Been sleeping during the day...a lot.
No one dead yet.
Well, yes there is.
Two nights ago, it all came together. After a decent day of watching movies, walks, and eating off the sidewalk, Mook A and I retired and, after him toodling around the television dial for a bit, it was lights out. He was soon asleep and, despite the nervousness I feel about what's in that kitchen, his snoring next to me made me drowsy too. Yes, you can sleep virtually all day, every day, but when there is a warm body next to you and it's breathing relatively steadily, you either fuck it or you nap.
My eyes were just closing when the noises started in the kitchen. This time there was no doubt. Something was in there. It was not a mouse because I've heard mouse noises before and they're little and, in the main, just aggravating. These noises were bigger. Like bumping into furniture. Like something was in there that was unfamiliar with the layout of the place.
Every one of my hairs stood on end. My bladder was aching, I wanted to pee so bad but I had a pretty good notion what would happen if I peed in the bed: I would be banished, until Mook B's return, to the kitchen each night and considering what was out there, that was not option. So I held it in, trembled like mad and tried not to weep. Right there, in that bed, at midnight, I was turning into every dog I have ever despised. I was a chihuahua. I got up and crossed to the other side of the bed—putting Mook A between me and the kitchen—but this woke him up, pissed him off, and in half-sleep he tossed me about with his legs until I was back where I started. There is one side of the bed that it his, period, end of story. It's not like with Mook B where he pretty much sleeps where I let him.
I don't really know how much time passed. The two alarm clocks A had set up (he's not a morning flower, let me tell you) did not have luminescent faces so all I know was that it was night and that it was the worst night of my life.
Aside from the thumping about, the ghost did not make any other noises. It did not moan or rattle chains or anything. (Despite what you may have heard or read, ghosts—once present in a space—have substance; they do not wander through walls. They have solidity and have to deal with other solid objects.)
An hour must have passed and my fear—coupled with lack of sleep—was slowly turning into pissedoffedness. I may not like this place and I certainly don't like the others who live here but—fuck-shits!—this is my fucking place! I no longer had to pee, but thought that a sip of water might be nice and also decided that the endless nights where I didn't get up to have a drink and didn't wander a little to stretch my legs had to come to an end.
So...
I got up. I sniffed the air. There was a smell. It was familiar. Garbage? I moved forward. I sniffed again, rolling the flavour of the air around in my mouth and sinuses. Something. Something. Old? Finally, after a long, long walk to the center of the kitchen, I could see the thing. Just an outline without an outline—very hard to describe—but like a light-cast with more shape. Like mid-daylight—with it's harsh lines and shadows—but fainter. It was definitely a ghost, now looking out the window. And then I saw.
"Frank?" I snerfed nervously.
"Hello, Little Fellow," he said, turning to me. The fear rushed out of me but then there was sadness. He knelt down on the floor, with more agility then he ever had, and said, "Yes. It's happened. I was a little confused when it did; pretty sudden and all—while watching the twats and homos on Survivor. I stayed around to see how the daughter and her fuckwad would handle it and, I am glad to say, there were lots of tears. Then I was done at her place. Then I came here."
"You knew where I was?"
"Yes." And then it hit both of us. We understood each other. We could talk. He laughed. I snerfed. And there, on the floor, we cuddled a little. He lit a cigarette, sighed and said, "I can smoke as many of these as I want now. It's fucking wonderful. I was wondering when you'd come here to the kitchen to see me. It took you long enough." And he laughed and scratched my ears. It felt like lace being drawn gently over my fur and I trembled a little like with the cold but it was not from cold 'cause the lacy feeling was warm.
"How have you been, Little Guy?"
"They're not you."
"Well, no. And they're homos. And from what I can tell, artsy homos. And, Jesus Fuck, liberals."
"Yes."
"But they seem okay. Let you sleep in their bed. Feed you—"
"—but not the good stuff you fed me—"
"—yes, well...if you'd continued eating that shit, you'd be floating about with me right now." He laughed again and again he scratched me and I moved in closer and lay down across his legs like the old days.
"I miss you," I said.
"I miss you too. But we were good together and that's the most important thing. That we had that time, right?"
"I wish I could come with you," I said and it came out a little...well...chihuahua.
"Look," he said, pulling me closer so that we were one thing...a big shapeless cuddle. "Look," he said again, making sure I was going to listen to him and understand that it was important. "You were the best thing that happened to me. You are the best thing. Don't let anyone ever tell you differently. You're a pile of nutsy wonderfulness...ah! I'm blithering."
"No!" I said.
"Yes, yes I am. Just 'cause I'm dead doesn't make me any smarter. But listen. I know one thing: the sick one...that homo over there...he won't ever say it but he needs you. And the other one...the one on the trip...his heart was so broken when his last mutt died that he thought he would never be the same. But you helped him—"
"—yes, but—"
"—no buts...It's the truth. I've been here for a while watching and that's how it is. And it could be worse for you, couldn't it? A lot worse. Like at the puppy mill—"
"—how do you know about that?—"
"—now I pretty much know everything. All the answers. Anyhoo, that's not important. Just listen to me: make do. Even if you hate them (and you can hate them all you want) make do. It's not all about you."
I snerfed because, if he knew everything now, he certainly knew that the guiding philosophy of every single dog in the universe is: It's all about me. He laughed, as if he was reading my mind. Then he said, "Did I give you a good life?"
"Oh! yes!" I said, my voice going chihuahua.
"Then you owe me a favour and this is the one I'm asking. Just stick it out for a bit. Then, in a while, if you really, really, really don't like it, then do what you have to do."
"A while?"
"No sense in not finding out what Christmas is like here, right? My guess is if they're like all aging fags who've been together for a while, they channel the sexual frustration into decorating, gifts and a big motherfucking turkey with all the fixings!" I drooled a little.
Then there was quiet, the room filling with the cigarette smoke that was not cigarette smoke. His warmth wrapped around me and I was nodding off. "Sleep well, Little Fellow," he said quietly. "I love you."
"I love you too," I said and off, off, off I went.
I awoke to the sound of the two alarm clocks. Oh! I had slept so well. So, so well. But I was in the bed, with Mook A, and he was yawning and stretching and trying to find the fucking clocks to turn them off. He pulled himself up to sitting position and I moved in closer for warmth and because I didn't want to get up just yet. He laughed and gave me a kiss on the nose and said, "Time to get up; we both need to pee." I realized that, yes, I needed to pee something fierce.
The day was ordinary but comfy and easy. Last night, after lights out, I waited for a bit but the only noises coming from the kitchen were the sounds of the fridge gurgling and the floor settling and the gentle, gentle winter wind outside.
Before long, my eyes were closing. I was out.
No comments:
Post a Comment