OH NOES ABUSE

I have a dream. Someday, I really want to doodle on a dog. Can I draw on whiskers? Can I make him look like a panda? I've asked many times to draw on the pets of my friends, but nobody ever lets me. "Get your own dog to draw on," they say. Are they crazy? I wouldn't want a wierd-looking dog like that.

- Eiichiro Oda


SRL KILLER IN THE MAKING U GAIZ. OR POSSIBLY KICKIN RAD MANGA ARTIST BUT ANYWAY WAAAAANK

Luka's Adventures in Laundry and Dog Torture

Poor doggy. It's shocky-collar retraining time, and that is not a good time to be a Captain.

The last time I made him wear the collar was in the fall because I noticed him starting to dare the borders of the kitchen and found a few scattered wrappers around the trash can after leaving him alone. After that, the UFO unit that sends the signal to beep the collar stopped working properly.

He's been getting more and more bold regarding the no-fly zone for about a month, and today he got into the kitchen and cleaned out the cat food twice. That was that--I took the UFO apart with a screwdriver and messed with the connections until I got it to work again. He heard the faint test-beeps from out in the hallway, and I could hear him bolting for the stairs. So much for the element of surprise.

Unfortunately, dogs are fairly skilled at pattern recognition, so he has figured out that the collar is involved with the terrible torment that befalls him when he trespasses. It takes a while to de-condition himself, but I don't want him to figure out that taking the collar off means party time. Two ways around this: make sure there is a beep of punishment when he's not wearing the collar at certain points, and leave the collar on but turn off the power so that it doesn't warn him. Either way he'll stop associating the beep with the collar, resulting in a win condition for me.

The prongs shouldn't be in constant contact with his skin because it could cause pressure sores, so to take the latter approach I'll need to wrap the collar with something soft and comfortable. The former approach will require me to catch him in the act while I'm holding the collar (or a tape player with the collar noise recorded onto it).

In the end, it's worth it. The kitchen border keeps Maya-cat safe in her basement domain (she is bitterly racist against all Captain-dogs) and the Captain can't choke on anything he scavenges from the counters or the trash with his ever-so-industrious nose for mischief.

It's a work in progress, this cohabitation with other life forms. At least he's being really nice to Molly-cat. She has no fear of him whatsoever. I've seen her taunt the poor fellow into a barking frenzy from her comfy perch just over the blue do-not-cross line. Today I was petting her with one hand and feeding the Captain snacks with the other, and she was actually purring in between those tiny little grunts that mean Molly is being shown affection. Strange girl, that one.

In non-dog news, the dryer was not working the other day, so I had three loads of wet laundry to deal with. I found a roll of twine and made a quickie clothesline all over the basement by crisscrossing all the support beams. The towels ended up really stiff and still had pet hair on them, but my clothes are plenty soft enough to wear and hanging it all up wasn't all that difficult. I decided to try and make a habit of it.

So I bought 60 feet of clothesline for $2 at Walgreens, cut it into several lengths, and did the thing properly. On laundry day it's going to be like hiking through the jungle down there, only instead of bats and biter-snakes, you'll get attacked by soggy skivvies. The basement is so arid that things dry fast. I'll still need to tumble the towels a bit to remove the pet hair and soften them up a bit, but that's no problem.

(Blame Netflix for sending me An Inconvenient Truth when I was feeling particularly hippy-minded. I couldn't even finish it so I just swore to be less wasteful and sent the DVD back.)

Last thing I'll need to do is make sure I strung the lines high enough to avoid beheading anyone in the dark. Seebs is the tallest one here so I'll test it out on him first.

Even More Lip Service For The Captain

Check out my dog's awesome regenerative powers:



The vitiligo appears to be slowly repigmenting. I've been noticing little freckles on his muzzle all winter long, but it wasn't til I compared the first and latest photos that the real scope of the change became apparent. He might get all the color back at this rate *hope hope*. He's such a handsome color without the Joker paint look.

WHO LOVESES THE CAPTAIN? I LOVESES THE CAPTAIN!

AAAUUUUU

I've been taking photos every other day to document the Captain's vitiligo, which seems to be progressing to his nose.

Tonight, he yawned.

Pet Lovers, Don't Read This (II)

On the way to the store to pick up ice cream for my roomie Rah, I saw something sprawled in the middle of the dark road and swerved just in time to avoid hitting somebody's little beagle, lying in a heap. It had already been hit at least once.

