September 26, 2009; ...a piece of gauze...

...a piece of gauze...

...after all the rage (at me, at doctors, at Mook B), after all the crying and pain, after the lost year, the lost income, the lost creativity, after all the visits from the nurses, the sleepless nights, the hopeless days, after all the pacing and waiting and visits to the hospital, after all the silliness, the absurdity, the to-ing and fro-ing...

...a piece of gauze...

So off Mook A went to the hospital, Thursday morning, with Mook B having rented a car for the day. No one knew what was going to happen, so I was being as good a dog as I could be, and when they set up my sad little carpet in the kitchen and headed for the door, I made no scene because I didn't know how long or how short my day alone was going to be. I just knew that the next time I saw A he would be different. It was all a mystery if it would be different-good or different-bad because everyone was saying they wouldn't really know what they were going to find until they cut him open. So there was tension, shall we say, and it had been expressing itself in the last couple of days by a kind of silent, deadly rage and let me tell you I was keeping my head down and trying desperately to stay out of the way. This low-profile served me well because A was on the edge and his moods were going everywhere: from despair one minute to a kind of hysterical laughter the next (reflecting just how off-balance he was and how apprehensive we were all getting about the whole fucking business). He wasn't saying much but the fear was that this might be serious and it might go on and on and on and then where would I be while he was grabbing even more attention than he has been getting in the last weeks. I'd be in the corner waiting my turn...again! The thing that worried me was that maybe we were dealing with of those new super-bacteria you keep hearing about; the ones hospitals (where he virtually lives, these days) are full of and because of which some people go into the hospital but don't come out (if you know what I mean and I think you do).

They left at about ten for an eleven a.m. operation. B came back at one to walk me and play with me a little and then skedaddled back to the hospital. I later found out that when he came home for my walk, A had still not gone under the knife and was, instead, wandering around the waiting room in a johnny-shirt, desperately wanting a smoke and not daring to sit down anywhere because of his wound.

I was getting more and more apprehensive as the shadows lengthened across the kitchen floor and I did the most intelligent thing I could think of doing in such circumstances: sleep.

At about eight I heard the door downstairs open and when the door to the kitchen was unlocked I could see B and then, just behind him, A. I went on a lick-fest because in the darkness I could also see that A was smiling and though I didn't know, then, that it was from a drug-haze, it was nevertheless a good sign. I did him my little dance and he picked me up (which was also a good sign) and hugged me so hard I snerfed. He gave me a big kiss on the nose. This made me a little nervous because I was thinking of all those hospital germs he now had all over him.

A was glad to be home and he hugged B and me over and over again and then he hit the phone and that's when the story came out.

This time he got an anesthetist who did not fuck around and asked him how they were to proceed. He told him, "I want to be out, out, out." And so he was. When he came to, they had done some deep slicing. They had decided to open the three wounds (two healed and the new one). That's when they found it...

...a piece of gauze...

Let me say that again:

...a piece of gauze...

Tiny, yes, but oh-so-nasty. It had somehow parted from a larger piece of gauze the home-nurses had been using to clean the wound. It had somehow avoided being picked out with the tweezers or flushed out by their irrigations of the wounds. It had somehow allowed flesh to heal above it and had somehow remained there. And, of course, the havoc it created had to find its way to the surface and—voilà! (as the frogs say)—a brand new, needle-narrow wound that was driving nurses, a surgeon and Mook A right round the bend. So the offending little piece was removed as was all the surrounding tissue and there you have it: a spanking new hole in the fucker's kiester, the size of the Grand Canyon.

Happiness abounds.

Now, two days later, Mook A doesn't know what to do with himself. Sure, he has to see my beloved home nurse every day and maybe for a good long while, but the bigger question is what to do with all that rage that he has lived with—and for—day after day after day?

For now he's being really nice to me and B. He's laughing a lot. But, from what I've seen in the last 8 months, school-girl giddiness is not in his nature. So, being no fool, I'm still keeping a low profile. When he walks me, I behave. When he calls me, I come. When he kisses me, I kiss back.

