How did I end up with the Mooks when I was so happy with Frank? I'll tell you how!
Though Frank had had a stroke, he managed to knock the phone over and press in 911. People knew things were wrong; cops came, ambulance came, and off he went, not a soul looking back at me—indeed, one emergency worker put me in the bathroom and closed the door like I was shit or something. A day later Karrlah showed up to pick me up, drive me off, and stash me in some unused little room in her basement where I was given a blanket and fed. I was used to this kind of place, but wasn't particularly pleased that I was back in one. A couple of times a day a maid came in, changed my water and food, picked up my messes and went off. She tried to be nice to me but I could tell that I was just another damn duty for an immigrant servant who was already being worked to the bone in the rest of the house.
A week passed like this, and then Frank came to join me in the basement. Not in that little room, but in a kind of bedroom that looked like it was just part of the playroom down there. We were going to live there together, for a bit. As it turns out Frank's stroke wasn't insanely serious but he wasn't able to live on his own either so here we were with nothing but the maid, a black and white TV with no remote and no cable and visits from a home nurse, and—once a day—a visit from her highness, Princess Karrlah. Frank looked relatively okay though he couldn't walk right yet and he certainly couldn't talk right. In fact, everything he said came out, "Silly cunt," much to the delight of all the women around him. Karrlah took this especially badly and would always leave the room crying.
Somehow Frank communicated to his daughter that I needed to be taken outside for some air, from time to time, and although I hated leaving the old man behind this sure sounded like a great idea to me. So that's when I met Mr. Karrlah.
If you can imagine the worst kind of yuppie asshole—$200 haircut, polished nails, tailored everything and Italian shoes—and throw 100 pounds too much on him, acne and grease in the haircut (and into his way of talking), you've got Brian (pronounced Bree-an, the cunt). With Karrlah, Brian was fighting waaaaay above his weight (no matter how much money he made as some kind of investment banker) and he knew it. So when Karrlah said Jump! Brian would say Shall I do splits with that, Milady?
So Brian had to walk me. And Brian hated me with every fiber of the tonnage he was carrying about. We were quite a sight: me, the little tugboat, yanking that overblown Andrea Doria around—both of us heading for a disaster.
At home, Frank could do nothing for me, but I could cuddle on his lap and I could see in his eyes that he loved me so, so, much and I could hear it in his voice as he murmured, "Silly cunt."
It was in the second week...Brian was about to walk me when we ran into Karrlah on the way out and she flashed him a look that could have meant a million things. He just nodded like the poor loser-in-love that he was. The walk was different this time because he took me in the car first and we drove away a bit before we got out for my business. I yanked, he yanked back, I yanked, and then he wasn't yanking back and suddenly the leash got away from him. He looked at me. I looked at him. I ran a bit. He looked at me. I ran a bit. Was he playing? I ran toward him. He looked at me, bent over, took my leash and collar off, and said, "Go and play!" Brian wasn't any kind of guy you play with but I was game and ran all around him in wider and wider circles. There wasn't much chance of him running after me, huge as he was, after all.
And then...!
And then he just got in the fucking car and drove off! I sat on the sidewalk and went, "Hm" wondering what it all meant. I was sitting there for a long time, thinking Brian might come back, but he didn't. So I decided to walk home. Problem: I had no idea where home was and for a day just wandered through the city, eating garbage and drinking puddle water and wishing I was home in bed with Frank, toasty-warm and surrounded by his good smells. But soon it looked like Frank, like my Mom, Ceecee and other little joys, was a thing of the past and I became an alley dog. A good alley dog. I loved it. The freedom of just roaming about, not anyone yanking me on a leash, of running in and around and out of a park. Fuck, you don't know what that feels like 'til it's gone. And of course, after a week, it was gone.
The rest you know. SPCA, Mooks...yadda yadda yadda. I wonder what happened to Frank. He can't be happy. Not with all those silly cunts. Not without me. And let me just say this and get on with my life: I think of that smelly old fucker every day and miss him like mad. He taught me everything I know.
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