Blue Heelers

Even the males literally bow down to Isabella.

And they grovel.

They all love the dock walk on the lake. It goes all the way to the public beach. The dock walk is my fav, too.

The red harness represents a lot of training, and a lot of work. Herding dogs such as Blue Heelers make great service dogs as well.

The boys are just sheep to Isabella. If one of them wanders, and leaves the group, Isabella will herd him back to where he is supposed to be, and she does not relent.

You learn to give it up. Or a vicious dog is nipping your legs. Oh, just rejoin the group. It’s fucking easier.

The Jacks are utterly subservient. They drive Bella crazy with the barking. I, however, have the patience of a saint.

Between the heelers and the Jacks, journalists are usually kept behind the fence, or up in a tree.

I want to steal their cameras. I hate them.

The dogs will chew them another asshole.

Isabella looks at me and sighs: The Jacks just never shut up.

Sorry, Bella.

I apologize for them.

The barn animals have complained. The house is out of control.

The Jacks can be trained (kind of), but they don’t really herd.

I keep a few of the dogs, but the majority of them go to rape victims.

Boys.

Girls confuse me.

WTF. Why Jacks.

A jack will crawl into bed with you. They love to snuggle.

They will press up against you (means your ass), and it’s not dangerous.

Jacks are bunnies. They love to be loved. They can be animated.

What was that.

My theory is that chances are good it was a Jack.

I have theories.

Why have a theory if you can’t back it up.

Theories you can’t implement are stupid.

No one will ever touch my ass again.

This is not a theory. It’s a commitment. It’s a marriage between you and the floating iceberg you have now become.

Emotional masturbation.

At night, the jacks disappear because they’re in beds with boys.

The boy can always say no.

The jacks could care less.

They will snuggle you and forget about it.

They cannot be moved.

They’ll just get up and do it again.

No one and nothing rains on a Jack’s parade.

They love party, punch, and cake from Walmart.

We no longer celebrate anything any more.

Or we have to lock them in the barn.

Any kid who is with us due to having been raped (this rarely means once, and it almost always involves families) can be aided in recovery by Jack Russell. The barrier — I can’t be touched — gets confronted by the dog who has burrowed down under the covers of the bed.

Breaking barriers is that Jacks do.

The sound barrier would be just one barrier Mr. Dog Jack Russell commonly ignores and then they look at you like what barking.

Educated Eggheads tell me my theories are bullshit and invalid. I can’t back them up with numbers.

Fuck you, Egghead.

Go piss off from your ivory tower.

Isabella knows immediately, she can smell it, when a kid with dementia wanders. The Jacks can do this, too, but then the barking is worse than a concussion.

Have you heard the one about the Jack walks into the bar and has a seizure.

Jacks just jump wall to wall.

They are never calm.

Like Callen.

The eyes go blank.

He wanders.

Isabella will bring him back.

“She loves me.”

I smile. “That’s nice. Now, go play.”

Callen has regressed.

It’s neurological. I’ve seen this a million times in clinical settings.

Do NOT yell at me (Bella will bite you) about taking kids to doctors.

What the fuck do you think I do.

If I’m writing about some medical condition of any of the boys (custody allows for that), that boy has seen a doctor, and he’s probably on some voodoo modern medicine.

My theory about the theories of modern Western medicine are surprisingly similar in context to my theories of sadism and masochism and the hive mentality of the stupid herd.

Variations of dominance and submission. Like autism, it’s a spectrum.

I have a theory that Callen’s dementia was like a Tsunami. The brain barrier got battered and bruised when his family beat him up so that what’s going on now is not unlike the NFL’s mission Statement: Gentlemen, Place Your Bets.

Sadomasochism is not wearing leather on Friday night to the Eagle.

So fucking original.

Sadomasochism is the molecular structure of life.

Isabella is dominant because her brain tells her to nip at whatever animal has left the herd. We trained wolves. We train dogs. And, hot damn, we train ourselves.

A culture war ensues when the lower level of submissive mammals are over it.

Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark.

Children never have dementia.

They do when their brains are battered against their skulls.

Callen will regress. Male Dominance Did Him In.

Immature members of the herd do not always make it.

In fact, they can be dominated right up to the very end.