...but...

...tick tick tick...

September 22, 2009: Pain and Doctors

What's up with my Mook?

Well, things are crashing about at La Maison Mook. It began yesterday when Mook A woke up almost crippled with pain. When the nurse arrived, I felt compelled to see what was going to happen by staring through the window from the balcony (where I am exiled when she visits). This was not a fun visit. She did something, he screamed, she did something more and he was writhing in the bed in agony, groaning and crying so that I could hear him even through the closed window.

After they'd tidied him up, got his pants back on and repaired to the kitchen to discuss things, I rushed over to that window, which was open, to listen to it all. It turns out that his condition has seriously deteriorated and that some of the wounds they thought were healed aren't, in actual fact, and that all the wounds may actually have become one big mess just under the surface of the skin. This means that the surgery he is supposed to have on Thursday may not be out-patient after all and that they may need to keep him in as it will probably be a more serious affair.

While my first impulse was to rejoice (as this will give me a little more free time away from his constant harping and yanking at me during walks) I realized it also meant that until Thursday he was: a) going to be in a lot of pain and b) going to be in a considerably pissy mood. Moreover it meant that if he was gone for a bit then I'd be left alone with Mook B who is working all the time and pretty much walks me when he can. I mean, why is it always me who is suffering, goddammit!

Anyhoo...

The nurse told A that she would mobilize to get him decent painkillers to get him through 'til Thursday but as of now, 36 hours later (and with his doctors gone for the day, the fucks), he doesn't have them and his pharmacy did not receive the fax for the order. It's going to be a fun night with him bellowing in pain every two seconds and getting on everyone's nerves. He's actually considering doing pot for the first time since he was a kid just to get through the night and in hopes that his doctors will do what they were supposed to do.

So this is it...I don't know when I'll have access to the computer again as I don't think A is going to leave it on when he's away. So I'll just have to keep mental notes until he's back, up and around. That should be a fun time. He's such a goddam kvetch during the best of times, can you imagine when he's just out of the hospital after they've cut him up!?

Yikes!

September 6, 200; Worries

Used to spend time on the balcony looking at the world going by; now it's deep in contemplation...

Things are odd at Mook Manor and I am not happy. In fact, I am starting to worry.

Maybe that's just the contagion of Mook A's attitude the last few days. He has not been a happy camper. A few days ago he went for lunch with this family I never see (and who I think may not actually exist) and came back looking like the wreck of the Hesperus. He told Mook B that he had almost fainted in the heat outside the restaurant and then he had eaten so fast that he was worried that he had made himself sick. (The way he said "sick" I knew we were not talking about any garden-variety belly-ache.) But then it had all passed and he laughed in a strange way about it except when I saw him—and B wasn't there—there was nothing particularly hilarious about what was going down.

Late one night, too, as I was sleeping deeply I woke to his roaring like an Airbus falling out of the sky. He was in the bathroom doing some damn medical thing and clearly it was not going well. He later told B (who had slept through it all) that he had had a tangle with one of his medical appliances (still haven't figured out what that means yet) and it had gone very badly. Again, as he told the story, that laugh that is not a laugh.

I also keep tabs on his medical status by watching the nurse's visits through his bedroom window (when I am imprisoned out on the balcony) and by keeping track of what's going into the paper recycling bin which is right beside my bed in the office. Lately, I have been seeing a whole lot of medical stuff: red and white boxes for strange equipment and supplies and mountains of sterile bandage wrappers. This clearly can't be good.

Mook A is certainly not his stupid, giddy, regular self. He paces about the house when he is alone (ie: with me, but I don't really count for either of them) and he is now talking obsessively about this doctor's appointment he's got on Wednesday. This is big news because she hasn't seen him since his operation early last fall! I don't like my humans going to the doctor—they tend to come back in a considerably worse state (ie: Frank). Here's the thing I have learned: the wounds the nurses have been treating for ten months have healed; however, a brand new one was found and that one is really deep (about four inches) and is—fercrissakes!—getting deeper no matter what they do. Therefore: the doctor's visit. A clearly doesn't like the doctor anymore, hates the hospital and is suspicious of both. Whether it is for reasons logical or not, he is not happy about Wednesday and his worries are...well...they're worrying me and I hate getting worried when there's some important sleeping to be done!

