November 23, 2009; Better

Now what?

I am much, much better. But, just for good measure, after all the nausea and diarrhea had passed I took a dump on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night right in front of the fridge. I was hoping Mook A would get up for his midnight pee and glass of water (which he gets from the fridge) but no such luck. However, because I had been sick, I wasn't even punished for it. Must remember that.

I suspect you wonder why dogs eat crap on the street which makes us sick. Well, first: we don't know it's going to make us sick and it all smells good. But, most importantly, second: being a dog is an art and we must suffer for our art.

Meanwhile, my appetite is still not what it was, I'm lazy, the weight is coming back from sheer inertia... Oh! my fucking Christ! I'm turning into Mook A! Before you know it I'll be nerding out online with people named Mouse and Yogi!

I suppose that it's just as well that I'm turning into the Mook as in a piddling 36 hours or so it's going to be him and me alone as Mook B is off to Paris with his fucking iPhone (the better to keep tabs on the battle of wills between me and A). Worse, my other buffer, Cate, is now in Florida and is paying the price of abandoning me—her e-mails report the resort she's staying at is a deadzone. (Which, in Florida, means there's no one around who can wipe his or her own arsehole for the blubber, wrinkles or arthritis).

Right now Mook A and I are enjoying a kind of détente. We spend a lot of time cuddling (for warmth not love, fuckwads!) and watching TV. Thankfully, A is feeling so brainless these days we don't have to slog through his usual favourites—art films—we're getting lots of explosions and blood which is the way I like it; nothing like watching humans blown away or being devoured by zombies to cheer up a condemned dog.

Mook B keeps asking A what he wants from Paris. Indeed, between Cate and B, A is being drowned in solicitousness. I have apparently become invisible. No one asks me what I want from Paris or Florida or fucking anywhere. B has stocked the freezer with all of A's favourite foods but I continue to survive on a diet of crap kibble soaked in store-bought broth. You know what that tastes like? A Floridian's arsehole is what.

The only consolation is that Mook A's own asshole still looks like it belongs to the head cheerleader for the prison football team, so my beloved nurse visits five times a week now with a swing nurse on weekends. I wonder if their code of ethics requires them to report if I'm starving to death, being beaten or have a bladder that's about to explode. Mind, if their code of ethics requires that, I suppose it certainly requires them to report when I kill Mook A in his sleep and eat his fucking face off.

Pray for me.