I couldn't tell if it was still alive, and I couldn't stand the idea of just leaving it. I'm a meddler, and I love dogs. Besides, I had a suspicion that I knew this one from the dog park. So I took three right turns to double back and check on him. I pulled up alongside the dog, put on the hazards, and got out of the car. Up close it was clear the little guy had been killed instantly. There were bits of pink stuff all over the road where the body had been dragged, and a smear of blood ending in a spreading black pool around his head.

His eyes still had some shine to them, but they were mostly closed. I thought the least I could do while I was here would be to get his tag info and go home to call it in, but it was too dark to read the tags without putting myself in danger. Other drivers on the road saw the emergency lights flashing and slowed down to move out of the lane and avoid hitting the dog again. As they passed, I stood away from the flow of traffic and wondered how many people assumed I was the one who'd hit the beagle. Not that it'd make me a bad person--this was a dark stretch of road and shit happens when your dog is free to roam--but I still felt self-conscious about it.

I was waiting for a lull in traffic so I could go take a flash photo of the tags and was half-convincedto just move the dog out of the way myself, when a police car pulled up right behind me and saved me from having to do anything at all.

The officer got out. He asked if I had seen the accident, and I said I hadn't. He checked the tags, then put on some gloves and picked up the dog by the collar and tail to carry it off the road. When he raised it up, the dog's body sagged down like a half-empty sack. I could see its broken skull and muzzle sort of squish out of shape and then hang down as it came up off the pavement.

A huge stream of blood came spilling out of one floppy ear, and a couple of teeth fell out of its open mouth and rolled into the blood pool. It was fucking gruesome, and it all took place in the vivid glow of the cop's headlights. "At least it looks like it was quick," the cop said as he carried the little body over to the roadside. Little rivers of blood were streaming down from the beagle's body the whole time. It was a lot more blood than I'd have expected.

The cop said it looked like the dog had just been hit a few minutes before. I shook my head and said I was never letting my dog off his leash. Not with this busy road only half a block away from our quiet side-street. I thanked the officer for coming out, and left him to his work.

He was still parked there when I came back from the store fifteen minutes later. The whole thing was like a hyper-realistic horror movie. The gore didn't turn my stomach or make me cry or anything like that, but it bummed me out.

When I got home, I hugged the Captain and informed him that he was a good boy.

No More Toes for the Captain.

Took the Captain in for his appointment today, to get his pink lips looked at. The Doc was pretty stumped and had to go get her reference and look through it for a while before coming back with the educated guest that Doggie has vitiligo. It's another Pointer tendency, from what she told me. I'm to watch for sores or crustiness in the affected areas as signs that there's something else going on, but in all likelihood he's fine beyond the skin color change. Fine by me--he can be Captain Jackson as long as he's healthy. I'll need to make sure he has sunscreen on the depigmented areas if it starts to creep up his nose, also.

While we were in the office, I had his paw looked at. Yesterday I woke up to the sound (and wetness!) of him licking his foot excessively. A claw was broken and splintered all the way back to the quick, and the wound was starting to smell a bit funky. I called as soon as I noticed and they said it would keep til the appointment. I duct-taped a sock onto his leg to stop him constantly licking the foot for much of the day. It sapped all his powers, that terrible sock. He could barely move other than to slither from floor to Best Chair and back again. Deep, abiding sighs in numbers too great to count--the whole canine guilt trip. Only ferrets forced to wear a harness can do the dance better than an intelligent dog. A ferret will go the extra mile and throw in a death rattle before going completely limp and still.

Once the vitiligo was out of the way, Doc called a technician to come and hold the Captain while she took care of the claw. I tried to distract my brave puppy with treats, but he lost interest the second the shears came out. Doc lopped the whole bloody claw off in one move, right down to the base of the split. The Captain screamed and wailed and bled all over the place. It was pretty terrible, and was followed by several minutes' worth of dark-eyed canine betrayal angst.

Doc calmed him down with several spoonfuls of the really good treats she keeps in the office for post-torture apologies, and the Captain relaxed a bit. A few minutes later he was doing tricks for snacks, albeit with more caution than usual.

The bright orange bandage they put on his foot was like a clingy, blood-stained business card for the Ministry of Silly Walks. Poor dude tried not to use that leg at all the whole time it was on, but his torment was not over yet. I took him to the pet food store and bought him a nice new pair of clippers. The old pair was getting dull, and I need to keep his nails extra short from now on to prevent this ever happening again. I also got some fish oil supplements because Pointers tend toward brittle claws, and our floor is hardwood with gaps between the boards. Doc says that's usually how talons get splintered.

