September 30, 2009; B

Even when you stare at them for hours, you don't always understand.

The nurses' visits each morning are still a lot of fun for me, but the same cannot be said for Mook A who, behind the closed doors of his bedroom, lets out some noises which are...well...animal-like. I try to see from the window of the bedroom, but the nurse is hunched so close to him that all I can see are shapes...like A's legs flying all over the place—I guess when the nurse is touching raw nerves as she works.

Though I accept that A is going through real pain, I also have to say this: he's the household's drama queen. Even when not actually in pain or being treated by the nurse, the man takes up a lot of space—if not as much physically anymore, emotionally every corner of the house has him in it. Whether he's laughing, crying or yelling (usually at me), it's kind of hard not to trip over him.

Which makes Mook B—the "partner"—more interesting.

As I have said in the past, I can't really get a read on the physical whys and wherefores of this particular couple, but I am beginning to get a bead on what makes them tick and a lot of it has to do with B. A is high-maintenance; B, from what I've seen, does the maintaining. A lot of what makes B interesting is stuff no one sees. For instance, when A is in the room with the nurse and B is not working and is present to hear what is going on, you can see all of his muscles tighten everytime A lets out a shout of pain. When A was in the hospital, last week, and B came home to feed me and walk me while waiting for the operation to be over, you could tell he was at loose ends...not sitting down and enjoying the blessed peace that A's absence brings about, but instead acting like there was a hole in the structure of our home that was all wrong and that was driving B crazy.

When A has one of his periodic crying jags, B holds him and lets him sob it out, but afterwards, when B and I are alone, you can tell that the echoes of A's sobs are still lingering in the air; B just holds me on his lap and stares out into a kind of darkness that often envelopes him...doesn't even respond when I try to tease him into playing with me.

Now don't get me wrong: it's not like B doesn't have his own little set of peculiarities. He can obsess on work, taking a job that A would polish off in the time it would take a tick to fart, and spinning the work into days and days of nervous sweats, rage and confusion. Also, B does have a tendency to zone out—be in the middle of a conversation with A and then respond like they're having a conversation about something completely different. (This drives A hilariously mental. If I didn't know better, I would think B did this kind of thing just to re-establish the upper hand in the relationship; keep A off balance.) Also, as I've said before, B has never seen a mirror he doesn't love; before he goes to work he'll primp like a bride the morning of the wedding (which explains why he's always late for work) and then, before he rushes out the door, he'll drown himself in cologne. Yes, it's expensive cologne but the smell of it stays glued to the walls of the apartment long after he's gone and my sensitive little nose is slammed so hard by it I have to hide in another room...stick my beak into something that smells normal (garbage works nicely for this).

Anyone who saw these two together would automatically assume that it's A who reigns supreme but I can say, after eight months of observing, that if it wasn't for quiet (though stinky) B, A would be a pile of human detritus on the floor of some nuthouse somewhere, a chronic masturbator and mumbler of ersatz-literary inanities only he understood.

But that does not mean B is a strongman...an island. For A's tick, he's the tock. For A's operatic emoting, B's the base notes sustaining the melody (and without which the melody would simply be annoying...like a car alarm). But without A, B would be a pile of prissy little foibles—he's be a poindexter living with his mother or one of those old queers I see, alone and walking his morbidly obese little lap dog (whose birthdays are celebrated and who has his own wardrobe full of home-made doggie knitwear).

Together, the Mooks are mightily annoying. Separately they would be impossible to stand. Together they are grandly absurd. Apart they would be sad and ridiculous.

But here's the thing...

Together they are the perfect storm for someone like me. A is the disciplinarian and when there's a penalty to be paid (for instance, yesterday, when I peed on the leg of Couchzilla), it's A who will pick me up by the scruff and fly me across the room to my bed for sequestration. However, I know that no more than 15 minutes later, if I let out just the right sound (sort of a soft, mournful whistle that sings an epic ballad of lonliness and sorrow) Mook B will begin to plead my case with A, suggesting I've suffered enough for my "sin". Before long I am prancing over to him and landing myself square on his belly as he sprawls across the selfsame anointed couch. When I am cuddled up to B, then, I will let out a little sigh of contentment. This serves two purposes: thanks B for freeing me from my bondage and bonding me closer to him; and telling A, "Look, retard, I won again!" A smiles at my little sigh, but there is something sinister about the smile; something that tells me that this is just a battle and that the war goes on.

