Confessions of a Dog Hater
The Complete Collection
by
Ergo
Copyright Ergo Perve 2011
Published by The Perve
Smashwords Edition
This collection brings together the three connected short stories that tell how Vince lost Sylvia, the love of his life. Obviously, none of this ever actually happened because dead cats don't possess people in order to wreck revenge on femininity and the vets scalpel. Nor have I met a dog breeder who punishes her customers with butt plugs and whips before selling them a dog. It's all made up and none of it is real. Except for the lesbian slave show, of course.
My Girlfriend, the Bitch
I can see now that we were doomed from the start, Sylvia and I. We had been in love once, madly and completely, and it began the moment we first met. We were, and still are, very different as people, so our love came as a surprise to many. It came so naturally to us, however, that we would often joke that it was unavoidable once fate had thrown us together. In the end, despite all we did to save it, it was our differences that were the agents of love's demise.
The first cracks appeared on the day that Jurgen died. We both wept when we found his stiffening corpse at the bottom of the garden, in the nook between the compost bin and the back fence. Always a belligerent fellow, it seems he had challenged fate once too often. His head and neck were cruelled by many wounds and dried blood caked his black pelt, too much for just one cat. It was plain to see that he had not been the only casualty of the night.
Months earlier, we had moved into the dilapidated, inner city house that was to be our first shared home. It was a barely habitable pit, poorly designed and shoddily built, with a diabolical skylight in the bedroom ceiling that killed sleep-ins and was obviously the work of a master sadist. Outside, there was a spit of lawn at the front and a herb garden in which nothing edible grew at the back. A concrete driveway, painted green to match the lawn, ran along one side and connected the two.
The poverty of our lodgings barely made an impression upon us, however, because we were so deeply in love. In the first few weeks of our shared life, all we did was fuck and eat, and we only ate so that we had enough energy to fuck. Jurgen introduced himself one fine Saturday morning while we were fucking by dropping through the open window into our sunlit bedroom, claws out onto my naked back, before leaping down onto the bed beside Sylvia. We both screamed, Sylvia and I. He just sat on the stained sheets with a look on his face that lay somewhere between bemusement and boredom. When our screams became tedious and could no longer hold his attention, he took to cleaning my blood off his paws.
He looked at me as lay on top of my girlfriend, fucking her the traditional way, and smirked, which is strange because cat's are not known for their facial expression. It just felt as if he were having a quiet laugh to himself at my conservative ways. For some reason, I felt that I had something to prove and continued to fuck Sylvia, pushing my cock in harder and faster than ever before, trying to prove to this stranger on my bed that sometimes the old ways are the best. Sylvia responded to my renewed vigour and brought her hips up to mine.
'Oh, harder, yes harder,' she moaned. 'Make it hurt.'
Rising to the challenge, I pounded her cunt as hard as I could for the few minutes more it took us both to climax, before falling back onto the bed and covering the sheets with blood from where Jurgen had dug his claws into my back.
Once we recovered our senses and I had dressed my wounds - the first of many- we fed the large, handsome, jet-black cat a tin of tuna from our pantry and went in search of his owners. All our neighbours knew of him when questioned - he was the biggest cat any of them had ever seen - but none knew who owned him, nor even if he was owned by anyone at all. The tattered collar he wore seemed more a symbol of his disdain for the human world than a mark of his domestication. The tag that hung from it had one word engraved on both sides, in a no-nonsense font: JURGEN. There was neither telephone number nor address, just the single word we assumed was his name. Our search took the entire day and proved fruitless. When, we returned home that evening, we found him curled up on our sofa, fast asleep.
And so we became a family, we three, and lived happily for many months in our shack beneath the skyscrapers. Sylvia and I fucked and ate while Jurgen, who had had his nads lopped at some point in his murky past, waged war on the neighbourhood cats and ate tinned tuna from our pantry. We had tried to feed him cat food, reasoning that he was a cat and that's what he'd like to eat, but Jurgen would have nothing to do with it and would wander between our legs, alternately meowing and clawing at our shins, until we cracked open a tin of his favourite fish.
As I stood looking down upon Jurgen's battered body, little did I suspect just how monumental an event this was - a symbolic end to my days of carefree loving. Ignorant of the ill that was fated to come my way, I took comfort in the embrace of the woman I thought was the love of my life, and mourned the passing of the greatest cat I had ever met.
After a respectful few moments in which I remembered Jurgen for what I wanted him to be rather than for what he was, I disengaged myself from my Sylvia's embrace and fetched a shovel from the shed. With a heavy heart, I excavated a hole beside the compost bin and together we dropped the corpse of our feline friend into it. Sylvia, in a final act of love, planted a cutting from a fig tree over the impromptu grave and together we retreated into the house.