I am pampering the shit out of my boy right now. Even still, he keeps glancing at me with this expression that says "You did this. You let them cut off my feet." Oh, Captain, you are such a fucking drama queen.

Also today, I opened up a bank account here in town. My previous bank was in Bellevue, NE, and I'm tired of the inconvenience. I am now considering getting a credit card. I've never had one before, and it's a bit intimidating. But I really should establish an emergency financial backup plan for the future.

Pet Lovers, Don't Read This

A house down the street caught fire the other night. The firefighters were hosing it down for like three hours, and when Rah and I walked by it the next morning on the way to the grocery store, the entire place was gutted. You could see through the broken windows straight through to the backyard. There was a neat pile of maybe 200 water bottles. Must be a hell of a thirsty line of work.

A heap of charred something was lying in the driveway, and in the yard there was an empty wire dog crate. Nothing else had been removed from the house. Just that little empty cage.

I hoped for the best until I read on the city news website that two of the family dogs died in the fire. The humans and the other dogs got out in time, though.

Fucking hell, man. I wish there was something I could do. Hugging my dog and watching him thump his tail in confused approval seems like a good start.

I Has A Petdog

It's official: I am a dog owner.

This is not news in a technical sense. but thanks to my angst-filled family history, I don't really bond very well with animals. For years I refused to consider getting a pet because I was scared I'd be like my Mom and neglect/collect/abuse them. But dammit, I was all lonesome. I need something to take care of and keep me out of my own head. Besides, some guys just need to have a dog. I think it's the same with girls and cheesecake, except for the eating part.

So I said "fuck the angst, let's adopt!" and ran with it. For the first 8 months having the Captain, it sucked because of his behavior problems. Emotionally he was aloof and meek in turns. I could take or leave him. Gradually we settled into a routine and he started to mellow out a little. I reserved judgment on whether I should even keep him at points, and was plagued by a constant sense of buyer's remorse. I would periodically conjure up scenes of him getting hit by a car or getting old and dying to test myself, and it didn't really seem like that much of a disaster. I figured that the day I cringed and feared for his safety would be the day he became my dog.

Well, the little fucker has won me over. For the past few months he's started seeking out affection from his humans. He obeys most of the time, and he hardly ever becomes Pee Dog when emotionally overwhelmed. Most importantly, he lays his head on me and sighs when he's about to go to sleep. He's developing quirks and personality and he does funny things to amuse us all.

The squeeing in our household does not stop.

So this is my official declaration for those of you who've been listening to me pramble on about how I wasn't sure yet if we were a good fit: Mission Accomplished. Today I read a story about somebody's old dog getting put to sleep and was totally bummed out by the idea that it will happen to the Captain someday.

Little bastard took his time, but he finally has his hooks in me.

I still beat him mercilessly from time to time, to make sure he doesn't think he's completely in charge, but yeah. I'm glad I got him.

I'm also glad puppies don't stay puppies forever. Eeeesh!

Kong King

Just now I went and cut a carrot in half for the Captain. One half I left plain, but the other got shoved into a Kong after some peanut butter and a scrap of corned beef.

This is a great low-cost snax for him, because carrots (his favorite of all the foods) are dirt cheap and it takes lots of delicate nibbling to get the whole piece out of a Kong.

Cut the carrot off flush with the opening of the Kong, and you're looking at at least two hours of canine hilarity, as long as the squelching noises don't bug you too much.

So then I made the Captain sit at my feet. On a whim I held two snax in front of him, carrot in left hand, Kong in right. I said "Which one?"

The Captain got this really serious expression and looked back and forth, back and forth from one hand to the other. Then he very deliberately turned his head to face the Kong, looked up at me, and briskly nodded his head up and down.

I repeated the question, offering him the choice between the snax. He glanced at the carrot, turned his full attention to the Kong, made eye contact with me, and nodded firmly.

As of this writing, he is making sweet sweet love to the Kong while stretched out on my bed, the very picture of puppy contentment. (I am so glad I put down an old bedsheet before I let him have peanut butter.)

But holy Jesus, this animal is smart. I taught him to nod when asked a question (any question; the rising note at the end is the key), and suddenly he's using it to communicate preferences.

I Should Really Get Some Sleep

They say that every dog has his day. But humans only get 15 minutes.

Is this some kind of twisted evolutionary prank? Or maybe whoever crunched the numbers was careful to convert the results into dog-time.

This kind of shit really digs at me when it's four in the morning.

