September 6, 200; Worries

Used to spend time on the balcony looking at the world going by; now it's deep in contemplation...

Things are odd at Mook Manor and I am not happy. In fact, I am starting to worry.

Maybe that's just the contagion of Mook A's attitude the last few days. He has not been a happy camper. A few days ago he went for lunch with this family I never see (and who I think may not actually exist) and came back looking like the wreck of the Hesperus. He told Mook B that he had almost fainted in the heat outside the restaurant and then he had eaten so fast that he was worried that he had made himself sick. (The way he said "sick" I knew we were not talking about any garden-variety belly-ache.) But then it had all passed and he laughed in a strange way about it except when I saw him—and B wasn't there—there was nothing particularly hilarious about what was going down.

Late one night, too, as I was sleeping deeply I woke to his roaring like an Airbus falling out of the sky. He was in the bathroom doing some damn medical thing and clearly it was not going well. He later told B (who had slept through it all) that he had had a tangle with one of his medical appliances (still haven't figured out what that means yet) and it had gone very badly. Again, as he told the story, that laugh that is not a laugh.

I also keep tabs on his medical status by watching the nurse's visits through his bedroom window (when I am imprisoned out on the balcony) and by keeping track of what's going into the paper recycling bin which is right beside my bed in the office. Lately, I have been seeing a whole lot of medical stuff: red and white boxes for strange equipment and supplies and mountains of sterile bandage wrappers. This clearly can't be good.

Mook A is certainly not his stupid, giddy, regular self. He paces about the house when he is alone (ie: with me, but I don't really count for either of them) and he is now talking obsessively about this doctor's appointment he's got on Wednesday. This is big news because she hasn't seen him since his operation early last fall! I don't like my humans going to the doctor—they tend to come back in a considerably worse state (ie: Frank). Here's the thing I have learned: the wounds the nurses have been treating for ten months have healed; however, a brand new one was found and that one is really deep (about four inches) and is—fercrissakes!—getting deeper no matter what they do. Therefore: the doctor's visit. A clearly doesn't like the doctor anymore, hates the hospital and is suspicious of both. Whether it is for reasons logical or not, he is not happy about Wednesday and his worries are...well...they're worrying me and I hate getting worried when there's some important sleeping to be done!

And if you need proof he's going round the bend, listen to how he responded to this great practical joke I pulled on him! He was in with the nurse on Friday and I was out on the balcony making no noise at all which in his sad little head means I am "behaving." So he did his nurse thing and then came out on the balcony to empty the medical waste into the trash can and to let me back into the house. I had hidden, though, and very well right—behind the aforementioned trash can. I mean, I was jammed into a little space there and I did not make a noise. "Léo!" he called out, with a whiff of confusion. Then: "Léo!" with that strange, half-mad laugh that humans get when they are trying to get a grip (and are failing). Then he did the most hilarious thing: he looked over the balcony to see if he could spot my little, white cadaver three floors down. That's when I came up behind him, nuzzled his leg and when he let out a little shriek and jumped five or six inches in the air. (They're very athletic when they freak out, the Mooks.)

Then, oddly, he did not get angry or laugh or anything, he picked me up and hugged a snerf out of me.

That's when the worries really set in.

Be very wary when senses of humour vanish....very wary.