Without two Mooks in my life I would not get four walks, two meals, cuddling when I want it and play when I demand it. Without two Mooks, I might very well have one or the other clinging to me the way they sometimes cling to each other and—sorry!—I am no one's fucking life raft. Without the Mooks singing their off-key little duet, I would have too much of the fuck-upedness of either which, as a pair, is quaint but sung solo would be like bad Wagner. They'd be on my ass all the time, or they'd just get on with their sad, single lives and ignore me like so many singles do who have pets as accessories instead of as companions.

What works between me and the Mooks (when it does work, which is not always) is when we are a trio. They have this thing that I will never fully understand and in other circumstances it would be virtually impossible to penetrate (in the figurative sense, filthy-minded readers). For them this thing works.

But what works best is that it allows me in and, on rare but very special occasions, to dominate, to manipulate, to be King of Mook Manor.

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 21, 2009; The Appliance

...like a Japanese horror film where you don't really understand what you're seeing but it still scares the bejeezus out of you...

Oh! My eyes! My eyes! I want to pull an Oedipus!

For better or worse, and because humans are imbeciles and think dogs understand nothing, Mook A allowed me into the bathroom for the so-called "appliance change" the other day. It doesn't take much coaxing to get me in there because there's always a chance for a bath (which, as you know, is like an erotic massage for me) or at least a few moments of utter warmth because, at this time of year, it's the only room in the house that is heated. I should have thought for longer then two seconds; I'd had a bath a week ago and only Mook B likes me in there. Mook A tends to be more private...now I know why. Or mostly know why. After it all let me just say this: I may not like him one calorie more but I respect him a little bit. How the hell he lives with what some mad scientist did to his body is beyond me.

You know those three-legged dogs you see wobbling about or the ones, even, who ride about on little carts because their back legs are useless? They're sort of like A: adorable in a hideous-baby kind of way but also in a thank-kee-rist-that-ain't-me kind of way.

The appliance change...

...deep breath...

I can't be completely clear or lucid about it because I was wincing, turning away or downright closing my eyes a lot of the time. It involved taking off some plastic thingamajig, soap, solvents, and those alcohol swabs (I know their smell too well from visits to vets' offices...a smell you never forget though you desperately want to). Then there was a little bit with lots of cleaning material and running water and (Oedipus! Oedipus!) some organ sticking out where organs are not supposed to stick out. Then there was the new plastic thingamabob and pastes, glues and a yard of some kind of tape. It was the longest 30 fucking minutes of my life.

The oddest thing was that through most of it I wasn't sure if A was brave or nuts. He was laughing! (It was only near the end that I realized he had an iPod strapped to his arm and was listening to comedy as he did this.) As you know, A has a very short fuse. He did bitch a little when he would drop something or misplace something he apparently needed rightnowrightnowrightnow! But mostly he hummed along. This struck me as bizarre because there have been other times when Mook B and I cringed in the living room as he did this procedure while A screamed with rage and cursed all the gods in the heavens and a groups of real people too (once he went on a real tear about the people who make the store-brand tissue the Mooks buy: "WHEN I PULL OUT A FUCKING KLEENEX (sic), I WANT ONE MOTHERFUCKING KLEENEX, GOD DAMN IT, NOT ENOUGH TO STOP UP A HOLE IN A FAILING MOTHERFUCKING DAM! MOTHER FUCK! PIG WHORE! CUNTFUCKSUCKDICK..." And on it went until Mook B and I seriously thought about moving.