No one knows when that will be. Football players are starting to go gaga in their thirties. We know why, but there’s too much money at stake to give a flying fuck.

Just like with us whores.

We all get what we deserve at the end.

You have ruined my beautiful wickedness.

Now, it’s my turn.

The dominant human males keep Callen contained or he falls into the lake when he sees his reflection.

When Callen wants to touch that reflection, he’s remembering.

If we smile in response, we feel better because endorphins are released when we do that. Politicians do it a lot. Fucking junkies.

A herding animal reads both body language and facial information. The canine brain translates to In Order To Be Rectify Aberrant Behavior The Herd Must Stay Together At All Costs.

We turned an animal that would eat the herd into an animal who needs Prozac if anyone moves.

Don’t tell me there is medicine for everything if only we would go consult the chicken claws some demented soul leaves on your front porch.

I have never lived in Key West.

I have never lived in New Orleans.

Today, I’m free to move around as I ever was.

I am dominated by a virus that becomes a public policy form of warfare in the larger context of the larger universe. Culture is irrelevant.

Isabella does not care.

She views medicine as moronic. Just herd the thing. Stay with what works.

Telling me to take a kid to the doctor so lets you off the hook. It’s passive aggressive.

What hook.

The hook that says — I am only one teeny weeny little insignificant person and there is nothing I can do about shit except take up space I can’t give back because god and grandpa won’t let me — Gruntspeak.

Get a life, Cupcake. Better yet, don’t speak at all.

You have nothing to say.

I’m begging you not to reproduce.

I will wash your dishes until the day you die if you promise to not make another image of your stupid self.

Have you ever noticed how all the stupid people reproduce like grasshoppers.

As a species, we dominate all the other species, and then we eat them. We then turn to dominating members of our own selfless species, and we would eat them, too, but we’re moral creatures.

We’re about as moral as an ant. There are way, way too many of us on the planet.

We’re stupid.

Hive mentality. We can wiggle out of everything because we can hide among the herd which is why there is a herd.

“Tim Barrus, I’m too busy taking up space.”

“I was not aware of that.”

“I told you I’m busy.”

“And I told you that no one spits at Grandma’s house. Me, too, girlfriend.”

If Isabella is out in the fields, Callen has to stay in the house.

“Is it a rule.”

Yes, Callen. It’s a rule. I put computer chips inside the heads of his dolls. Well, okay, Trig did. I can be a hundred miles from the house, and still track him on my phone. If Callen leaves the perimeter, the phone alerts me.

Unless I turn this fucking thing off.

The boys could alert me but they’re probably smoking weed in the barn. A computer chip is more trustworthy.

Computer chips that fit like eyes into a toy are being made by Google. In that commercial context, information about not what is there, but what is not there, what these people need to buy, is sent to Google Big Dick Central. You know, spies controlled by their dicks. I hate Google because they won’t hire me as a poet. Fucking shit heads.

Cameras for eyes in toys is fucking creepy.

But I sort of like the idea of it.

I want CIA surveillance cameras in the barn.

Poor Isabella has to herd all of this. It’s ghastly.

By the end of the day, she’s exhausted.

Bella does not sleep with anyone. It drives her Miss Sugar.

Bella would never tolerate being under covers because she could not tell if anyone moved two feet.

I have trained Bella to lick Callen. The Jacks can do tricks, too, like barking.

It nudges Callen out of the dead zone.

He’ll be there soon enough.

Then, he’ll come back for a while.

You can work around death all you want. But you never get used to it.

That is a lie.

A big fucking lie.

Don’t go romantic on me.

The problem is we DO get used to it. We grow numb.

Never vacation anywhere near social work conventions.

Oh, Mrs. Long Face.

The word abused is not as branding hot as it needs to be. Smokin’.

The word can mean murder.

I have a theory that these people have shit for brains.

They just don’t care and it’s symbolic probably at some genetic level that has an affected Jack Russell jumping ten feet in the air singing California, Here I Come.

Right back where I fucking started from. The Jack is in the moment.

Moment to moment.

Butt to butt.

The Jack Russells are In Service to some Sadistic Master in the sky.

Who said let there be Jack Russells.

The Blue Heeler has tried to understand them.

But it cannot be done.

That’s nice. Now, go fucking play.

.