will be back at the dog park.

But remember what Mao said: “The canine guerrilla must move amongst the dogs as a fish swims in the sea.”

And even that idiot Kissinger said “The conventional army loses if it does not win. The guerrilla wins if he does not lose.”

Today, it could be reasonably argued, we, sorta, lost.

But, let’s look at it as the battle of Hue at Tet in ’68. We might have lost the battle, but the war is ours–mine and yours pal–to win.

And you are still an excellent, very good boy. So extra cookies for you, regardless, for being a mutt of stubborn principle.

Lamont Beats Up a Great Dane–and Loses

My midget, big snouted, bow-legged, unemployed, black, illegal immigrant, pan-sexual mongrel pal, Lamont, has a few life lessons that need to be pounded into him before he realizes that Earth does not spin on the axis he seems to think it does.


Tonight the 8 inch tall ten pound mutt tried to beat up a Great Dane. That didn’t go so well.

Lamont, I have concluded, is a racist. He has a problem with pure breeds. My analysis is he thinks they have an unearned, unwarranted sense of entitlement. So Lamont expresses himself.

He sauntered over to the Great Dane, lept in the air, and attached his jaws to the beast’s neck. The huge canine took Lamont into the gentle grip of his massive jaws and threw him airborne. And then sat on him until Lamont squealed Uncle.

The mutt is lucky he isn’t dead or in jail.


Lamont repaired between my legs in a tactical retreat and then exhibited a fairly ridiculous show of absurd resistance growling in loud, faux-viscous protest.

Still unclear on the concept, Lamont kept his eye on the huge canine and concocted a counter strategy. After a few minutes, while the Great Dane wasn’t looking, he sauntered over to its human—and peed on her leg.

Satisfied, he decided to call it an early night and he strutted his bad self on home. Where he knew he could continue his ridiculous charade of a worldview unquestioned, with cookies to boot.

My Dogs And My Lovers: Don’t Fuck With my Dogs or You Have No Chance of Fucking Me 

I must confess to having an unconditional loyalty to my dogs.

All shelter dogs, they have been with me through many years full of the joys, sorrows, and transitions in life. They love me, and I love them, unconditionally. If someone doesn’t like dogs, I would be less than honest to not say it would be near impossible to become very close to that human. If my dog doesn’t like someone–and they have been all very loving and affectionate and non judgemental–it immediately sends alarm signals that that person has done something egregiously unacceptable to initiate my dogs negative response.

My dogs sleep in my bed. I have an extra King size bed to accommodate the fact they have a remarkable ability to take up quite acrobatic positions when snoozing that can at times force me to lie twisted as a pretzel. One snores. But, to be fair, I have been known to as well.

I was with a woman for ten years. She seamlessly accepted the dog’s role in the household. Since then, the reaction of other lovers varies. Some find it charming, others are similar dog nuts, and some get jealous.

Invariably, when we make love, the dogs descend from the bed to the floor or another room. “Oh no, here we go again!’, is the unarticulated dog reaction. Mostly, I think they are confused by the noises and movements, the loud moans, and thrashing bodies and rapid breathing.

At times, I think the dogs think they may have done something wrong, viewing the pleasures of lust as an act of conflict or violence or and are alarmed and flee.

My lovers invariably, impossible to ignore the pedestal I choose to place my dogs on, respond with some level of jealousy. One woman I was very close to, and whose sexual appetite matched mine resulting in a lot of time spent in bed, asked me: “Who comes first, me or your dogs?” I answered honestly. “Well, if you pose the question that way. the dogs. Scoop, Buddy, Lamont and then you.”

It was a simple truth, although perhaps could have been couched in a more poetic form. It in no way detracted from my affection or love or lust for my lover. Perhaps dog lovers alone can understand this affinity. It is, to me, like asking “Which comes first me or your children” or “Which of your children do you like more?”

It is an irrelevant question, misses the point, and doesn’t have an answer.

The real question one’s lover is actually asking is: “Am I the only one you are in love with?” And the answer is no.

Children and dogs are in a different category altogether than ones human partner. I will be blunt and perhaps a bit stubborn here. If a lover cannot accept the terms of my relationship with my dogs, there is little hope for a future beyond sexual pleasure. And they deserve to know that first. As I deserve to know how they stand on my dogs as well. If my dogs like you a lot, your chances are greatly increased for our human relationship to blossom further.

As dogs are very good innate judges of character, I respect my dogs intuition. If they don’t like her, or my lover doesn’t like them, I am afraid the harsh reality is we have no future.

Each reader has every right and perhaps logic to disagree, but those are my truths.

Then again there may be a connection to the fact that my dogs have stood by my side, loyal, affectionate, non-judgemental, through crisis, and joy, for a much longer, uninterrupted stretch of time than any lover.

These views, as I scribble these thoughts down now, occur to me as perhaps a factor in why I am at the moment single and currently deprived of the erotic joys of a lover. Hhmm. And for those whose minds have wandered to the dark corners of conjecture in their minds as they read this, I assure you that my dogs in no way either fulfill, participate, or substitute for the unending delicious erotic wonders only a lover can exchange, explore with, and offer me and me her, together.

But don’t fuck with my dogs or you have no chance of fucking me.