October 28, 2010; Walking Wounded

So sick. I mean siiiiiiiiiiiick. I mean barf-o-rama, achy, not able to lie down, not able to walk about, wishing-I-was-dead sick.

But not so sick that on Tuesday, when Skeeter came back from the hospital, I didn't laugh my motherfucking ass off. After a weekend of stress and a morning of tranqs, he came back twenty minutes after he left saying, "The appointment is next Tuesday." What a fucking retard!

Anyhoo...

Sick.

I barfed in Boo-Boo's bed. The problem was that it was brown bile and looked like...well...you know. He woke up, freaked, changed the bedding and it wasn't until the morning when Skeeter got up and told his "roomie" that I had been up and down all night yacking up brown splooge all over the kitchen. Boo was relieved. "Pissing in the bed is one thing," he said, "but shitting in the bed is upping the ante by more than I can handle."

It was during this conversation that it began all over again and I was one big barf machine, spraying all over the house: on carpets, floors, computer wires. But at least now something was coming out. "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU EAT?!?!" Skeet roared at poor little me as he cleaned up the mess.

"I don't rightly know—"

"—HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE JAMMED INTO YOUR OWN MOTHERFUCKING MOUTH, YOU FUCKING IDIOT DOG!—"

"—could you stop yelling, I AM sick."

"I do not feel sorry for self-inflicted wounds—"

"I'll remember that when you're dying from cancer from your two packs a day cigarette habit or when you're nursing an STD from your rentboys."

"Shaddup."

"Look, it was probably yesterday when Boo was walking me. He was smoking, drinking his morning coffee and generally ignoring me when I found a delicious something buried in a pile of leaves."

"Which was—?" he prodded.

"Well it smelled like liver and cheese and tomatoes and something else but the aroma was delightful."

"You know," he said with a tone, "in the human world we call that vomit."

"Well in the dog world we call it a buffet," I riposted.

"It's quite astounding to me that you animals, who are apparently so smart otherwise, are such imbeciles when it comes to food."

"It's in the blood...it's basic...the survival instinct. And besides, look at Cleo and Slicer! They eat everything and don't seem to have any problems at all."

"Oh! my sweet little fuckknuckle! They are alley cats. They have an immune system so evolved they can survive damn near anything! You are pampered and babied and eat chips and tidy-clean packaged food like all the other fat little lap dogs!"

"Well fuck you very much."

"So how are you feeling now?"

"Better."

"Good," he said, somewhat snottily.

"I'm hungry."

October 25, 2010; Winter Cats

It wasn't just the crisp autumn weather that reminded me that soon I would be balls-deep in snow. I was walking with Boo-Boo, this morning, when we ran into Cleo and Slicer who were foraging in the garbage always piled up in the alley behind our place. I turned to Boo and as there was no one around I said, "These two are friends of mind, can we stop and talk for a bit?"

"Oh! Good grief! You have cat friends and you can talk to them...well, why not!" (Let it be said that Boo was still having trouble coming to terms with this whole me-talking-business.)

"Heya, Sweetie, heya Slicer!" I said. Cleo gave me a little peck on the nose and Slicer roared/howled/shrieked; that noise that always has me flinching.

"Jesus!" Boo gasped and I could almost hear his balls crawling up from his scrotum and into his belly.

"So what are you two up to?" I asked.

"Supper," yowled Slicer.

"It's ten in the morning!" I said.

"For us alley folk it's always supper!" Slicer cawed and then made a sound I knew he called a laugh but that the rest of the world—including Boo, who actually blanched—heard as a cry of "Murder!"

"We have to fatten up for winter," said Cleo. Though this sounded like a somber thought from an alley cat—especially one new to the scene like Cleo¿she seemed cheerful. She saw me looking at her sadly and said, "No! No! No! We get nice and fat and there is this nice porch, two blocks over, under which this wonderful lady jams blankets and hay for Slicer and me. She even feeds us—"

"—but she has a rule—" Slicer gurgled.

"—yes, we can stay there as long as we don't bring dead things under the porch!" She mewed with amusement and—God help us—Slicer "laughed" and I peed a little and Boo swayed back. "The lady is quite dandy. Not one of those cat people but one of those mystics who knows about animals talking and understanding."

"Mystic?" I asked.

"Yes," Cleo said, "the ones who have never heard an animal talk in their language but who know...just know!"

"Do they need anything for winter?" Boo asked me.

"Oh! isn't he sweet!" Cleo chirped and Slicer, first, snarled in agreement and then went over to Boo and wrapped himself around Boo's legs in thanks.

"What's he doing?" Boo asked nervously.

