The other night things got a little wild and wooly at La Maison Mook. I was bored out of my skull and the Mooks were in the office yadda-yadda-yadda-ing and I wanted to blow off some energy. But they just kept ignoring me!!!So I went into the living room and dragged a pillow off the sofa and thought I'd just beat it up for a little. But—hey!—what's this? A zipper? So, very carefully, I pulled the zipper down and exposed the guts of the pillow (snowy white cottony something or other) and I went to town! It was a blast! It was like winter in the house! Soon the living room was festooned like a drunk tank on Christmas Eve! But then...they noticed. No one went ballistic, marvelling, rather, at the fact that I had found and pulled down the zipper (people really think dogs are tards!). But I could see the little vein in Skeeter's forehead throbbing a little. He stopped working, picked me up and bellowed: "So you want some attention, do you! WELL, I'M GOING TO GIVE YOU SOME ATTENTION!!!!"
And off we went, playing a rather simple but always-fun game of chase. The apartment is full of doors and walls and corners and I'm little and he's humongous so it's always a noisy, mad event. It finished on Boo-Boo's bed where I was going ballistic because Skeeter was approaching and he knows not to come near me (in the game, I mean). But then he did this sneaky thing and slid his arm under the covers and grabbed my legs and nose with his hands from under there. I was hopping around like mad, working up a good sweat, and evading/attacking/evading to beat the band. Soon, of course, Skeeter got tired (being the huge, wrecked hunk o' human he is) and went off to prepare for bed.
But here's the thing...
I needed to pee something fierce and then I couldn't stop myself and then I peed in the bed. It was Boo-Boo who discovered it, with a wail of horror, as he was coming to bed. As he changed the sheets, Skeeter picked me up by the scruff of the neck (not my preferred form of travel) and slapped me down on my little carpet in the kitchen where it looked like I would spend the night. Skeeter was enraged, I could tell, and would have said something but Boo-Boo was just in the next room.
However...
The next day, the moment Boo-Boo left for work, Skeeter exploded. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ALL ABOUT!" he screamed.
"Calm down. I'm not talking to you when you're like this," I said. His face went white and then a little red and I thought a bit and said, "Okay, I will talk to you when you're like this but only to explain what happened."
"MAKE IT FAST!"
"Well, the pillow is easy: I was bored to death, had gotten hardly any exercise and you two were yacketty-yacking and ignoring me completely."
"WE WERE BUSY!" he roared.
"No you weren't. You were talking about what you would watch on TV if you were going to watch TV and on and on and on."
"So what you're saying is we can't leave the little princess alone for two minutes—"
"—it wasn't two fucking minutes it was all fucking day! When are you assholes going to learn that I need entertainment!"
"When are you going to learn that we have lives!"
"Well you shouldn't have adopted me then!" Lordie, I sounded like a twelve year old in an after-school special.
But then, on a dime, Skeeter changed the subject, "And the peeing in the bed...???!!!"
"Well, I was just all hopped up from playing with you and needed—"
"—IN THE FUCKING BED, YOU LITTLE FUCK!!!"
"Well, these things happen," I said and snerfed. It was a nervous noise but might not have been heard that way. He stopped. There was silence.
Then: "Leo, I am very, very disappointed in you—"
That's when I exploded. "Don't try that kiddie-level pop-psych shit on me!"
The throbbing vein on his head looked like it would just burst. "I ought to kick your little white ass up and down the fucking staircase."
"OH! YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME, MOFO! YOU WANT A FUCKING PIECE OF ME!" I yodeled and to make the point started jumping about on my hind legs, begging him to come at me.
He laughed cruelly and said, "What's a pipsqueak like you going to do to me!"
"I'd rip your mother-fucking balls off, for a start!" I said, still bouncing about.
What we had was a Mexican stand-off.
Actually, it was worse: what we had was two sissies who had no intention of hurting (or, especially, of being hurt), one of whom was still dancing about on his hind legs like a Super-Dog on crack. What we had was an old married couple—the kind who make threats and press each other's buttons but stay together anyway.
Fuck, we were The Ropers.
A few hours later, we were on the La-Z-Boy, watching our shows. I was curled up next to him as he sipped his coffee. He said, "Just try not to do it again. Give me a sign."
"It's not like you're Helen-fucking-Keller," I said, "you only have to look."
"Yes, well, sometimes I don't pay attention."
"You said it, sister."
He giggled a little as I nodded off.
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