August 12, 2010; The Intervention, Part III

"What a dump!" Kitoune said, and jumped up on the bed followed by Buddy. These were the two dogs Skeeter had before Cosmo and when Skeet saw them he groaned and finally—finally!—sat up and starting paying attention. I mean, he didn't have much choice. Kitoune and Buddy were small (she a terrier ratter mix and he a collie pomeranian blend) but they took up space as did Cosmo (a Dalmatian) and me.

What followed is a lot of talky talky, so it is probably best if I write it in theatre dialogue style. K=Kitoune, B=Buddy, C=Cosmo, L=Leo (me) and S=Skeeter, the suicidal we were all assembled to save.

K: Jesus H. Christ, don't these two losers make money yet? Can't they afford a fucking cleaning lady! I mean look at the dust!

C: Weren't you an alley dog when they found you?

K: Listen Spotty-Arse: just because I had to live on the streets doesn't mean I'm not a fucking lady. Fag me. (And like a little gentleman, Cosmo put a cigarette to her lips, leaned over with his lit one and touched it to hers. She inhaled deeply, stretched out on the bed and sighed) So, Fuckwad, what's the problem exactly?

S: Are you talking to me?

K: I don't see any other losers in the room.

S: Well, that is the problem: I feel like a los—

K: Oh! What the fuck else is new! When you were earning your living from writing you were always worried it would go away and that's why you got sick. And it did go away from time to time and you didn't die. And it came back. So what now? Jesus! (she said to no one in particular) The whining from these fucking humans...

S: (Turning to me) This isn't helping.

C: I suggested masturbation.

K: There's the ticket! Or go get laid—

L: (hissing)—the appliance—

K: (Going on anyway)—Christ, when he was living alone his fucking apartment was like a fucking park in the Gay Village after 3 a.m. There was so many men going in and out we'd just sit in the corner and marvel. The place always smelled like arse. I mean he was a real pig, wasn't he, Buddy dear?

B: What?

K: Yes, that's our Buddy. So blond and pretty but dumber than a sack of hammers.

C: Yes, Kit sweetheart, but this is not an option. So do you have any concrete proposals?

K: Yes, concrete...that might help. You sink a lot faster.

(Groans of horror and disgust from all)

K: Well what do you want!? Pity? Is that what you're looking for?

S: It wouldn't hurt.

K: Well, I'm sorry, then. Sorry that you're an aging, tubby queer who has body issues.

S: (Groans)

K: But get over yourself! Who doesn't! Consider the sinfully thin and lovely young women who stare in the mirror and see a hog! Or the people who see their first gray hair and flip out—

All: Yes, yes, yes, that's good, she's right. (etc.)

K: And you have the Boo-Boo who, for some fucking reason seems to love you. And this sweet little dog who cares enough to assemble all of us. Snap out of it! (There was a moment's silence. Kitoune inhaled deeply on her cigarette and had a stare-down with Skeeter. Then:) Now let's go onto something else...let's all have a good gossip.

S: Why isn't Sin here? (Note: Sin—as in black as—was Skeeter's first dog)

K: That old cunt! Jesus, she must be fucking somewhere. You know how she was.

C: I don't.

K: Nine fucking litters Sin had. They would let her out the back door whenever she wanted out and she would scratch on the door when she wanted back in. She was invariably pregnant and turned out squads of puppies at regular intervals. The old whore is probably someplace getting stuffed right at this minute.

And that was that for the Intervention. We all just started talking. Even Skeeter. Old times. And it was a cacophony of Dog-Speak and English, of accents—Kitoune's street, Cosmo's Dalmatian and Buddy's 'tard—and there was silliness of all sorts, with the smell of that divine opium floating around us all.

But then...

Then the door of the bedroom opened wide and there was Boo-Boo, half asleep. He stared for a second. Then, in the next second (and with a little whoosh) Buddy, Cosmo and Kitoune all disappeared. It was just me and Skeeter now, staring up at Boo and trying not to look guilty.

"Wha...?" he said.

Skeeter got up and said gently, "Go back to bed. You're sleep-walking." He took poor, confused (perhaps terrified) Boo back to his own bed.

Then Skeeter came back and got into bed and pulled me into a cuddle. Then he was giggling and then laughing. And then laughing like mad. Through tears of hilarity he sputtered, "Did you see the look on his face when he came in the room!"

I snerfed and then started giggling too. Soon, tired, Skeeter fell asleep and—thank God, 'cause I was exhausted—he was smiling.