Here, have a WIP from the secret project of mystery while I go fall over into bed:

The Captain In Boot Camp

Yesterday was our first lesson with Ms. Malone, the dog trainer, hereafter to be referred to as "Cookie Lady" in deference to the Captain's perceptions. They clicked immediately and he spent the entire session parked at her feet looking up at her with attentive subservience whenever she wasn't demonstrating commands.

She taught us several useful commands, including the "take it, leave it" game. I hadn't taught him "take it" before, and it really adds to the training. To play the game, you put a kibble on his paw and say "Leave it." Then another on the other paw and say "leave it." Then you put a kibble wherever and tell him to "take it."

Repeat as needed until he ignores whatever you put on him until told to do otherwise.

She had her method so down pat that several times he obeyed commands he didn't even know yet--on the first try. I think it was mostly how confident and brisk she was and how casually she corrected his mistakes with simple businesslike taps on the nose or back of the neck. It was really awesome to watch, although he still tends to flinch and run away when I try her tricks. Practice makes perfect, I reckon:



We also put lots of energy and time into "stay" training. By the time she was done with him, he would be solid as a rock even as I tugged at his leash because he hadn't been told "All done." With practice, he's going to be a hell of a good companion animal.

Getting a professional trainer was SUCH a good idea. Next session is the 29th and we're going to focus on door manners and a few tricks involving a footstool, as well as leash manners. That's his worst area by far--he has begun trying to pull again, even with his gentle leader on. Not like it was, but I want a dog who will not need a leash to heel and who will come back immediately when called if he gets loose.

In the space between now and then, we'll be practicing the stuff we covered in this first lesson on a daily basis. I'm happy to note that several of the things she wanted us to do were things I've been doing since we got him, like putting him through all his commands in random order, rapid-fire.

I photographed the Captain during this morning's training session. Call this an exercise in both "leave it" and "stay." Or call it rampant sadism; I'll gladly cop to it.









Then when I had finished laying out the kibbles, I told him "All done!" and let him eat every single one as a reward.

Luka Drops The Soap

I discovered the hard way that my dog likes the taste of Dove bath bars.

First I gave HIM a bath, because he smelled like shit and was covered in grime after wallowing in that fucking puddle at the dog park. He has become used to the indignity by now, and he will hold mostly still and merely lean on me for protection against the evil killing spray of cool water. His look of misery is priceless.

Then after I toweled off the worst of the moisture and send him out of the tub to have his PTSD shakes, I took my own shower to clean out the tub and get the smears of muck off my own arms and legs. As usual, he came over to investigate. I said hello when he stuck his head in through the gap between curtain and wall, and went back to the soaping up. Out of nowhere I felt this weird sensation on my leg.

Looked down, and he was leaning into the bath with both paws on the edge, licking off my soap. I yelped in shock and backed away, turning to rinse off. More licking on my leg and back as the hound pursued the delightful soapy taste. Then a loud CLUMP and I turn to see that Butthead has jumped back into the tub, braving the flashbacks and the harsh spray from the shower he hates so terribly, all in an attempt to steal the bath bar.

So Roomies, in case you're wondering where those fang marks came from; mea puppa culpa.

Shit's still a little hectic so the update isn't on time this week. Working on it!

I Kneed You

I woke up today and my knees were feeling pretty good. The left one was cranky because I've been overusing it to give the right one some time off, but it felt fine after a few minutes. I didn't even need any pills.

Took Captain Stupid to the dog park and let him loose. A few minutes later, he comes streaking toward me with a terrier at his heels and BAM, crashes right the fuck into my bad knee. I staggered around for like thirty seconds nearly blind from the pain. It was worse than anything I can describe--human legs are not meant to bend that way!

This was the second time he's done that, too. I think if it happens one more time I'm gonna lose the damn leg.

So I'm wrapped in the wooly comfort of Aleve, with an ice pack over the knee, pissed off because I was looking forward to being able to go out walking and hit the gym again.

Fuuuck.

On the other hand, hey! I'm stuck at my art desk with two pages that need finishing and a lot of time on my hands. So it's not all bad.

Adventures In Not Doing All That Much

The showers here are incredible. Gone is the piss-trickle of yesterfaucet--our new place has serious water pressure so I don't end up standing under the tap for eight hours just trying to wash the shampoo out of my hair. It's like standing under a waterfall. Also, the water gets hotter. I don't think I've had this much fun showering since the last time I--ah, but that would be telling.