"Checking out the size of your balls...as a possible meal," I teased and Slicer bellowed/bawled another laugh. Boo leaned down and tried to pet the tom and got a clawed swat in answer. He jumped back.

"He must never—never!—touch Slicer!" Cleo whispered. I translated for Boo and added, "He's not a house cat!"

Then, in English, Slicer yowled, "Nooooooooooooooooo!" (No one would have noticed he was speaking a human language because cats make all sorts of sounds which sound human—like those baby-being-tortured yodels in the summer, when they are in rut.)

We all said goodbye and the cats went back to the garbage. "Strange world, isn't it?" I said to Boo while we were still in the alley.

"Strange, yes, but so interesting." I looked up at him, saw that he was smiling, and realized he was coming around.

October 22, 2010; Insomnia

I was so exhausted when I toddled into the kitchen last night that Cosmo sitting there, puffing on his ever-present cigarette, had no effect on me. I went to take a sip of water and then fell down on then little mat there for me. "What is it, little feller?" he said.

"Sometimes it's just too much, these two."

"I know what you mean...they can be tiresome."

"I can't even sleep with Boo-Boo anymore. He's so fucking restless and that's when he's asleep. He's up and down, ostensibly to go to the bathroom, but really just to wander aimlessly. He's driving me mad!"

"Poor you," the phantom Dalmatian said and, for once, there didn't seem to be a whiff of sarcasm

"And the other one, who was starting to simmer down now that he's gotten rid of that twat who was treating him before, is climbing the walls because of his MRI on Tuesday!"

"Isn't that a nothing process?"

"He thought so. Then the chick who booked the appointment said, 'Are you claustrophobic?' all he could think was, 'I AM NOW!!!'"

"Jeez."

"So they're both a mess and you can imagine just how fun it is for me." I sighed deeply.

Then Cosmo came over to me and sat down beside me and a wee bit too close for my comfort. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Let your Uncle Cosmo help you relax."

"You're not one of those creepy uncles, are you?"

"Oh! hush up!"

Then, as only a Ghost Dog can do, he wrapped his body around me. I felt nothing physical except a kind of warmth...a glow...or a flow of peaceable energy going through me...deep into me. "Now sleep, little feller. Sleeeeeeeeeee—"

And I was out.

I woke up when Boo came into the kitchen to make his coffee in the morning and everything—everything!—was just fine. I stretched long and hard and said, "Good morning!"

"What's good about it?" Boo mooed.

"Get with the program!" I barked. "It's a crisp autumn day and Christmas is only two months away and then you have three weeks off to do sweet fuck all!"

"I guess you're right," he said and actually smiled for the first time in months.

"Now get me the fuck outside or I'll piss in your bed." He laughed. I added "Who's joking?

He skedaddled.

October 19, 2010; Life Runs its Course

Well, so far, things have worked out okay because The Boys have no time to talk to me and even to each other; it's: "Boy, I slept badly!"; "God! am I stressed out!"; "What time will you be home?"; "G'morning."; "G'night."

Not exactly the Algonquin Round Table, is it? In between they bounce off the walls. Skeeter is having troubles with his benefits, with his health, with doctor and nurse appointments, with tidying the house and with trying to keep meals down. Thank all that is holy! that he's got his fucking iPad and can go to bed and watch Mad Men...or, rather one Mad Man—you know the one—if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

But Boo is a worry. He cannot relax. It's that simple. While Skeet peels himself off the walls by reading The Millenium books (he's got a non-boner crush on Salander) and watching TV and listening to stand-up (Kee-rist he's got a loud, obnoxious laugh!), Boo has nothing that gives him pleasure. Sure, shit food makes him hum for a bit, but then he deals with heartburn and stress and that's when he hits the computer—hard!—for work or, in bed (late night and early morning) stares at the walls for long, long moments. I even thought I'd have a little chat with him last night to see if getting it out of his system through talking would help, but he just stared at me when I said, "Want to talk?" He does that with Boo too when Boo asks him what's wrong.

But there is a silver lining here, for me at least. Normally they close the door of the bathroom as it is the only room, in the autumn, they heat and they don't want all that toasty warmth to get out. But because they are busy bouncing about they forget to close the door and I can go in, cozy up to the radiator or even snack. Snack? you ask? Have you ever tasted the wondrous, unparalleled flavour sensation that is an Ivory soap bar (with aloe)?!?!?! O...M...F...G!!!! First there is that melt-in-your-mouth, unctuous texture! Then it explodes into a tongue-tickling fireworks of bubbles! And then, after you swallow it. there are the delicious, perfume-scented burps for hours and then the delighfully cleansing floral-farts. It's THE edible gift that keeps on giving.

