May 19, 2010; Barking Mad

Things are not happy in Boystown. Skeeter, last week, was told that one of his wounds had healed. Turns out it was just closed, not healed, and yesterday a nurse reopened it (Yeee-ikes!!!). He came home from the clinic walking funny...or I should say: funnier. So it looks like he won't be able to avoid another surgery and he's a pyschological and physical mess. He even barfed at the clinic because of the heat and/or stress and/or fatigue.

The fatigue part is a bit my fault and a lot Boo-Boo's. Skeeter pays me a lot of attention and now, that we're talking, there has been a lot of yammering between us. But Boo—such a basketcase from work that he doesn't know if he's coming or going—pretty much ignores me all the time. He thinks he makes up for it by letting me sleep in his bed but I don't think he's aware of a couple of things: I let him sleep in my bed; we sleep—we don't play, we don't anything, really, that might amuse me.

Well, I got pretty tired of this, Saturday, and insisted on my due. It was morning and Skeeter was still asleep and Boo, right after the first walk, was at his computer. His walks are becoming pretty perfunctory, let me tell you, and now, back home, I wanted play! But he was tappity-tappity-tap-tap-tap on that fucking lap-top. So I started to snerf, then jump, then bark. He said, "Stop it!" and went back to work. So I ran about a bit, grabbing things—shoes, my bone, pillows—and throwing them around. Then I rushed him and barked again. He hissed: "Stop it!"

Well fuuuuuuuuuuuck you!

So I just went mad, barking my motherfucking ass off. Suddenly, from the back of the apartment, came a roar. "LEO!!!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" I had awakened the beast. Yes, well, now it was time to shut up. Indeed it was.

But Boo's unfortunate behaviour persisted. Aside from ten or fifteen minutes of rough-housing a day, there was pretty much just the walks and he was using these for coffee, worry and iPhoning. Hey! I'm a Jack Russell! I'm here and I want your adoration! NOW! So on Monday morning, knowing that Skeeter had been to bed late and was sleeping like the dead, I started to get in Boo's face again. I don't know if it was a lesson from the Dog Whisperer or some damn thing, but this time I could not get a fucking rise out of him. I was frozen out. So I did what any self-respecting dog would do: I started to shriek.

Apparently I am not aware of my decibel level but before Boo reacted the roar emanated from the back again and this time it was louder, uglier and more dangerous because it wasn't words, just a noise, and this suggested the roarer might now come at me. Skeet stumbled out of his bedroom. His eyes were bleary, his housecoat barely on (ick) and he was reeking of rage. Thankfully, he was too fucking tired to kill me or (judging from the direction of his lunatic glaring) Boo. Later, though, with Boo gone to work he grabbed me by the scruff, planted me on his knees and bellowed, "What the fuck!!"

"He's ignoring me!" I howled and did not at all like the whiney, needy tone of my voice.

"He's up to his ears in work!"

"Hey, when you both took me in you knew what you were getting into. So what's this shit with him!"

"Maybe you should talk to him," Skeet said.

"Are you nuts!? Have you seen the state he's in? If I started talking to him his head would explode!"

"Mine didn't."

"You were half-crazy to begin with. You were already talking to me like I was going to talk back. That's nuts," I said.

"Yes, then it was nuts."

"And who knows?" I said, "maybe it's even nuttier now that you think I'm answering you—"

"—think?"

I let a nervous silence pass and then snickered, "I'm fucking with you," I said, paused and added, "or am I?"

"Okay, I'll talk to him. It would certainly do him some good to play with you more or take you for longer walks."

"Oh, he'll have some song and dance about work and the lack of time."

"Listen," Skeet said, "You know the way you manipulate me—"

"—I never!—"

"—puh-leeze. Anyway, that's the way I deal with Boo."

"You just have to know what buttons to push," I said.

"Indeed."

"One more thing," I said, "if you die on the operating table, do you think he'll be able to take care of me alone?"

"Not a chance. You'll starve to death."

I was being sarcastic. But was he?