And if you need proof he's going round the bend, listen to how he responded to this great practical joke I pulled on him! He was in with the nurse on Friday and I was out on the balcony making no noise at all which in his sad little head means I am "behaving." So he did his nurse thing and then came out on the balcony to empty the medical waste into the trash can and to let me back into the house. I had hidden, though, and very well right—behind the aforementioned trash can. I mean, I was jammed into a little space there and I did not make a noise. "Léo!" he called out, with a whiff of confusion. Then: "Léo!" with that strange, half-mad laugh that humans get when they are trying to get a grip (and are failing). Then he did the most hilarious thing: he looked over the balcony to see if he could spot my little, white cadaver three floors down. That's when I came up behind him, nuzzled his leg and when he let out a little shriek and jumped five or six inches in the air. (They're very athletic when they freak out, the Mooks.)

Then, oddly, he did not get angry or laugh or anything, he picked me up and hugged a snerf out of me.

That's when the worries really set in.

Be very wary when senses of humour vanish....very wary.

August 19, 2009; Dog Things

This end when they're at the other one

One good thing you can say for the queers: they know assholes!

Now before I go on, I feel I must warn you that what follows may try more delicate sensibilities; mind, if you've been following this blog at all I figure you're not a pussy.

Anyhoo...

I was on a walk with Mook A the other day when a call of nature hit and I began to go about my business. As usual, as I set to, A took a black, plastic (biodegradable...sheesh) bag out of his pocket and prepared for my offering. Problem: things were going as well as might be expected but something was not working. I had something long and sticky holding on for dear life and it would not get out! I strained, and moved about and nothing. A noticed my little Russian squat dance and went, "What now, for fuck's sake!?" and tried to investigate except I wasn't having him anywhere near there, thanks. But no matter how much I strained and how bug-eyed I was getting, that thing was holding on for dear life so I thought I'd scoot it off. A went ballistic and shouted, "No, you idiot, you're just going to make a mess!" and bent down, bag still wrapped over his hand like a glove, and went for it. "Oh, good Christ in heaven!" he howled, "What, in the name of fuck have you eaten now!"

Down there, with the bag on his hand, he gave good, clean tug and pulled a three or four inch branch of something out of me. I can't say the sensation was totally unpleasant and it was definitely nice to have things clear back there. But not clear enough for the Mook cause he went to wiping and tidying me up and pissing and moaning things like, "Now you see why I have to walk you in alleys, you little fuck—to keep you from doing this kind of thing around civilized people." (Excuse me! In my experience, I have seen very little evidence that people are particularly civilized!)

Anyway, the walk ended and we went home and A told the whole story to B and added something interesting: "I am getting seriously tired of being forced to rummage around in the assholes of every dog we own." Ah! So the sainted Cosmo did this too! Nice to know.

As it happens, I am prone to munching on leaves and branches when we're out on the balcony. The Mooks gave up ages ago on trying to keep me from doing it thinking it could do no harm. Now they yell at me for it again.

Meanwhile, HELLO! It's my fucking birthday and it went by completely unnoticed. Even the Mooks who named me Léo, for chrissakes, didn't note it. Leo! Leo! Get it, idiots!

It's all abuse. Even from people I used to like. Like the nurse.

First, let me be clear: my beloved is on vacation which means we have a replacement nurse for the three-times-a-week visits and I really adored her too. She's a foxy young thing and plays with me like mad when she arrives. If I had one quibble with her, it is her way of flirting with A. He mentions how much weight he's lost, she says things like, "You should stop the diet now cause you're already a stud!" and he giggles like a schoolgirl because he, queer as he is, can't help noticing how foxy (and young, let me stress young) she is. (Frankly, I think she says things like that to help his self-esteem because, let's face it, he's human wreckage.)

