Snoopy, the dog, and Isabel

Very few things I find amusing for long. Dave Chappell, in a few episodes, does stand to the test of time. Now, I promised to write about the dog, to a friend and to myself. The issue with Isabel also came up with Oscar, the other afternoon. Let's start with the dog.
I awoke one day and there was a dog in the house. The introspective cat, living under the sofa long before the dog came sniffing along, had now more reason to look after a life of seclusion and limited interactivity. It could almost bring us to tears. If it weren’t for the fact that the cat has no fear of the dog yet chooses to live under the sofa and compensates for all the time wasted hidden by meowing in a high, tenebrous pitch very late at nights. Last night, I had to punish both animals. First, Isabel told me that the animal will sleep with us because that is what the animal used to do with his previous owners. “Is that so?” I said. “Well, no. It won’t sleep in the bedroom and certainly not a dog.” Then, Isabel warned me, the animal would cry. And cry the canine did.
Did I forget to say that it is a beautiful small dog, vigorous, impetuous, and I believe pain dictates the way to behave? Hurting seldom is a tool to mold the beast to domesticity. The dog knows then who his master is, and assumes his passive condition as a pet. If it weren’t for this mechanism, this would have been Planet of the Dogs a very long time.
So the dog started barking and Isabel told me not to hurt him. Should I have a word with him instead? The impetuous animal must have been on Viagra or ecstasy, it jumped on Isabel’s leg, pumping away, woofing in a dominant pitch as if to force her steady and following her by jumping on two legs as Isabel moved around trying to escape that sexual assault. I exerted my authority fiercely immediately, and thus trained him by first putting some fear in him. Fear is a mechanism no living creature lives without, specially dogs and dolphins; how animals respond to pain could very well mean their survival and adaptation to evolve. Dolphins run away from pain; therefore, they are trained through treats and pleasure. Tomorrow (well, technically today), I’m off. Isabel went to a party in a restaurant with coworkers. I insisted she’d go, told her she’s always locked up inside the apartment. She got dressed all pretty in black, slim as only she is. I like her figure. She has the nicest ass and body wise doesn’t anything to envy most girls in their twenties. A girlfriend at work gave her the dog. Although I don’t recognize his breed, it appears of good lineage, and thus very expensive. It has the body of a hotdog, but more of a stentorian nature and a robust body. The face resembles a bit that of the cock spaniel. He’s dreamy, which is why his popularity over the indifferent, unbalanced, car-alarm sort of feline is quite understandable. I am almost falling asleep, it’s one thirty in the morning, and Isabel has been gone now for about an hour and a half.


Isabel came back really late at night from the party. She awoke me as she went to be. There was no time in the room, so I was eager to know what time it was. Certainly, it was already passed four in the morning. I went to the kitchen and saw it was actually a quarter to seven in the morning. She got home so late, I said to myself and went back to bed. She asked me to close the bathroom’s door due to our guests and I virulently responded why didn’t she do it herself. “I didn’t go to the bathroom” I said and inspected anyway to see if the bathroom door was closed. It was. So, I went to bed and couldn’t sleep for a while. I felt exquisite, somehow. I thought beyond jealousy and the things that this could represent for our somewhat diminished sexual flame. I thought about asking her softly and slip beneath her pagan legs, get closer, as I was aroused. We have made love in the past and talk dirty to each other with potential scenarios in which a third could join us. I think many couples do, and still more would wish to do. We have exploded vociferously in orgasms imagining us with another. Our personal history has a present because we solved many arguments through sex, in fact. Tension and stress of daily lives make problems appear bigger at times than they actually are.
Emotions tend to be exaggerated, as I have said many times to my dear friend Jorge. We don’t simply say we are hungry; instead, declaim we are starving; we fall in and out of love so foolishly and then wonder how is it we got where we are. Reason had very little to do with the way we dealt with our lives. Anyone can rationalize anything; a killer could argue his motivation as valid, and if we really listen, we could find some mad sense. The reason could be about passion, vengeance, repressed anger, fear. The same mechanisms are at play in a jury composed of human beings when deciding the fate of such a killer. Yes, we have killing instincts, but they have different reasons: they do it because it is their civic duty. Now, if I were to be asked which reason seems to me more essential, I’d say you missed my point. Different reasons that will lead to the same result aren’t necessary; we need no reason, only vision and a tenacious grit to lead the course. Reasons are what critics look for; there should be criterions about critics’ criticisms. Now back to the nature of my argument: we need not argue, just continuously pursuit our aims. Making time for leisure, prepare mentally for the road ahead. So whenever old archetypes loom in the horizon, we buy a bottle of wine, something good to smoke on the side, play semi-loud music, and simply indulge. Our rainy afternoons are memorable feasts, I think that we expect nothing of days like these, and subconsciously enjoy the ones marked by the calendar as our birthday (every once in a while it’s our birthday), the start of summer, the changing of hours, the thirty-first of December, the start of spring signaled by the fallen leaves. Even if it’s for a half hour, we celebrate; I am content with this. A walk alone to do some chores is a delight. Now that I have a dog, I could talk to those pretty strangers that walk their canines around the block.
So, yes, we did talk about having a three-some. We even have talked to a complete stranger on the phone from California, and talk dirty to her as she came to orgasm. In Paltalk, a site recommended to me by Oscar, a friend of mine, once we let a group of strangers see us making love. I have written extensively lately on this log, and I have made comments that make me seem a bit abstract and metaphysical. I think most of you, with the exception of some full professors, would agree. Nonetheless, I am a very sexual creature. Undoubtedly, there are many annexes to this carnal story. We settled old scores of infidelities while having sex, penetrating her in the same position as I had penetrated the one I cheated with. I’d tell her what we did and said, and how we did, and sometimes make up a detail or two to make her soil herself, taking the part of the proverbial whore that in ecstatic frenzy muses in pleasure with what had caused her so much pain. Once we tried seducing a goofy-good looking friend of her ex husband into playing with us as we poured drinks, listened to great varied music and smoked pot. But the guy cowered away. When I go out, she always awakes as soon as I open the door. Or she lies in bed bitterly, awaiting until I finish taking a bath, brushing my teeth and changing into something more comfortable, and once I slide underneath the sheets, breaks the silence with a sharp, out of place, tone of voice: “May I ask where you were?” Very few times, things escalate beyond that. I keep quiet and bring her down by baby-talking her back to sleep. She falls asleep before long.
But she has never come this late before. Not while we were together, anyway, I remember thinking lavishly in bed, trying not to make a noise that would have given me away. I closed my eyes, languidly dreaming of taking her out to dance this weekend. Or even tomorrow night. It doesn’t matter if it’s New Year’s Eve on Friday. At this stage, we have to be more open in our relationship, give each other space to create and redefine ourselves once more. I am not an insecure adolescent anymore; I don’t remember the last time I felt jealous over her. She has been splendid to me, I thought to myself. I’ve done it so many times to her just because of personal vanity, I didn’t leave her. That’s a woman’s job. If she doesn’t want me, I’ll start my life anew, like I have in the past. I will in time move on my own, in not much of a distant future. I feel a warm, cozy, and at times deferential towards, feelings that grow out of habit and tenderness. She is a loyal, good-natured animal, and I am proud of her. I shall reinvent our love once again. There probably won’t be any thirds, and who knows? But at least we will have more adventures of this sort. I shall take her out very soon and see how we respond to things in the open. We haven’t gone out to dance in such a long time. In the end, it has the potential of either destroying us or liberating us, binding each other still tighter. None of these two prospects seems so terrifying to me. On the other hand, I just don’t see much use for jealousy. That was such a childish pretense.