January 31, 2011; Winter of Discontent

What has become of my life?

What has become of me?

I am living with two Peter Pans: one who is so surrounded by toys and silliness you wonder if he ever lifts his head and looks around at the real world (Skeeter); the other who handles adult stress by falling into a million pieces of broken psyche (Boo-Boo). And I have to put up with both. That's getting tiresome.

And worse, now, I am talking to them or, rather, they are talking at me. These two very rarely actually talk with me about things I'm interested in. They're either bitching me out or I have to work hard to find a subject that they find fascinating. They hardly ever explore my world, try to understand what makes me—or other dogs or even other animals—tick. And that, too, is getting tiresome.

And I have to fit my life around theirs. I realize this as I look over my blogs for the last two years. I never go out as often as I want. They think walking me four times a day for ten or fifteen minutes each time is alot! But—fuck me!—I'm a Jack Russell Terrier! I need to run! And not just mad, insanely fast circles around an apartment which is far two small for a dog, let alone a dog and two ever-widening old fucks. And they feed me once a day—cheap kibble soaking in tasteless broth—and they give me a hard, bargain-basement biscuit after the walks and they sometimes give a little of the yummy stuff they eat...a very little. This too is getting tiresome.

And I have no friends, no lovers. I just have these two fogies. Sure, once in a while, I get to talk to Benjie, Ginger, Babette and my beloved Twiggy. And even more infrequently I get to have a quick chin-wag with Cleo and that mad thing, Slicer. And, sure, I have my followers and friends on the internet. But I need real friends. I need other dogs. I wish I could do like humans and get on the phone as often as I want and have a long chat about my problems, about dog problems, with my sister or even a close dog friend. I could have a good dog friend, if I wanted—my personality, despite what The Boys say, is okay! I feel lonely. And that's tiresome.

And I look at my life and realize I'm missing something. As a dog. Especially as a Jack Russell. My curiousity is being crushed by hours and hours of idiot television and bad movies (which these two losers watch constantly) and by hours and hours of dull conversation. My head is becoming empty and there is a kind of enforced ethos here that allows for this emptiness. And I realize this, also, is tiresome.

And I'm not the nice, tight physical speciman I was when I came here two years ago. I have become round and fleshy and nothing is sleek or hard anymore. I have embraced the lifestyle here; the lazy, do-nothing-if-you-can-manage-it way of living. I have become something other. And I find that tiresome.

More, I find myself tiresome.

I don't like what I've become and I know it's only going to get worse.

Maybe it's the winter blahs.

Maybe.

And I do feel sooooooo good when I'm jammed into the La-Z-Boy beside Skeet, especially after a walk in the brutally cold weather we've been having. I like the small space and the heat. It's like a narcotic.

And that's the problem: it's almost exactly like a narcotic and I am getting wickedly addicted to it and addictions lead down roads which end in awful places. But what to do?

Sigh.

What to do?