Anyway, they were talking about the Mook's weight and she said, looking at me, "Him, on the other hand, seems to have put on a bit of weight."

Well, fuuuuuuuuuuuck you!

And thus endeth that love story.

June 25, 2009; Reconsidering the Mooks

Sometimes I can stare at them for hours and wonder what the fuck is going on in those pea-brains of theirs

All this long story of my life before is to say that this is why I am here. This is why I think the way I do, why I act like I do and why I like old men (if not in the faggoty sense).

For instance, there is this wonderful old fucker across the street. Mook B doesn't like him, but Mook A seems to understand that's he a lonely, sick, queer old guy (a lot like Mook A, actually, come to think of it). But he's also crazy about me and whenever I go for a walk with A, he lets me go up to the guy, who's always on his porch, and make nice-nice. It's the smell. It's the age. It's that you can tell he understands things like Frank understood things.

There is a backstory: The old guy owns the two houses across the street and they're very nice houses. Rumour has it that when he was in his hey-day, he owned the first gay bar in the city and managed to fend off the Mafia, which controlled most of the other gay bars here. Because he did this, his place became the hangout and over the years it also became the anchor of what is now a very large gay district. Now, I may be total disgusted by that lifestyle, but gay or straight anyone who stands up to the Mob and, later on, the cops (raids were a common thing) is a pretty cool guy. He's also a cool guy who got relatively rich (ie: the two nice houses) but also paid the price with his health. He has been in and out of hospital and though he looks better, he is probably on his last legs. And he loves me and he loves Ginger and you can't better about any man than that.

Anyhoo...

It's the way Mook A is kind with the old man—waaaaaay kinder than Karrlah ever was with Frank—that makes me thinks A may not be so bad after all. That doesn't mean he's going to win the ongoing battle of wills between me and the Mooks. I will win. I must win if I am to survive. But let me tell you: the Mooks are tenacious fuckers and A has the capacity to scare the jizz out of me.

Right now one of the key battlefields is the visit of my beloved, his nurse. I want to see her. I must see her. Simple. But A wants none of it. He claims he has enough on his plate dealing with the actual visit and its humiliations without me sticking my nose in his privates (as I am wont to do). So the minute she rings the doorbell on the mornings of her visits, he hustles me into the office and onto my bed and closes the door. To make sure I stay there he comes back two or three times while she's setting up the instruments of torture. So I behave...'til I hear them talking and getting down to the business of the treatment. Then I piss on something; the couch, the rug, the floor...it doesn't matter, it just has to make the point that the nurse belongs to me. After she leaves, though, Mook A gets downright Jason/Freddy but without the slashing and hacking. He comes in, finds my message, lets out this mother-fucking-from-some-animal-part-of-him-which-still-exists roar and grabs me by the scruff of the neck and tosses me into my bed, roaring all the while. If I so much as move my nose out of the bed, he comes back and sets me straight with another roar.

The last time I made the mistake of snarling at him and he brought his face right up to mine, nose to nose, and bellowed, "IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU'D LIKE TO ADD TO THE CONVERSATION!" I sucked back that snarl like it was a dick and I was a jonesing crack whore. I may be tough, but I'm not suicidal.

But that's the thing. The Mooks are a bit like that old fucker across the street. They don't give up. I push and push and push all of their buttons and still, at the end of the day, I find myself being cutesy for my food and fawning over them for a place on the couch or the bed and they give in. It's part of the many deals and compromises of our whacko relationship.

Is it possible that faggotry is contagious? Jesus H. Christ on toast...shoot me now!

June 4, 2009; Healer in the Wasteland

Mmmmmm....rubber glove

By and large my life is a vast wasteland: eat, sleep, jump around, play with my toys, walk, dump, pee, eat, jump around, mangle the cloth toys, rape the rubber ones, eat, barf, walk, pee, dump,  barf, sleep.

But...

Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings are heaven. Mook A had surgery eight months ago and he has a wound that is healing slowly and so on those blessed three mornings a home nurse comes to tend to him.

Ohmyohmyohmy. Look, just because she's a different species doesn't mean I don't know she's gorgeous. (Hey! They say some guys fuck sheep!) She's little and has this wonderful, smooth, white skin—unlike the Mooks who are huge and hairy and lumpy. She's got this great hair she ties back but which still falls a little in curls around her face. Such a waste...not only because she's not a dog and married and has kids but because she does intimate stuff on the Mook and the idiot faggot doesn't have the wherewithal to pop a boner!

Anyway, when the nurse comes I get to cozy up to her and she smells good and skritches my head. But then the Mook jams a cookie up a Kong's arse and pitches it into the living room and shuts the door. Sure, I'm distracted for a bit but then I hear him and her talking and laughing and I go nuts.

'Til yesterday.

The room adjoining the living room is also closed off but only by something jammed under the door.  This time it was a wadded up New York Times Magazine and I worked it and yanked it and got it out and shredded it for good measure (it being that Commie paper, after all). Then, once in that room, there was a folding room divider; a couple of whacks of my nose and paws and—bingo!—I'm in the kitchen. And there's the door and she's behind it and that door is shut. But here's the thing: in this apartment, where everything is crooked, nothing ever really shuts. So I took a run and biffed into the door and there she was! My beauty!

But what the fuck was she doing!!!???

It was something that involved bending and spreading and naked arse and rubber gloves and her lovely face waaaaaaaaay too close to something ugly of his.

Well, this required further investigation up close. "We've got a visitor," she cooed and, "We have to keep this sterile." The last time I heard that word it was bad and my legs crossed reflexively. But I had to see—its a dog thing—so I nuzzled up to the bed which was serving as an operating table. 

My beloved nudged me aside! Playtime! "LÉO! LIE DOWN!" the Mook roared, "NOW!"

Judging from his position, hers and all the medical paraphernalia all I could think was: Make me.

She worked on when I noticed—ohmyohmyohmy!—on the other side of the nurse was a little trash bin full of used bandages and gauze pads, rubber gloves and plastic syringes! Lunch time! And it all smelled so divine!

"He's in the garbage," she said to the Mook's arse and she nudged me again. Food and fun! The Mook was shrieking at me now but in a cute way so the nurse wouldn't know how monstrous he really is. I finally settled under the nurse's chair because, despite the food and her intoxicating presence, I was utterly fascinated by what she was doing to the Mook. I suddenly thought about the sheep-fucking guys. If my sweetheart could get up close and personal with this atrocity in front of me, maybe—just maybe!—I had a chance.

And then she was done and quickly the Mook was dressed and hauling me into his arms (not for love) and emptying the trash in the bin outside. There was the goodbye!-goodbye!-see-you-next-time! thing and I was left alone with the Mook and my thoughts.

My life is bliss! Giner! Nurse Angel! Sure, there's that naked Mook-arse messing up the image but that's like a fart: a stink that blinds but eventually dissipates to make everything else smell even more wonderful.

February 25, 2009; Adjustments

Things are not good at Mook Manor. A was laid off of his job. (I'm starting to think that two shoes to the head of that fucking idiot wasn't enough—for what he did to the world economy he deserved the Imelda Marcos collection at least.) 

A is a sad case. He is still being seen by a nurse three times a week to deal with the wounds of a surgery he had four months ago. (This has the added benefit of me getting kitchy-koos from a bunch of disease-carrying Florence and Felix Nightingales.) Then A's dog died. Now he has lost his job. 

Meanwhile B is at least employed. Too employed. He has two jobs, is president of a professional association and is trying to start up a business. When he isn't on the phone or answering his e-mail he is climbing the walls with stress. Can you say: heart attack?

"Singing" (turn down your sound...this one blasts)

Mook A took me in his arms when he got the bad news about his job and said, "No matter what, you'll be taken care of. I'll starve before I stop feeding you." I should hope so, you fucking loser! Get a job!