The Cole Blog: Lulu Goes to Fire Island
While looking through old files on my computer I found a zip file with some unfinished work, including this delightful piece written by my dog...yes, she could write...he typing was a little wonky at first and thank the lord for spellcheck, but her writing was a delight and I am hoping to find further installments, but meanwhile here's a little chunk of Lulu Goes to Fire Island.
A gay odyssey by Lulu (Cole)
PEOPLE ARE SO STUPID!
I AM SO GLAD THAT I AM NOT ONE OF THEM.
DON’T GET ME WRONG, THERE ARE LOTS OF MUTTS WHO CAN’T EVEN WRITE THEIR OWN NAME, LET ALONE WORK A COMPUTER.
For that matter, (that’s better, the shift works) there are lots of people who can’t do either!
But I digress (fancy word, huh?)
My name is Lulu. Just plain Lulu. I only use my surname when I have to. It’s his, not mine. You know, the guy who opens my can every night. . (Was that dirty?)
I don’t remember who named me, but it was either some opera queen or my mother, whom I recall was a real bitch. And I mean that in the best sense. I, too, can be a bitch…and I mean THAT in the worst sense. Ask that guy who picks up my poop twice daily. Anyway, I digress again. This is not my autobiography. I once vowed (and in verse yet):
WILL NOT BE PORNOGRAPHY
I WILL DEFINITELY NOT TELL ALL!
But what I have decided to tell is better. A kind of microcosm (spell check says that’s a really big word!) of my life:
I call it
"LULU GOES TO FIRE ISLAND"
Catchy title, no?
Yes, I know I didn’t actually pay for the beach house. And I never really pay for the jitney (bus to you mutts) OR the ferry. But there is a perfectly good reason for that:
DOGS DON’T HAVE POCKETS!
So where, I ask you, would we put any money, even if we had some. Case closed. That guy who picks up the pope and opens my can (still too dirty?) gets a lot of pleasure out of me. Watching me sleep, hearing me bark, etc. So it’s only fitting he shell out the bucks.
Oh, in case you were wondering, I’m not a mutt! I don’t really look down on mixed breeds but I just happen to be pure. Dutch, on both my parents’ sides. I don’t actually have any photo albums (no pockets remember?) but if I did you would see a long line of beautifully coiffed dogs with Cleopatra eyes wearing wooden shoes and putting their paws in dykes. Speaking of dykes…its time to begin my memoir: LULU GOES TO FIRE ISLAND…The Cherry Grove Summer…
Let’s see, where to begin…
The day I first arrived? What a day that was…if only I could remember it. Kidding! I remember everything as if it were a chicken dinner.
The “can opener” (that’s less dirty I think) and his new boyfriend (yes! I know! But we must be tolerant! As long as I can crawl under the bed when they go at it, it’s not my concern!) took me in a car (God I love cars! But only new ones with air conditioning. I’m not one of those hang your head out the window girls! My people never did that. Well maybe on a couple of very hot days on the barge, but not since coming to America.) Ok. We took a car ride, then a boat ride (My First! More on that later) and wound up on this island.
At first I wasn’t impressed! Where was the garbage in the streets? How was I expected to snack? In fact where were the streets? Where did these “people” expect me to “go”? It soon became clear after I “went” on the dock that they did NOT expect me to go there! OUCH! I mean how embarrassing is that? But a girl has to do what a girl has to do. And I am not holding it in until I get home, oh no, thank you very much!
A TYPICAL DAY
The sun is spectacular here! At 6AM it just shouts at you through the windows: WAKE UP AND EAT!
The walks are littered with treats this month. But what do I hear? “No! Don’t eat that! No! Bad Dog!” Sheesh! Now I ask you, what is wrong with eating these delicious things that fell from the trees? But they say, “we don’t know what kind of berries they are. They could be poison!”
They’re CHERRIES! Get it! It’s called Cherry Grove, duh!
It's time to get the boys up and out of bed! Rise and Shine! Rise and Shine (That's from The Glass Menagerie...one day I am going to play Amanda and make them forget that Katie Hepburn and her shaky head!)
They are not getting up! Look at them snoring like the cannibals they are. I saw them eating last night and I swear those burgers were from a cousin of mine.
Must I resort to barking. It's so déclassé! Well, if they insist on sleeping when I need to go potty and eat it and...Oh yes, we do that...Don't be judgemental!
I can remember when "the can opener" first brought me home to live with him and I tried to run away...I just didn't feel at home in the city. The noise, the clamor. I'm a little Dutch barge dog, you know! I like to see some water. Minus the wooden shoes...but anyway, I can remember a taxi stopping...I hailed it of course...I needed to make a quick getaway...but the cab driver was not opening the door. He just threw his head out the window and , in a strange Asian accent that made me crave spare ribs, yelled..."Keeshund! Keeshund! She eat shit?" And just then I had the urge to go and do just that! I guess I showed them. And it was yummy too!
Back to today...GEEEEEEEEEEEEETTTTTT UP! WOOOOOF! WOOOF! WOOOOOOOF! Nothing!
I know! I have an idea. Come on, little paw!
psssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss....oops. No, it wasn't gas.
I just happened to step on their ridiculous air mattress (they call it an aerobed, but it doesn't fly, does it?) and one of my gorgeous painted, but sharp as needles, nails punctured a teeny weenie hole and, well, from the their screams, they're UP!