If Skeeter didn't take the big nap this morning he is clearly better.He got up to go to the bathroom (ie: empty his bag) before he would go back to bed and read for a bit over his first coffee and cigarettes. Boo was still here, rushing around to get ready for work (a process that takes about a year) and I was toodling about waiting for things to settle down (ie: waiting to get into Skeet's bed for my mid-morning drowse). On his way to the bathroom, Skeet nearly tripped over one of my toys and leaned over to pick it up and then—plop!—there was his bag. Right there on the floor. It had come loose from his body and there it was. And I looked at it. And Skeet looked at it. And Boo looked at it and fled to work in record time. And then, quite calmly, Skeet dealt with the mess and said to me, "Well, that's never happened before! Imagine if it had been in public! There you go!" Then he said rather cheerily, I thought, "One more hideous thing for me to worry about! Yay!"
And then, after he tidied and came back to bed with his coffee and cigarettes, he played with his iPad—Facebooking and Tweeting and whatever the fuck else he does on that thing (porn figures in there somewhere, no doubt). I watched him carefully. He didn't seem too fucked up. In fact, it was rather scary that he was not moaning or weeping or cursing his life. But he wasn't. So, thank you, magic pill.
Meanwhile, it's Doctors' Hospital in the apartment. Boo has finally seen a specialist for his limp which, as it turns out, is some old man thing that can be taken care of with those special shoes that look like the ones lesbians wear. Skeet, at last—at last!—has an appointment with a plastic surgeon at the hospital near here and this surgeon did not make him wait for six weeks or ask him to fax forms. (Of course, this expediency could also mean that when Skeet comes out of surgery he'll have a nice new pair of breasts...on his knees.)
The heat comes and goes and we all learn to suffer with it but I have mastered a new trick for getting walks in the heat over with as quickly as possible and it was working beautifully 'til Skeet noticed it last night. "Hey!" he shouted and yanked back on the leash. I just looked at him, knowing what he had found but feigning ignorance. "Is that yours?" he said, pointing to a little turd about ten yards away. "No!" I protested. He bellowed, "I think it's yours! I think you are now shitting as you walk!" "No!" I said with a little less confidence, realizing I had not timed this as well as I usually do. Usually I hold back, shit as I walk, then dash in front of him. There is no tautness on the leash so he has no idea. "What the fuck are you!" he roared. "Are you a fucking horse! Are we going to have to put a fucking diaper on you!"
The image of me in a diaper became crystal clear; I remember mocking a bitch, once, because her owner had put a pad on her when she was bleeding and I could hear my own mocking words coming back at me but from the mouths of Ginger, Twiggy and Babbette.
Skeeter stopped talking until we got back into the apartment and he was cleaning my feet. "Why do you do things like that? Jesus!"
"I do it to get the walk over faster because it's hot out there. And I do it to spread the word."
"Excuse me?"
"A dog's scent is his brand. We scent with piss and shit. If someone steps in either, they spread your presence—your rep, if you will—to other neighbourhoods, even to other cities if you're lucky."
Skeeter sighed deeply, then said, "Well, you listen to me, Half-Pint: you're going to stop doing shit like that. Got it? In this neighbourhood, we pick up. If we don't pick up, word gets out and soon you and I are being treated like pariahs. So do it right or, so help me God, it won't be just diapers; I'll put you in Harry Potter pyjamas and a sleeping cap too!"
"You wouldn't," I said weakly.
"Look me in the eyes."
I did.
He would.
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