But here's the thing: After the job is pretty much done, A cleans up the bathroom and is in a radiant mood. For instance, during my first (and—Oedipus! Oedipus!—last) visit to the bathroom with him, he bent down and looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Now you've seen it, what do you think?" I gave him a little lick on the nose, figuring he deserved at least that, and he broke into insane laughter. Indeed, B and I have learned that when the procedure (which happens every four or five days) is over, A is in a great mood and all is well with the world for a bit.

When we were done, I scampered out of the bathroom, looking up at A the whole time, wondering why I had never seen outward signs of this mentalness. That's when I realized I do see signs...the morning of the appliance change, before it is done, he is not a cheerful little camper, let me tell you.

Meanwhile, now, the rest of the time, he's in a lot of pain as he waits for this Thursday's operation. This does not make him particularly amusing, but B and I have decided to cut him a little slack on the whole psychopathic-mood-swing-business. I do hope that the Thursday operation does one of two things: solve the problem or kill him because this place will turn into a hell-hole if things don't start getting better for him.

Mook A himself thinks the operation will help. I find his innocence charming especially now that I've (more-or-less) seen what "modern medicine" has done to him already. Jayzus...let's just say we're not too far removed from leeches and trepanation.

September 18, 2009; Stress and Mystery

WTF! What is this monkey-thing clinging to the post; it not only scared the shit out of me but also suggested that there was a neighbour with a mean streak.

It shouldn't be too long before I am getting the respect in this house that I deserve; what I mean by that is that the little jokes from Mook A about Pig Dog and L'il Porky should be stopping. Let me explain. Right now, A is going through a lot of stress because of his operation in six days. Yesterday he went in for his pre-admission examination and came back a pile of nerves. What does A do when he is stressed out? He eats. And he eats. And then he eats again. Anything that he touches—chips, ham sandwiches, pickles, cakes—goes into his mouth and he doesn't even know he's doing it. You know that 35 pounds he was crowing about losing? He's already put one of those pounds back on. Pretty soon, he should be back to his old elephantine self and maybe he'll start leaving me alone about my weight. Maybe, soon, when he grunts when he picks me up it won't be from my size but, rather, from that huge blob of grease he used to carry around his middle and which will, no likely, make its reappearance.

Har-dee-fucking-har-har to you, Fat Boy.

Meanwhile, I am trying to solve a mystery which, in the solution, may solve a whole bunch of other mysteries in this house. The mystery is that of what, exactly, is A's medical problem. Now I know I've seen bits and pieces of it, but nothing is gelling. Nothing sticks together.

The nurse comes in and, through the window—or that one time I snuck into the room to watch what she does—I know she goes to work on his back end. It must be very serious work because she gets mighty up close and personal and there isn't much chatting going on (like all their friendliness ends when he drops his pants).

Now this is odd to me because it throws light on some other mysteries, some of which have to do with that whole queer thing and the nature of the couplehood of Mooks A and B. I thought, for instance, that fags fucked constantly and if they weren't fucking, they were resting up for the next fuck. I figured (considering the rather open nature of their flirting in public) that when they were in the privacy of their own homes they were running about naked and swinging from the chandeliers, filling each other's orificii with whatever came in handy (anatomical or inanimate). But the Mooks seem to have a certain amount of modesty that doesn't seem "normal" (and by this I mean "normal" in the queer sense, not the normal sense). They don't walk around naked, for instance. Though I am very happy about this it also confuses the hell out of me because they are in relatively good shape for men of their advanced years (and until Mook A puts back on all the suet he has so diligently striven to lose).

And this is where the mystery goes back to Mook A. What the hell is wrong with him exactly? Here's a piece of the puzzle, though I don't know where it fits: every four days or so he locks himself in the bathroom after announcing to B that he is going to change his "thing". (He also calls it his "gadget", "kit", a bunch of French words which mean "thing", "gadget" and "kit"; he also calls it an "appliance" which conjures up this image of dragging a fridge or stove around with him which cannot be because there is no extension cord and no electrical hum emanates from him.)

Now it could be that whatever he's changing in there has to do with why he is so modest, but it doesn't explain why B is equally modest too. It also doesn't explain why they don't do anything vaguely similar to what I've seen in porn films (straight or homo).

