February 9, 2010; Revelation

So it's been a year and I had made the decision.

But I kept putting it off and putting it off. Sure, there seemed to be ample opportunity but it required me and Mook A to be alone and that doesn't happen very often.

I couldn't do it during a walk because you never know what might come around the corner. I couldn't do it while Mook B is simply occupied in the next room, because he might come in at any time. But, as I said, it would have been easy if I had just let A and his constant yammering about politics or social issues or Christ knows what lead the way. But he doesn't often talk to himself or to me directly (as he did when B was on vacation).

But I did, at last, get my chance. B was away teaching and we were on the La-Z-Boy, curled up for an afternoon of reading and watching the tube (A, a notorious multi-tasker, was doing both). It was CNN and they were covering both the Rahm Emanuel controversy (him calling certain liberals retarded—which they are) and the Tea Party Convention and Sarah Palin reading off her hand. Now the two things come together quite well because, as you know, Palin has a child who has Down Syndrome. But here's the thing: that kid is not a retard. That kid is mentally challenged. Now Palin, though, she's a retard! (If you listen to her really closely, you'll notice no two thoughts ever follow one another—she thinks like an adolescent boy: shooting a wad whenever an idea comes to mind.)

Anyhoo...

A was going on and on about Palin this and retard that and I saw my chance.

"If she's such a dolt, why is the left so scared of her?" I asked.

A just went on and on, "I don't know! I don't know! Why does anyone take her seriously!"

And then...

And then...

He stopped.

"Wha..." he whispered.

"You heard me," I said.

He looked down at me and I licked his nose which is what I do when I want to provoke him into play because my breath (he says) smells like shit.

"Leo?" he said.

"Yes?" I said.

"I think I'm losing my mind," he said and I snerfed a laugh and said, "Too late."

He grabbed the phone and I didn't know who he was going to call—B, his shrink, 911—but I barked and said, "If you tell anyone else about this you'll be like that guy in the cartoon with the dancing and singing frog: I'll clam up the minute you say something and you'll be heading for an extended stay at the Ha Ha Hotel."

"But...but...but..."

"But nothing. This is something most dogs can do but don't. But I'm bored. I decided to go ahead and here we are and deal with it."

"But what about?—"

"The other one. Maybe some day, but not now. It's hard enough dealing with you."

"Am I crazy?" he muttered.

"Well, you're on mega-doses of anti-depressants, you were thinking about killing yourself two weeks ago and now you're talking to your dog. You tell me?"

"How did you know about?—"

"I heard you on the phone to your shrink."

"You heard that."

"I hear everything."

"Hm."

"Yes, well. Simmer down and let's just watch TV, okay?"

He didn't answer, just kept saying "hm" over and over again. Finally it got annoying and I said, "Are you going to get a grip?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't know."

"Well please do, and switch the channel; Flog It! is on."

So we watched the show and I could feel his pulse slowing down and wondered how all this would turn out and if I had made a mistake or not. There was a long silence and then something occurred to me.

"I know you're gay, you know."

"Everyone does," he said.

"Well, this doesn't mean you can fuck me."

He laughed.

But it was a strange laugh.