Please Meet Cousin Baby Jamie

I'm a doggy and I have a name and that name for me is Jamie. I'm a visiting dog of MR's family. These other dogs here, they call me Baby Jamie, but I'm either their age or older, so it's not really fair that they call me that; like they think I'm a baby, but I'm not. Have you ever had someone say something to you which is a thing that you're not, but they say you are anyway? That's what it's like for me, Baby Jamie, I mean: Jamie.

I would like to change my name to The Stud Jamie, but when I suggested that, they all (everyone!) laughed and chortled and basically broke my heart with their derision and my own misery which erupted like a disgusting boil.

Which isn't to say I cried. As I said earlier, I am not baby. I mean, I'm not. Look at my adult face. Look at these grownup, dewy eyes. I'm cousin Jamie. I'm a force of nature.

This is me Slipper saying hellooo because here you are meeting Baby Jamie the babyiest of all babies in babyville who sleeps with a blankie and a teddy bear and who snuggles and cuddles and coos his baby baby good mornings every morning afternoon night and in between times when his face scrunches up into a baby smile and a baby scowl he loves all hugs! Because he's a baby!

And like a baby here he is letting me eat all the snacks because I'm bigger and faster and more grown up in the way an adult is grown and can get to more food maybe I should've given it to him so he can get bigger and stronger but I was hungry when I was here in this moment in time and I couldn't imagine not chomping down on those little bison bits the meat pellets of deliciousness that I chew.

I'll let you talk to Jamie for the rest of this Internet post but remember I said hello to you and that I love you!

He calls me a baby?

You read that paragraph, right? I mean, the whole thing?

Okay.

Back to what I was saying. I'm Jamie, the Stud, a Force of Nature (it looks better capitalized, doesn't it?). Maybe I need more titles too: Jamie the Beautiful, Jamie the Interesting, Jamie the Wise, Jamie the Adorable, Captain Jamie of the Shining Seas, Jamie the Strongest Tiny Dog of All Time.

But I'm not so tiny. I'm bigger than many of the things like flowers, grass, leaves, sticks, Slipper's eyeballs, a frisbee, butterflies, and other things like that that aren't so big you can't fit them in your mouth.

My mouth is a cave I put things inside for later when I want to look at them again.

Also: I like beautiful things. I think people say weeds are weeds and not flowers because they are close minded. I think people say many things like that when they aren't thinking well.

If everyone was as good a thinker as me they would look at plants like this and think: ah, the beauty! Or in Slip's case maybe: I want to eat that!

But I've worked on not being close minded. I am Jamie the Wise, you remember? And I'm five years old or so. Ages and eons older than Slippy and Lucy. But not the cats - we don't discuss them - they have foolish cat-tendencies like not eating their own vomit and pooping all in the same place. Weird.

Call me Jamie of the Flowers.

I want to be surrounded by beauty. There is already so much pain and suffering in this world. I chase prettiness like some dogs chase tennis balls.

And I like to help people. To look in their faces and say to them, "hey, it's okay. You'll be all right." Because when I was little there wasn't someone there to say that to me, and I really want to be the one to say that to someone else who is sad or bummed out or who just feels so lonely they slouch and slink and hide behind their hair.

Slippy is right. I do love hugs. I am Jamie the Hug Machine. Jamie the Kisses You Can't Get Enough Of. Jamie Sunshine. Jamie the Doggy. The Doggy, Jamie.

And I'm your cousin too.

Mingus Hates Music

Luco is busy reading toady. He said he wants to get through all of 100 Years of Solitude and I told him, "dude, you're already living that book!" Was that slight amusement I saw curving his lips, or was I making it up because, man, a creature who is never, ever amused lives a sorry existence, amirite? And for some reason I don't quite get, I don't want that for him.

So, anyway, you're stuck with me on this entry. I hope it's not ruining your day. Luco said to say whatever I want, to like talk about something important to me, so here goes.

I hate music.

No, really. I know I'm not supposed to. It's supposed to lift the soul, etc. etc. Music is otherworld. Blah blah blah. Was it Longfellow who said "music is the universal language of mankind?" Nevermind I'm not of "mankind," I'm alive and cognizant enough to count, right? As someone who could understand, if there was such a thing, a universal language?

Maybe Longfellow wouldn't think so. 

But anyway, to me music's just this totally annoying cacophony, and nothing else.

The prison guard, or MR as I call her, sits down at this organ and I shiver. I groan. I tear from the room like it's about to fill with water.

I don't know why I do this. Was it some kittenhood trauma? Perhaps just an aversion to melody and harmony? A deep set hatred for the pentatonic scale? I have more questions than answers, but I do know this: I cannot stand the sound. Not soft music, slow music, loud music, emotional music, experimental music (especially!) - no kind of music would I ever describe in the terms I hear music described.

My definition:
Music [myzoo-ick], also pronounced [crap]
(noun)
1. A series of loud noises signifying impending doom.
2. Tones of horror or dread sounded to signify impending doom.
3. Works of random sounds played all together to signify impending doom.
4. A signal of impending doom.

I'm sorry. You're probably a music lover. Maybe classical, rock, hip hop, country, organ.... But to me it all sounds like that freezing moment of terror that icicles its way through my body, starting somewhere in my mouth and traveling down and through me, so that I know only I am going to die. And unlike Luco, I don't actually enjoy thinking about my own death. I'd rather think about pretty much anything else, honestly, hey, I'd even rather read 100 Years of Solitude, even though it sounds like the most depressing book ever written (which is probably why Luco's enjoying it so much - he claims it's not really that sad, but I don't believe him).

That's why, in these pictures, although perhaps I look like I'm posing (I'm told I always look like I'm posing), what I'm really doing is trying to kill this organ. If I could just break it, then MR would never be able to play it again. And perhaps I could relax!

Get some sleep. Then maybe the visions implanted in my brain could still remain....

Within the sounds of silence?