The only problem is that my room is a perfect square with two unblockable doors on two opposite walls and a radiator and window on the third. This leaves one wall mostly free for bed installation, but my art and computer desks block part of that wall. If it comes to a choice, I'd rather move the art desk and have a proper bed. I've been sleeping on a pokey mattress on a rickety bunk bed for like two years and I'm ready to move on to something that won't stab me in the ass or squeak loudly when I turn over.

I've been pondering the idea of getting a bean bag that converts to a bed. Or a day-bed. Or a Japanese style futon. Hmm.

Today the Captain met a bunch of new dogs at the park. A very large, very dominant black lab pushed him around until he started showing teeth and growling, but they eventually got distracted by somebody who was throwing tennis balls and it became a sort of free-for-all dog race. The Captain wallowed in a mudpit for a little while, and as the other owners tried to discourage their own animals from imitating him, I realized that I'm the pet-owner equivalent of the paren of THAT kid. You know, the one who comes into kindergarten every morning smelling like he has ferrets stuffed in his pants.

We found a gate that opened on the river for dogs who like to play in water, so I was able to encourage the little bastard to go rinse off all the mud eventually. It took him hours to dry off, but he was mellow and happy. Come to think of it, he hasn't shredded anything since I first took him there... hmm.

Knee feeling lots better. I can manage the walk to the park and back without it exploding, and going up the stairs only twinged a bit. As soon as the pain is gone, I'm going to go back to the gym. I'm feeling kinda wooden and my energy level's gone down a bit.

Major goals for the rest of the fall: get some invisible fencing so I can leave Stupid outside to play more often instead of putting him on a tether, get a new curtain that is not pink, find a bed, and install shelves in the closet outside my room so I can put my clothes away.

...Wow, this post was dull. I promise I'm doing awesome and exciting things with my days, I just haven't felt like blogging about them. I did a pic last night, though, just messing with art styles:



Aight. Back to inking.

They Move In Packs

Today, I took the Captain to the dog park. It's only a few blocks away, and my knee was feeling all right after I took a few ibuprofen.

At first I was pretty nervous since his only interactions with other dogs thus far have been pretty limited, but the lady who was there with her yellow lab said to let him off the leash to go meet the other dogs and see how it worked out.

He was very timid and his hackles kept going up from his neck all the way to his tail, but it got a lot better as he got used to the other dogs. There were about six of them, coming and going at various times, and together they managed to just about wear the Captain out. He was ripping around the enclosure with three or four other animals on his heels in no time, playing little dancy-games and generally being silly.

Eventually the fight went out of him, so I dragged him reluctantly away from his new friends. He's been a calm, docile little citizen since we got home (although I think he stole the cat's food again when I was out of the room. Still working on that).

There were box elder bugs everywhere today, but they were nothing compared to the plague ofladybugs that appeared en masse to bite the living shit out of me. I can't believe I used to think those little bastards were pretty. From now on I'm going to treat them like especially slow-moving mosquitoes.

Also, the Cannon river is flooding in areas, so the Captain also got to go swimming where a few days ago there was a biking path along the banks.

Happy soaking wet animal-dog.

GIMME GIMME GIMME, I NEED, I NEED

Sad, sighing puppy.

He was munching on something papery under my desk that I knew he wasn't supposed to have. His favorite hobby is to sneak little scraps of paper out of the trash and rip them into teeny weeny confetti, which he then strews across the floor to make snow. This time, the paper was an old receipt from Cub.

I felt around with my toes until I had my feet on the paper, then scooted it away from him to where I could see it on the floor beside my chair. The Captain immediately slithered over to reclaim the receipt, thinking he was a ninja. He almost had his teeth around the paper when I froze him solid with the dread command "LEAVE IT."

He hasn't moved since. He's still down there, all scrunched up with his muzzle resting dejected on the floor, mere inches from the tantalizing crumple of his stolen prize. His eyes have glazed over. He has no will to live; existence is meaningless without that receipt.

Every now and then gives a deep and tragic sigh to let me know how very much he wants to eat this little scrap of paper. He hopes with the naked optimism of a child that I might take pity and let him have it, just this once, if only to save him from complete emotional collapse.

Bless his little heart. Three months we've lived together, and he still hasn't figured out what a sadistic bastard I am.

Rambling Man

Spent most of today babying my hands because they've started tingling and feeling swollen again. This happens every time I haul boxes and is seriously starting to freak me out. Toward the end of the day I was able to do some drawing, and I finished off the 15 page sketchbook I bought at the Source last month. I think I'm going to raffle it off; maybe some Avatar fans will want the little pics of Aang & Co at the very least.

