October 16, 2010; The Conversation

When Boo-Boo came home, later that day, Skeeter was away—at the clinic or blowing strangers in the Starbuck's toilet, who knows?—and I figured I was going to get it with both barrels. But no. Boo was a weepy mess and immediately threw himself on his bed. What the fuck? I sighed deeply, toddled over to the bed, hopped up and said, "Want to talk about it?" though there was not a single atomic particle in my body that wanted to talk because, I knew, this was opening the door for me to become everyone's fucking therapist.

He slowly lifted his head from his tear-soaked pillow and looked at me and said, "Oh...right."

"Right. Yes. Well?"

"My students are driving me up the fucking wall. It's like they can spot how insecure I am about teaching and just walk all over me."

"Jeez...what do you do about it?"

"Do?" he asked, bleery-eyed.

"Wipe your nose." He did. "Do! Do! As in punishment?"

"Punishment?"

"Oh! For Christ's sake, sit up and be a man! Punish! Don't you ever make an example of one of them by just grabbing him and smacking him about?"

"You're not allowed to do that!" he said, horrified.

"Since when?!?!"

"You'd go to fucking jail!"

"Well, what a fucking pussy world we live in when you can't take a misbehaving student and smack him about. What about yelling?"

"I could do that and have but it does no good. They just snicker. And worse, they do stuff like go to the bathroom and don't come back."

"Jesus. Just how old are these children?"

"College age."

"Oh my fucking stars. I do not believe it."

"Yes," he said mournfully. Pathetically.

"Okay," I said, still trying to wrap my head around the fact you could go to jail for smacking a brat. "First, you tell them all you take the roll at the beginning and the end of each class—"

"At the end? They'll never stand for that!"

"GROW SOME FUCKING BALLS, WILL YOU!!!"

"Okay, okay..." he said, trying to simmer me down.

"They're not in charge! You are! You are! You! You!" and I thumped into his chest with my front paws with each exclamation. He went "Ow!" and I continued my advice. "You tell them you will take the roll at the beginning and the end and anyone missing from either one loses five percent each time and if they miss three times they flunk. You lock the door five minutes into the class and any little fuckwad who comes a-knocking is told to go home."

"Hm..." he said, doubtfully.

"Then, during the class, you chose some little trouble-maker at random and say, 'You apparently have nothing to learn here; leave please.' If they mention the end of class roll call, you tell them you feel very sad for their predicament but clearly he/she needs an afternoon nap more than the five percent on the final grade."

"They'll all think I'm crazy," he muttered.

"Yes, yes, yes. And maybe dangerous too. That's the point. They...must...fear...you."

"Hm." He looked at me, picked me up and cuddled me. "You're a smart little dog."

"Indeed I am, and, like Skeeter, you must never, never forget that."

"Skeeter?"

"The other one."

"And I am...?"

"Boo-Boo," I told him. I enjoyed the cuddle for a bit. "And you also so badly need to get fucked—"

"—Excuse me?—"

"—Rent yourself a nice looking kid, like Skeeter did.—"

He picked me up, turned me, and stuck his face in mine and said, "Listen to me, you! I'm not like 'the other one.' I never, never talk about my sex life or drives or tastes or anything! You got it?"

"Oh puh-leeeeeeeeze. You might not talk about it, but Skeeter talks about your drives all the time," I said.

"Does he? Does he?!?!" he shrieked.

"No."

"Then why did you say that? Are you fucking crazy?!"

"Did I scare you?"

"Yes!" he yelled.

"You see? Crazy works."

He pondered that and as he did I wondered if he got the other lesson in what I did: that I am in charge.