Of course, me eating soap mortifies The Boys and they will even take a moment out of their insane lives to tell me how both their mothers used to threaten them with washing out their mouths with soap when they cursed. (Jesus, they're so fucking old.) And they're not fond of the rabid-dog lather that covers my face for a bit after I dine.

Just goes to show you: we are different species. Dogs have no stress. Humans apparently thrive upon, live and die for, it. Dogs eat things humans can't imagine. Humans eat slugs and call them "escargots" and devour the babies of animals like sheep and cows. Go figure.

October 16, 2010; The Conversation

When Boo-Boo came home, later that day, Skeeter was away—at the clinic or blowing strangers in the Starbuck's toilet, who knows?—and I figured I was going to get it with both barrels. But no. Boo was a weepy mess and immediately threw himself on his bed. What the fuck? I sighed deeply, toddled over to the bed, hopped up and said, "Want to talk about it?" though there was not a single atomic particle in my body that wanted to talk because, I knew, this was opening the door for me to become everyone's fucking therapist.

He slowly lifted his head from his tear-soaked pillow and looked at me and said, "Oh...right."

"Right. Yes. Well?"

"My students are driving me up the fucking wall. It's like they can spot how insecure I am about teaching and just walk all over me."

"Jeez...what do you do about it?"

"Do?" he asked, bleery-eyed.

"Wipe your nose." He did. "Do! Do! As in punishment?"

"Punishment?"

"Oh! For Christ's sake, sit up and be a man! Punish! Don't you ever make an example of one of them by just grabbing him and smacking him about?"

"You're not allowed to do that!" he said, horrified.

"Since when?!?!"

"You'd go to fucking jail!"

"Well, what a fucking pussy world we live in when you can't take a misbehaving student and smack him about. What about yelling?"

"I could do that and have but it does no good. They just snicker. And worse, they do stuff like go to the bathroom and don't come back."

"Jesus. Just how old are these children?"

"College age."

"Oh my fucking stars. I do not believe it."

"Yes," he said mournfully. Pathetically.

"Okay," I said, still trying to wrap my head around the fact you could go to jail for smacking a brat. "First, you tell them all you take the roll at the beginning and the end of each class—"

"At the end? They'll never stand for that!"

"GROW SOME FUCKING BALLS, WILL YOU!!!"

"Okay, okay..." he said, trying to simmer me down.

"They're not in charge! You are! You are! You! You!" and I thumped into his chest with my front paws with each exclamation. He went "Ow!" and I continued my advice. "You tell them you will take the roll at the beginning and the end and anyone missing from either one loses five percent each time and if they miss three times they flunk. You lock the door five minutes into the class and any little fuckwad who comes a-knocking is told to go home."

"Hm..." he said, doubtfully.

"Then, during the class, you chose some little trouble-maker at random and say, 'You apparently have nothing to learn here; leave please.' If they mention the end of class roll call, you tell them you feel very sad for their predicament but clearly he/she needs an afternoon nap more than the five percent on the final grade."

"They'll all think I'm crazy," he muttered.

"Yes, yes, yes. And maybe dangerous too. That's the point. They...must...fear...you."

"Hm." He looked at me, picked me up and cuddled me. "You're a smart little dog."

"Indeed I am, and, like Skeeter, you must never, never forget that."

"Skeeter?"

"The other one."

"And I am...?"

"Boo-Boo," I told him. I enjoyed the cuddle for a bit. "And you also so badly need to get fucked—"

"—Excuse me?—"

"—Rent yourself a nice looking kid, like Skeeter did.—"

He picked me up, turned me, and stuck his face in mine and said, "Listen to me, you! I'm not like 'the other one.' I never, never talk about my sex life or drives or tastes or anything! You got it?"

"Oh puh-leeeeeeeeze. You might not talk about it, but Skeeter talks about your drives all the time," I said.

"Does he? Does he?!?!" he shrieked.

"No."

"Then why did you say that? Are you fucking crazy?!"

"Did I scare you?"

"Yes!" he yelled.

"You see? Crazy works."

He pondered that and as he did I wondered if he got the other lesson in what I did: that I am in charge.

October 13, 2010; It's All Over, Dammit!

Well, it's over.

I was in a funk from my news from Ceecee. Now, when I get in a funk I don't get like the Boys—quiet, introverted, gray—I get pissy, literally and figuratively. I bitch, I whine, I tear things and break things and eat things and mostly I mark things. But because, when I mark things openly, Skeeter goes ballistic, I do it in hiding. So they know something is amiss—the smell is unmistakeable—but they don't know where, how or when.