Moving goes slowly. I packed four boxes today, mostly emptying out my rock collection and books. It's weird to think that when I came here I only had like three boxes of belongings, and now I've got enough that I can't pack it all in one go.

The Captain sleeps quiet and peaceful in his crate. I don't think I mentioned it before, but he has one now. It's a little too big for his size, but he doesn't need it for potty training and the extra space makes a nice little den for him. I introduced him to it by throwing kibble in and telling him 'go to your room' each time, so that he associates it with delicious snacks and happiness. He gets his food and water and toys in there too.

Best of all, he doesn't tear shit up when I have to leave him home alone for several hours. He's been almost an angel since I set up the crate. Calmer and more obedient to say the least.

I don't even bother latching the gate most of the time; he'll go right in and sleep in his little kitty-bed, which is really getting too small for him as he fills out.

He has taken to nosing around Stokes' butt now that they're comfortable enough to be in the same room without fireworks. The cat responds by smacking the Captain across the face with a yowl of outrage, but since he's declawed it doesn't do anything but startle the dog, who doesn't quite get it.

There was one incident where, after two or three whacks with the tiny powerful fists, the Captain was like "oh! It's a SMACKING GAME! My turn!" and brought his own significantly more dangerous paw down on the cat, who freaked out and bolted.

Two steps forward, one step back...

Today I ate the first tomato from the back yard. It was almost a sacred experience to taste this wonderful tart little fruit and be aware that I planted the seeds and watered the sprout and made food exist.

It sucks to be disconnected from the act of producing food; I can't help but wonder if I might not be so wasteful if I were the one who had to account for the life cycle of each squandered vegetable. And I was actually really surprised to discover that the tomato I grew tasted good--deep down, I always assumed it would be bitter or nasty because growing it was so easy and there had to be a catch. But no, all was well.

It brought back fond memories of Mom's garden when I was a kid. Except for the one year where our potatoes all liquefied into foul-smelling mayonnaise. That was just fucked up.

In our Northfield yard, there'll be room to put in a proper vegetable garden next spring. I've also got roofspace outside my room for the seedlings, if I need it. Man, I'm already looking forward to trying to make pumpkins happen. But enough rambling.

For now, I sleep.

PS - Yes, boys and girls, the previous smoking post was indeed satirical.

BRB DIGGING TO CHINA

At first glance my reaction was "How did he get a house-plant in his pen!?" But then I realized where all the 'dirt' was coming from...



My second reaction was to beat him soundly with a baseball bat. Not because I was mad--just to tenderize the flesh.

German Shorthair Pointer is the REAL other white meat.

Vick Still Rhymes with DICK, film at 11!

"What I did was very immature so that means I need to grow up," [Michael Vick] said.

(Remember, kids: torturing animals to death is something you should stop once you hit puberty).
...

"We cannot tell you today that Michael is cut from the team. Cutting him may feel better emotionally for us and for many of our fans, but it's not in the long-term best interests of our franchise," Blank said.

(Since you were nice enough to come right out and SAY you don't give a shit about ethics, I'm going follow suit and ditch all attempts at subtlety: Your franchise can come over to my house tonight and suck my balls. Don't worry, I assure you it's in your best interests.)
...

Vick pleaded guilty to one count of "Conspiracy to Travel in Interstate Commerce in Aid of Unlawful Activities and to Sponsor a Dog in an Animal Fighting Venture" in a plea agreement filed in U.S. District Court in Richmond.

During a hearing Monday, U.S. District Judge Henry E. Hudson asked Vick if he understood the charge. Vick responded, "Yes sir."

("It means I'm not going to get in trouble for torturing and killing all those dogs! MOM AND APPLE PIE, BABY!")


Full article here.

It's Pit Bull Abuse Time! Again!

Oh, DMX. You were so fucking talented that I was willing to ignore the homophobic violence in order to remain fond of your music, but slowly starving 12 dogs to the brink of death is the last fucking straw. And it's not even the first time he's done it.

Also, what the fuck is up with all the sports fans whining and bitching that Michael Vick shouldn't have to go to jail for operating a dogfighting ring? The man fed live kittens to pit bulls to teach them to kill. Yet every article I've seen has a counterpoint of "Well, the sad thing is that so many people are howling for blood over the dogfighting ring. Plenty of other sports stars have had DUI convictions, and THEY still get to shine on the football field!"

Unclean. Unclean.