'It's going to feel awfully lonely without Jurgen around,' Sylvia said while she prepared our evening meal.
'We could always get another cat,' I said. 'They have hundreds of them at the animal shelter in the city.'
Sylvia shrugged and looked unhappy while peeling a carrot. It irked me when she peeled carrots because, as far as I could tell, they didn't have a skin that needed removing.
'What's the matter?' I asked, fighting hard to keep the irk from my voice.
Sylvia shrugged again and put the carrot down onto the chopping board. 'I thought we might get a dog this time.'
My jaw dropped. 'A dog? You want a dog? But you hate dogs! Why would you want a dog if you hate dogs?'
'Oh come on Vince,' she said, 'why else would I want a dog? It'd be nice to get a pet who acknowledged our existence once in a while. Jurgen was nice and all, but he wasn't exactly the most loving individual in the world. If he wasn't eating or sleeping, he was killing something.'
'But you hate dogs,' I repeated, totally flabbergasted.
It was true, she did. Or, more accurately, she had always given the impression that she did. I had always assumed Sylvia was, like me, a cat person. It had never occurred to me that the woman who had shunned all things canine in all the time I had known her could actually like dogs.
When we first met, we would spend the quiet moments between the physical expressions of our love telling one another stories of who we were and how we came to be that way. During those brief moments, Sylvia would often tell awful tales of bad dogs. Of how, while growing up in a rural community so backward that they still didn't quite believe mobile telephones were real, she was regularly harassed by mongrels that were more wolf than dog. Her most painful childhood memory was of a day at the seaside with her father, when one such mongrel had bitten her while they fished off a pier. Every time she told this tale, she would insist that I feel the scars. The fear and dread that I saw in her eyes as I fondled her bottom was more than enough to convince me that I had met a person who hated dogs almost as much as I.
'I don't hate dogs, I just don't like those big scary ones,' Sylvia said in response to my flabbergasted-ness. 'I was thinking of something like a Cavi. You know, floppy ears, waggly tail, and happy personality.'
'A dog's a dog as far as I can tell.'
'That's not true, my dear,' she replied, as she reached out for another carrot to peel. 'Cavalier King Charles Spaniels are cute, cuddly, and wouldn't hurt a fly.'
'Whatever,' I said, allowing the irk to slip into my voice, 'we should discuss this further before making a decision, and I still think we should go to the animal shelter soon. They have puppies there as well.'
Sylvia looked unhappy again, as she peeled the second carrot.
'What? You don't want to go to the animal shelter?'
'Well, no. I've actually been thinking about this for some time and I'd like a Cavi,' she said.
'We can look at dogs at the shelter while we're there.'
'I don't just want any dog,' she said, slapping the half-peeled carrot down onto the chopping board. 'I want a pure bred Cavalier, and you can only get them from breeders.'
'How much does a puppy from a breeder cost,' I asked, even though I knew I wouldn't like the answer. At least she had stopped peeling the carrot.
'Oh, about a thousand dollars.'
'A thousand dollars? You want to buy a dog for a thousand dollars?'
'Yes, Vincy, I do. Please say it's okay. Please? I love our life together and I don't want to spoil it.'
What could I do in this situation? We had been together less than a year, and already she knew my weaknesses. Mind you, it wasn't much of a trick. My entire persona seemed to consist of weaknesses held together by neuroses. My only hope was to play along with her and hope that her desire for a dog would pass. Sylvia's fickleness was legendary amongst her friends and family.
'Okay, okay,' I said, deciding I should try and get something out of my capitulation, 'but I want something in return.'
'And what would that be?' she asked, picking up the half-peeled carrot and walking over to where I was sitting.
'Well, um,' I stuttered, as she lifted off her dress and knelt down before me.
'You're close,' I said, as she unbuttoned my jeans and dragged them off.
'I want something more!'
'More? More than this? Is it possible?'
'I, um, want to spank you,' I said.
'I'd always hoped you'd be a bit more dominant sometimes,' Sylvia said. 'I'm such a naughty girl and need to be pulled into line. Do you know what I was going to do with this carrot?' she asked, holding the suddenly offensive vegetable up for my consideration.
'No,' I said, shocked. 'With the carrot I mean. But yes, you are a very naughty girl. Over my knee you go.'
'Yes sir,' she said and draped herself across my naked thighs.
I lifted her skirt over her waist and pulled her very brief panties down around her knees.
'You are a very demanding young lady that has needed one of these for a long time,' I said, punctuating every word with a rigging spank on her naked ass. At the end of the sentence, her ass was glowing red but her punishment continued as I rained frenzied blows upon her, barely conscious of what I was doing.
'Thank you, sir,' she said, timing her words to the rhythm of the slaps that were falling on her glowing backside.