October 27, 2009; I'm Baaaaaaaaaaack!

Waiting by the door and wondering what comes through it next

Well, I'm back. Things have been so weird the last couple of weeks I don't know if I'm coming or going. The apartment is either quiet and empty as death or packed with all sorts of people doing all sorts of things.

First off, the Mooks have been a mess. Mook B got some sort of cold and was hacking and coughing all over the place. This, of course, he passed to Mook A who, as is his wont, took the cold and ran with it, finding himself hacking so hard that he would start to dry heave and then, wet heave. It's been a fucking symphony of unpleasant noises in this place—above and beyond the usual belches, farts and whistles.

My beloved, the primary care nurse, disappeared for a bit and as a result we were being visited by a new nurse virtually every day. It's very hard to establish a routine with these people—do they like me (ie: can I jump all over them) or do they not (ie: should I be a "good boy" and try and restrain myself)? So I've been keeping a fairly low profile which, for me, is damn near impossible—stinking of charm and handsomeness, as I do.

Anyhoo...

Mook A's cold got very bad and I started to worry that he might have that pig thing. When he tried to walk me he'd be doubled over in the middle of the alley, choking up a lung and spewing his germs everywhere. This got worrisome; it's one thing for a human to have the pig flu, it's quite another for a dog to have it. Can you imagine the shame? A dog...with a pig disease! I'd never fucking live it down. So during our walks I tried to avoid the sputum A was heaving into the atmosphere and as a result kept yanking on the leash and as a result he'd get enraged and as a result he'd start hacking even more until the two of us were becoming quite the neighbourhood spectacle.

It finally got so bad that, one morning, Cate was called in to walk me (as Mook B was working) and the visiting nurse told A that it was time to go to the emergency room. So, I spent the rest of the day alone. B did not come home, instead going to the hospital to join A and see what was what. When they got back A looked like utter crap but had a prescription for a lung infection (which was not pneumonia...yet, anyway).

The next day A had an appointment with his specialist nurse and, once again, I was left alone as B went with him. That seemed to take years as well 'cause they not only had to go to the nurse but A had bureaucratic running around to do to make sure his medical benefits stayed in place. When they got back home, both of them were exhausted and A just flopped into his easy-chair. Then, just to make things interesting, his appliance decided to come apart in his pants and all hell broke loose. A rushed to the bathroom, B hauled out the cleaning supplies, and I was generally ignored for the next hour or so. Now this had never happened before and because of that it left A even more shaken then he already was and he started to feel profoundly insecure and disoriented.

You know how I could tell? Well, I'll tell you.

A, as you may know by now if you've been paying any attention, is pretty much led around by his dick. For instance when he walks me he takes a particularly route that goes through two construction sites because there are workies there he finds particularly interesting. Well, he used to, anyway. Now he does this huge detour around the sites because the dust there makes him cough and when he coughs he heaves and sometimes when he heaves he barfs and I suspect he doesn't want his fantasy men to see him like that. Or at least, I thought that was the case until last week when—landsogoshen!—we had a visit from a male nurse. Now I think I know what kind of guy pushes A's buttons and, let me tell you, this particular nurse was definitely Mook A's type. I knew one aspect of the nurse was particularly pleasing to my little faggot: thick swirls of blonde hair on the nurse's forearms.

But guess what?

Nothing. Nada. Mook A is so fucked out and sick that he is not even responding to something as basic as a hairy guy playing around with his intimates. And now I'm wondering if he isn't detouring the construction sites because he just doesn't care anymore about workies and their jeans. And if that's the case...!!! Well, I dread to think what this all means.

Is he that sick?

It could very well be 'cause there's actually another sign. He's not playing that idiot game of his—World of Warcraft—which, after males of all sorts, was his number one obsession. This is part of the reason I haven't been able to blog: the computer has been off when it used to be on all the time so that he could log into that game. Now he just talks about the game and how much he misses it. It's during these soliloquies that I begin to realize a) just what a weird fucking bird he is and b) how bad things are. Weird because it's not only the game he misses but also a bunch of online characters with names like Mouse, Yogi, Jhae and Jes. Yes...Mouse and Yogi. Think about it: a 52-year-old homo who claims to inhabit the intellectual world going on and on about (now listen to me here:) Mouse and Yogi. Clearly there is some kind of disconnect and I'm starting to wonder if, when he coughs up all that phlegm, he isn't also coughing up large portions of his brain.

Mouse. Yogi. Jhae. Jes. Yee-ikes.

You just want to grab him and shake him or bite him or just shit on the floor to wake him up. You want to shriek, "Get a grip!" so that he doesn't float off into some crazy, private little world where all he does is cough, heave, barf and talk to imaginary playmates named...Mouse and Yogi.

I never thought I'd say this but: I want my old Mook back!