I was in that kind of fucking mood, you know?, when smart people know not to mess with me. Well, apparently, Boo-Boo does not fall into the category. He was being insanely dumb. He was teasing me and grabbing at me and working out his stress (which is something quite monumental) by being in my fucking face when he just shouldn't have been.

It reached it's peak, last night. He had been playing with me and was not getting that I was not playing; that I was not nipping him, as we wrestled, but actually biting. The idiot said, "So you want to play rough, do you!" What a mega-twat!!! A few minutes later he got out a can of Lay's Stax. Now, if I had my druthers, I would take a Pringle; Stax are just a weird, cheap, gross knock-off. But they're edible. So there he was, on the couch, stuffing his fucking face and not offering me a-one. I was sitting on the floor, staring at him, like some obedient, yappy fucking lap-dog. And then...then...I can hardly get the words out...

He wanted me to sit-fucking-pretty!!!! Do you fucking believe it?!?!?!?! He was holding a chip just above my head. Then, once, I stood on my hinds for it and he snatched it away and said, "Sit pretty!" Then twice. I jumped. Then a third time...

"GIVE ME THE MOTHERFUCKING CHIP YOU COCKSUCKER!!!!!" I roared.

"There you go," Skeeter murmured from the La-Z-Boy.

There was a long, long, long silence. Boo stared at me. He did not blink. "Give me the chip," I said and he did. And he stared. And I said, "Yeah, well."

I hopped up on the couch and took my place on his legs and pretended to snooze. Not too much later, with not a word spoken, we all went to bed. I pretended to sleep, snored a little. But I knew a Pandora's box had been open and all sorts of shit was going to pour out. When Boo got up, this morning, we did the regular stuff and just as he was walking out the door for work he said, "We're going to talk about this."

"Yeah, well, we'll see," I muttered.

"Oh yeah! We'll see all right!!!" he said stupidly.

Oh! fuck shit cunt!

October 10, 2010; The Great Passage

Dear, dear Dee (Ceecee's letter began)

I am so sorry I have not written in the last few days but I have been going through a rather hard time. One of my old dears, quite suddenly, went to her end. We were all watching television when with a quiet, little sigh Milly, the youngest of the two sisters, was gone. I noticed first and went over to her on the couch, smelled for her peppermint breath and knew and then Winnie looked at me and knew as well.

Then there was all the folderol, as Winnie calls it, and now there are the realities. Winnie wishes to continue living here and alone but she is very, very old and her children and Milly's worry for her. But she won't hear of going into "one of those places" especially since it means she might have to leave me behind.

I will keep you posted but times are very hard and Winnie needs me so much.

Much, much love

Ceecee

Strangely, something happened and I shared it with my sister in my next e-mail.

Beloved Ceecee

I am so, so sorry for your loss and also for Winnie's. But, as you know from reading this blog, nothing really ends, does it?

But I want to tell you a story. I was walking with Skeeter this morning and we came across a young girl sweeping leaves in front of her house. She immediately said hello to me, of course, and then to Skeeter. As she petted me, a black lab-like mutt, who had been sleeping on the verandah in the autumn sun, woke, stretched and joined us. As he descended the three small steps he whimpered—almost inaudibly. Skeeter started cuddling him, which normally drives me mad (if I am not getting like attention from someone), and asked the girl, "How old is he?" She said, "Just slightly younger than me: twelve." Skeeter kissed the dog and the dog whimpered again and the child noticed and said, "Silly old thing!"

Then the ancient said to me, "I'm so worried for her. My time is coming and she's known me all her life. She loves me much, as I do her. But it's time. I see a youngster like you and I know I must make room. The world must turn. Life is better if it is lovely memories."

"Yes," I murmured, "but it's a hard lesson for a little girl.

"Yes. However, every animal comprehends life and the Great Passage at its own speed," the big black dog said, now leaning with fatigue against Skeeter. "It is the wisdom of the universe that humans, who take longer to understand, have longer lives as well. And so they can prepare and prepare their children." The lab sighed with exhaustion and whispered, "The world must turn. Room must be made."

And then we were done. Skeeter said goodbye to the girl and the old dog whimpered again as he went to his place on the verandah. Skeeter said, "Lovely and sad," and then we were quiet.

My message to you, Dearheart, is this: Winnie's heart is broken but she was prepared by the passage of time. And the wisdom of the universe put you there, with her, now, when she needs you. And you are young.

I return your love and double it.

Dee

October 7, 2010; Climbing Walls

Oh! Things are a laugh-a-minute here in Boystown!

