The Czar was shocked to discover that our antient, mortal enemies the Freemasons apparently have employed dogs to do their mysterious work. Specifically, the Masonic Association of Service and Therapy Dogs (MAST), which looks exactly like the kind of worthwhile organization to which you would totally want to donate money, claims that it trains rescue and shelter dogs to serve as therapy dogs to children, veterans, domestic violence shelters, and emergency shelter sites to help calm, ease suffering, and provide joy to those suffering, injured, or terrified.

That’s what they claim, so you better figure this out for yourself by thoroughly researching them, and perhaps lure them into complacency by donating to their cause. That’s what the Czar did, so he has them totally fooled.

Anyway, the Czar realized that we Gormogons cannot be seen to be falling behind in the therapy canine gap, so the Czar called up Dr. J. and ‘Puter, as the Gormogons’ dog experts, and we quickly pulled together our dog program, designed to warn people about the dangers of messing with us and our plans for world domination. ‘Puter said he was in, and immediately jumped into a car and drove off. We haven’t seen him since Friday.

Dr. J. of course rolled up his sleeves and said “Let’s think this through,” and after several glasses of Belle Meade bourbon and driving around the Plateau of Leng in a rented pickup truck (by rented, we mean, we took it for free and have since abandoned it), we put together a collection of dogs we think would easily impress even the Freemasons.

	The Czar named this fun little fella Vosgrakt, after the ancient Slavic god of virulent disease. He hasn’t stopped backing and foaming at the mouth, and got so loud that we had to put him in the storage room of the Castle bar. This was a great idea, because we could hear him, but them our goofy Egyptian mummy butler went to get another box of swizzle sticks, or whatever, and opened the storage room door to get knocked over by this 105-pound brute. The dog raced out of the storage room, across the lobby, and all the Czar said was “There he goes!” Dr. J. managed to force-pet him into complacency long enough for us to get him back into the storage room. We’ll probably just let him loose on the eighth floor tomorrow, as that floor has the fewest usable guest rooms.
	This happening little dude was just sitting in some junk yard, just outside of Leng. It took us forever to cut through the fence, and the noise must have hurt his ears because he was pretty upset the whole time. It was almost like he didn’t want to leave. He was really annoyed for some reason, even when the owner came out and said it was his dog, and the Czar had to hit him really hard in the head to knock him out (the guy, not the dog). Fortunately, the Czar has a two-pound ribeye in his robe pocket, and that was the only way we could get him into the truck (the dog, not the guy).
	This dog is pretty horrible. Doc wants to call him “Biteforce,” which would be really cool if we could get him to stop using it on our forearms. We had to use a black aircraft cable as a leash because he bit through the orange extension cord Doc managed to lasso him with. You should have seen it: Doc was awesome. He tied a bowline and threw the loop over the dog in one move, like a total expert, even though the dog leaped through the air and tackled him. Good thing I grabbed the other end of the cable and pulled because he was about to do a biteforce on Doc’s throat.
	We didn’t capture this guy; he pretty much just wandered into the truck. Doc suggested calling him Flatulence because this weird little freak apparently ate an entire block of frozen broccoli about an hour before. He shakes terribly, and has their weird raspy breathing that sounds like a baby alligator calling for its mama. This thing is so messed up, we didn’t know what to do with it, so we put it in ‘Puter’s room with a box of frozen microwave burritos. We have no idea what ‘Puter’s going to come back to when he sobers out in a couple days and comes back home.
	Here’s Mayfly, who doesn’t like cameras at all. The Czar thought going to one knee to get a dog’s-eye portrait shot would be a great idea. Thanks, Doc, for pulling him off and very sorry about the sleeve of your new robe. The Czar will pay for it, rest assured. It took both of us to get him into the truck, and the Czar is not pleased to admit he had to hold this dog in a very weird place, but hey, Doc had the biting end, so he was braver than we were by far.
	Here’s one we found in the woods near the Castle. The Czar is calling him Shep, because he’s clearly a Shepherd mix…maybe a husky? No, he’s a pretty big boy, so maybe malamute or something. The yellow eyes are pretty unusual; you sometimes get that with merle genes acting up, so there could be some border collie or something in there. Anyway, the kids will like him.
	This unusual looking fellow was wandering around the Castle parking lot, and the Czar thinks he has the cutest ears. Some crazy bark, too. But we managed to get a good-sized, heavy-gauge chain around his neck. It took a lot of pulling, but we got him into the gift shop, where he immediately made the cutest little bed out of some Mandarin bobblehead boxes. We thought Spots would be a great name for him, and he sure does trot around constantly. He’s been pooping continuously, so we’re not sure he’s ever been indoors.
	Dr. J. showed up with this thing at the end of a piece of yellow marine rope. We can’t figure out what it is, so we figure it’s one of those Incan dogs the Millennials are into because they need everything hypoallergenic. Weird blue eyes. Doc says he found it in some farmer’s fields, eating the anuses out of dead cows, which is probably anti-social behavior for dogs; it isn’t for Gormogons, of course, but this scrawny fellow wasn’t leaping around with a roll of Brawny paper towels.

The Czar of Muscovy

Божію Поспѣшествующею Милостію Мы, Дима Грозный Императоръ и Самодержецъ Всероссiйскiй, цѣсарь Московскiй. The Czar was born in the steppes of Russia in 1267, and was cheated out of total control of all Russia upon the death of Boris Mikhailovich, who replaced Alexander Yaroslav Nevsky in 1263. However, in 1283, our Czar was passed over due to a clerical error and the rule of all Russia went to his second cousin Daniil (Даниил Александрович), whom Czar still resents. As a half-hearted apology, the Czar was awarded control over Muscovy, inconveniently located 5,000 miles away just outside Chicago. He now spends his time seething about this and writing about other stuff that bothers him.