Things are not ha-ha in Boystown (formerly: La Maison Mook and Mook Manor). Yesterday, the two of them disappeared together and when they came back they were not happy campers. Turns out they had been to the specialist nurse and Skeeter had received a pile of crap news. They weren't discussing it when they came in, but over a bunch of phone calls Skeet made over the next hours, I learned all the details.It turns out that the wound the nurse found last week is not a good thing and that it may explain a lot about what's going on deep in the surrounding tissue (or it may not). So Skeeter has been handed off to a plastic surgeon, is now going to the clinic five times a week and is going to start a new round of antibiotics. However you slice it (pun intended) it looks like he's going back in for surgery...reconstructive surgery...on his butt.
I know, I know, it's wicked of me to giggle a little but even as he was telling his various groupies, he had trouble keeping a straight face. The thing is, this is serious surgery; however, where it's being done—and at his age—it's not difficult to associate it with middle-aged, dyed-blond, skeletal matrons getting their asses lifted. Sure, you can call it reconstructive surgery all you want, but it still involves a plastic surgeon and trying to make that formidable mass he drags around behind him into something less horrific!
After an evening's profound depression (even Boo-Boo was red-eyed) and a night's sleep, things looked a little rosier today, though Skeeter was still pissed about having to go to the clinic every week day (and as it turns out, the specialist nurse wanted him to go on weekends too but he threatened—jokingly, one suspects—to kill himself). The clinic treatments and the drugs are a last ditch effort no one thinks will work, which is why he has the referral to the plastic surgeon (which Skeet has been warned is an asshole). So all of this together could be a lot of Sturm und Drang in the next months but, also, highly amusing.
"Let's face it," I told Skeet, "it's not like you were using it anyway?" He did not laugh.
Hey! I've got probs of my own, dammit! For one thing, the Chinese lady at the convenience store who gives me treats from time to time and gets me all excited by playing chase with me around the store...well, she's leaving in May; closing up shop and retiring. Free food and entertainment like that is nothing to sneer at and she will be missed. Moreover, I haven't seen Cleo in days, Ginger is still showing me her cootch (and not in a nice way) and snerfing at me disdainfully if she says anything at all. Meanwhile, every time I run into him, Benjie is hysterical with happiness. He was out on a walk the other day and he was trying as best as he could to gallop over to me while dragging his 90-year-old biddy-hen behind him! I think he's gay for me, alright, and I'm going to have to think long and hard about how to handle it.
Speaking of gay, on Sunday, do you know what we did in this household? We curled around the TV and the two of them watched "The Wizard of Oz", singing along occasionally. If you ask me, I think that's actually sadder than Skeet going under the knife again.
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