Over the next days I saw Cleo all over the place, but mostly far away or in a tree and she wouldn't talk to me. The Boys even talked over the possibility of adopting her, but I couldn't even broach the subject with Cleo. So, as a result, there came the supper where I was no longer in the mood. "This shit again," I mumbled.
"Excuse me?" Skeeter said.
"This shit you call food. Well, sorry, I'm not eating it."
"Wanna bet?"
"Yeah. Take this shit away." And I moved back from the metal bowl full of "health" kibble doused in store-bought low-salt chicken broth. (The broth was to give it flavour; a hold-over from the last time I wouldn't eat and wasn't talking to him yet.)
"Well, I'm just going to put it in the fridge for tomorrow."
"Well, I won't eat it tomorrow either."
"Suit yourself. It'll be there, waiting for the next day."
"Watch your fucking shoes if I get peckish," I said. He didn't know how to answer.
The next day I wasn't too hungry. Here's the thing: I'm a lazy dog, for a JRT, and I sleep much and walk little. But there are other ways of getting food too and during the morning walk I breakfasted on some pizza on the sidewalk. Morning is a good time for al fresco nibbles because it's Boo-Boo who walks me and he's busy drinking coffee and trying to cure his zombiehood. The pizza was all I needed.
When supper came, Skeet put down the food again. It was no more appetizing and even a little less so because it was cold, congealed into a grayish slop and Skeet had added water to make break it up and make "gravy." I sniffed disdainfully and said, "You're a funny old fat man, aren't you?"
"Can it with the fat comments. It's a hernia."
"Yeah, like every fat fuck in the world says it's thyroid."
"Eat shit," he said.
"Not tonight." I pushed the bowl with my nose and said, "Take me out, I need a dump."
The third day I was a little hungry. But here was a new problem: the night before fuckwad Cesar Milan had been on, dealing with a massive Newf who was a picky eater. Cesar found out that the hound only got 45 minutes of walking a week. Though I get an hour a day, it's lazy Boo-Boo/Skeeter-talk-to-the-neighbours-smoke-buy-junk-food walking. Not exactly the little Mexican riding a bike with me running beside him. After the Cesar show, Skeeter was more determined than ever to get me to eat what he put in front of me, when he put it in front of me. But like I said, there are other strategies.
The weak link in this home is Boo-Boo. In the dog alpha-system, Skeeter and I do battle for alpha spot while Boo-Boo wanders around aimlessly in another alphabet entirely. It's one reason I don't talk to him; to Boo I'm a dog or even a doggie—a baby...vulnerable, protectable. I knew he would protect me from Skeet and, sure enough, while the cruel cunt was at the clinic, Boo started popping me a bunch from a pile of crackers he was shoving into his face as he worked at the computer.
Skeeter came home, catching us both unawares and lost his mind. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!!!???" he roared at Boo who jumped, knocked some crackers to the floor and I moved in for the kill. "LEO! EAT THAT AND I'LL KICK YOUR LITTLE WHITE ARSE OFF!" I knew he meant it and slunk back to the kitchen.
"Stop screaming," Boo yelled.
"How many did you give him?" Skeet roared.
"One," Boo said very, very quietly.
"Fuck! We are in a battle of wills with that little bastard and you are letting him win!"
"Maybe he's sick," Boo said.
"HE'S NOT SICK!" Skeeter shrieked and came into the kitchen. He picked me up and hissed in my ear: "You...are...not...going...to...win." My mouth went dry, my heart was pounding and my dick shriveled. He had never been physically violent with me but his life was crap right now and if he was going to snap, I wanted to be sure I was splashed with his or Boo's blood, not my own. I said nothing. It would have been madness.
So...the slop came out again. I mumbled, very politely, "I'll eat, but could I have some fresh, please?" I felt like Oliver and I nearly retched on that word I never say: please.
"Fine," he said. But he went a little farther, narrating the whole while. "I'm throwing this away and I'm even going to make some fresh broth!" (The broth was usually made in advance and kept in a Ziploc in the fridge.) "It'll be nice and warm and—oh!—it smells so good!" I hated him more because he was talking to me like I was a Special Olympian. When it was done he set it down with a flourish and said, "Dinner is served!"
I went over to it. Sniffed. Said: "I'm not hungry."
Skeet's eyes rolled back in his head and he stopped breathing. I thought: This is it—he's dead.
But for good measure I added, "Boo lied. I must have eaten about 20 crackers and I...am...stuffed!"
As he recovered and threw on his coat and got out the leash for the evening walk he whispered, "I'll kill him in his sleep."
It's not about winning, you see; it's about the other side losing.
No comments:
Post a Comment