Since Skeeter's pot-induced hysteria on the weekend, he's simmered down into oxycodone withdrawal. Nice to watch: nausea, headaches, him pacing about 'til five or six in the morning and when he is in bed, his legs bouncing about like he's auditioning for "So You Think You Can Dance." At least he isn't talking about killing me or himself anymore. We ran into Babs and Ginger yesterday and when Skeeter told her what his doctor had done, Babs said, "You should sue her ass off." I agree...it would be nice to have some new toys and furniture here; the smell of my piss and barf on everything is starting to bother even me. (Babs offered Skeet some pills from her own supply, which he refused...five days of withdrawal, he felt, was not something he wanted to go through again.)

Meanwhile, Boo-Boo is, once again, bouncing off the walls or was until he left at 5:30 this a.m. to bring his students on a field trip. Boo is overwhealmed by work; he may have taken on too much with the promotion and the new classes and this fucking trip. Worse, his students are a bunch of miserable little fuckwads who, despite being college age, act like they're six years old. My plan is to start spamming all their fucking Facebook pages 'til I've driven the bunch to suicide. No one fucks with my Boo but me.

So the way I see it is that one or the other should be dead or near-dead and in the hospital before Christmas. This is not good. For now, though, I've got two days of rain and Skeeter alone to get through. He promised me we would do like the last time we were left to our own devices when Boo went to Paris: curl up on the La-Z-Boy, turn up the heat and watch TV.

Shutter Island, Boardwalk Empire and some horror films are on the menu: dead humans everywhere!

Wooooooooooooot!

October 4, 2010; Lost Weekend

It was like Ray Milland in that old movie, Lost Weekend, with DTs and hallucinations and the whole damn thing.

Here's how it started. Last Wednesday Skeeter phoned his pharmacist and asked her to fax his old surgeon for a renewal on his pain-killer. A few hours later the pharmacist got back to him and said, "Your surgeon no longer considers you her patient and so will not renew the prescription."

Needless to say, Skeeter went ballistic; he always knew she was a cunt but did not know the profound depths of her cuntitude. So, he phoned his plastic surgeon and explained the situation. The new surgeon said, "There is not a doctor who values that title who will prescribe narcotics to you without knowing you well. If you come in on Monday, I can prescribe a few."

The problem? He was going to run out on Friday and it looked like it was going to be a looooooooong weeked. And it was, my friends, it was! Skeeter got the not-so-bright idea to get some pot from a friend. Now, he hadn't smoked up or even taken in any alcohol since he was 22 (31 years ago!) because...well he was not sure why but was sure as hell about to find out. He thought smoking a joint might deal with both the pain and simmer down the withdrawal symptoms from his previous painkiller—the dreaded hillbilly heroin, oxycodone. What did I know, when I cuddled up with him on Saturday afternoon?

He smoked half a joint in five or six deep puffs. Then, fifteen minutes later, the show began. I was already snoozing when he began to say, "Oh my! Oh my!" I looked up, his eyes were wobbly and his head was jiggling about on his shoulders. A few minutes later he was praying and, creepily, it was The Act of Contrition, the prayer the Catholics think will strip them of all sin...it's sort of a pre-death thing. I didn't know if I ought to talk him down or just keep my mouth shut. He was weirding out.

Then he said something that chilled my blood: "I don't want to kill you, Leo."

WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON HERE!!!! THIS WAS POT AND HE WAS ACTING LIKE HE WAS ON LSD!

Suddenly he jumped up, plopping me to the floor, raced to the bathroom, and for a long, long time he just scream-heaved-barfed-retched into the toilet, praying like there was a choir of angels ready to take him off. Finally he crawled back to the La-Z-Boy, picking me up on the way. There seemed to be a whiff of lucidity around him now and I said, "This killing thing..."

He laughed like a loon and said, "When I was a little boy there was an episode of the cop show, "Dragnet," and this couple smoked up forgetting they had left the baby in the tub and it drowned and they were arrested and when I smoke up I always think of that show. Funny isn't?!?!" he bellowed.

"Hi-larious," I muttered.

Then he crawled off to the bedroom, got undressed, and at three in the fucking afternoon he was in bed, muttering and blathering and slipping in and out of reality. I climbed into the bed to keep an eye on him. As he was dozing off he was saying, "Bigmistakebigmistakebigmistake...."

Indeed.

And now he has the rest of the withdrawal symptoms. He's in pain that ibuprofen and extra-strength Tylenol don't deal with. Saturday night he slept not at all and last night only a little. And to add to all this fun, he's alone with me at the end of the week and still ringing in my ears is, "I don't want to kill you, Leo."

Do you believe it? Pot! Hippy drugs! What a fucking pussy!!!!