I better get this all in because in a few hours Skeeter is off to his nurse's appointment and if things go badly he may be spending another weekend in the hospital. He's got another one of those skin infections that has gone bad (like with his arm in December) and we're all praying that it's nothing but, as usual, expecting the worse (which is always a good way to think because if the worst happens at least you're ready and if it doesn't you're happy; in these situations, optimists are idiots).Anyhoo...
...we were on our walk, two days ago—Skeeter and I—and we ran into Babs (aka: One-Legged Gingerlady) and Ginger. (BTW: Skeeter found out I called her One-Legged Gingerlady and got pissed and told me her name was Babs and that I was to learn and to use her real name and that's that.) Anyway, Ginger was walking behind the three of us, not growling or mumbling or anything. She was—unlike her in every way—behaving. Skeeter turned to Babs and said, "My, Ginger's being an angel today!" Babs nodded. Ginger gargled a little, under her breath, and said, in Dawg, "Fucking faggot cuntwad." (I told Skeeter about this later and he just laughed but it makes me a little nervous. Female dogs can be vengeful.)
All this to say that I did run into the vision who is causing all this Sturm und Drang, Cleo. She was sitting up on a little balcony surrounding a door except that she was on the outside of the railings—on that very thin walkway from which, if you fall, you get hurt. I thought, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained!" and proceeded to do the high-wire-act on the outside of the balcony's railing to get to her. Skeeter watched in fascination but said, "You know, if you fall off you're dead." I muttered, paying closer attention to the dangerous walk than to him, "It's a fall, but all it means is some bruises." "No," he said, "you're on the leash. If you fall, you'll be hanging off the balcony by your neck until I can figure out how to save you and maybe I won't 'cause you're so awfully, awfully dumb you may not deserve to live."
Hm.
"He's right, Sugar," Cleo said in that wonderful mix of Kat, Dawg and purr which is her voice, "don't be a dolt. We'll see each other some other time."
So, quite unsteadily, I retraced my steps back to the balcony. Skeeter picked me up and said, "You're a fool for love." I snerfed.
I'm a little worried if Skeeter has to go into the hospital. As I said, Boo-Boo is so scattered with his work and all I wonder if I'll have to shit in his face to get any face time at all with him. What would make it worse is that when the other one is in the hospital, Boo spends a lot of time there and I'm left here, alone, to shudder in the emptiness. It's quite mad what they expect from dogs, isn't it!?
So cross your fingers. I have to say I am a little worried about Skeeter. These infections, one after the other after the other, despite the fact he takes mountains of antibiotics, do seem to indicate something is really fucked up with his system. If he croaks, and I'm left here alone with Boo, I would only get half the attention, half the walks (!) and, sometimes, even, no food because Boo is a pretty forgetful feller. And that's only after the funeral arrangements are over and done with.
I gotta say: as the patient wears thin, my patience is wearing thin as well.
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