October 28, 2010; Walking Wounded

So sick. I mean siiiiiiiiiiiick. I mean barf-o-rama, achy, not able to lie down, not able to walk about, wishing-I-was-dead sick.

But not so sick that on Tuesday, when Skeeter came back from the hospital, I didn't laugh my motherfucking ass off. After a weekend of stress and a morning of tranqs, he came back twenty minutes after he left saying, "The appointment is next Tuesday." What a fucking retard!

Anyhoo...

Sick.

I barfed in Boo-Boo's bed. The problem was that it was brown bile and looked like...well...you know. He woke up, freaked, changed the bedding and it wasn't until the morning when Skeeter got up and told his "roomie" that I had been up and down all night yacking up brown splooge all over the kitchen. Boo was relieved. "Pissing in the bed is one thing," he said, "but shitting in the bed is upping the ante by more than I can handle."

It was during this conversation that it began all over again and I was one big barf machine, spraying all over the house: on carpets, floors, computer wires. But at least now something was coming out. "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU EAT?!?!" Skeet roared at poor little me as he cleaned up the mess.

"I don't rightly know—"

"—HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE JAMMED INTO YOUR OWN MOTHERFUCKING MOUTH, YOU FUCKING IDIOT DOG!—"

"—could you stop yelling, I AM sick."

"I do not feel sorry for self-inflicted wounds—"

"I'll remember that when you're dying from cancer from your two packs a day cigarette habit or when you're nursing an STD from your rentboys."

"Shaddup."

"Look, it was probably yesterday when Boo was walking me. He was smoking, drinking his morning coffee and generally ignoring me when I found a delicious something buried in a pile of leaves."

"Which was—?" he prodded.

"Well it smelled like liver and cheese and tomatoes and something else but the aroma was delightful."

"You know," he said with a tone, "in the human world we call that vomit."

"Well in the dog world we call it a buffet," I riposted.

"It's quite astounding to me that you animals, who are apparently so smart otherwise, are such imbeciles when it comes to food."

"It's in the blood...it's basic...the survival instinct. And besides, look at Cleo and Slicer! They eat everything and don't seem to have any problems at all."

"Oh! my sweet little fuckknuckle! They are alley cats. They have an immune system so evolved they can survive damn near anything! You are pampered and babied and eat chips and tidy-clean packaged food like all the other fat little lap dogs!"

"Well fuck you very much."

"So how are you feeling now?"

"Better."

"Good," he said, somewhat snottily.

"I'm hungry."