That to me is the biggest mystery! When, where and how do they do it!? Is there some time during the day when I am on the balcony and they are not when something is happening? Am I asleep? Does it have something to do with this "appliance" (like, they can do it by remote control)? I mean something is clearly going on because if it wasn't wouldn't they be beating up on each other, if only to relieve the sexual tension? Wouldn't they be "wrestling" like I've heard young boys and girls do when they're exploring the...er...possibilities. Or are they just too old and set in their ways and doing anything like that might require energy they don't have anymore or the fracturing of a hip.

Lordie, if that's the case, I don't want to get old because as long as I'm frisky (with or without the balls) I am alive. I mean, take away the hard-ons and what are you left with? A one-purpose skin-tube to eliminate waste...like a nose. And who the fuck needs two noses?

September 15, 2009; Trying to take it back...

Examining my options

The Mooks and I are playing another battle of wits and I made a huge error in thinking they were both a pair of tards.

Firstly, after the me-me-me of Mook A's post-examination and pre-operative hysterics, I decided that the focus in this house was shifting radically and dangerously away from its rightful place: me. So I had to do something about it.

Two days ago, Mook A, in one of his usual—or at least usual for the time being—funks laced with pissed-offedness, took me for a walk. We did the usual alleys and such and for some odd reason they were loaded with cats. Two in particular. One is my sworn enemy and is a real junkyard cat: feeding off garbage, small animals and its own fleas and pustules. I hate the motherfucker and, to no one's surprise, it hates me. But in this little conflict, I do have an ally in A who despises alley cats (or, rather, says he despises the owners who consign these poor animals to their fate...but I think he just hates cats). Anyway, the last time we encountered the beast, A was almost going to let me at him in an effort to rid the area of this particular pest. But things changed swiftly when the Thing From Hell stood its ground over its pile of garbage and looked like it was going to tear me to shreds. A dragged me away (and I was a little grateful for that). But this time, when I saw it, I'd had enough and went at it. A yanked me back so hard and bellowed at me (as he is wont to do so often these days) and on we went. That's when we met the second cat. Now this is a real housecat and I find domesticated cats less annoying and, let me say this (though you must never repeat it) fascinating. This cat also stood it's ground but in a "Come on over here and sniff my snatch, big boy" kind o' way. So I went over and, Dog forgive me, we did a little flirty thing. First it was nose to nose, then a little hot breath in each other's ear and Lord only know what would have happened next, but it is most likely prohibited by the laws of man and animal. The cat's owner—a little old lady (as these owners are wont to be) came out and A, looking a little guilty (like when he watches porn and B walks into the room), dragged me away.

Now all this dragging me away was grating on my last fucking nerve. So on we went. And on and on and on. I hadn't had a shit during our last walk, you see, and A wouldn't take me back in until I relieved myself. But I had other plans...a Master Plan. Finally he gave up, brought me home and went out onto the balcony for a smoke.

And I shit on the carpet.

Well didn't the poor ailing fucker recover his strength in a hurry! He came at me with a fury that was clearly of the unhinged variety, grabbed me by the scruff (not my favourite form of travel) and showed me what I had done like it was something altogether new and unfamiliar to me. Then he threw me in my bed.

Now look, I'm no imbecile. I stayed in the bed. The point was made. I knew, even as A was cleaning up the mess and invoking the names of all the saints and deities, that he was also figuring out that I had been in the shadows for too long and it was time for me to re-assume my rightful place on the throne of this little kingdom...I needed lovin'.

Except, that night as he discussed the "catastrophe" with Mook B, he had figured it out. "It's not about love it's clearly about power and attention because of what I am going through and that he's excluded from it." Then, ominously, he added: "We cannot give in."

Well fuck...

Time to up the ante.

So, this morning I pissed on B's bed.

I was very sly about it. B was taking a little more time getting me out than usual and so it truly looked like an accident. But not to A. When B told him, later when A woke up, A roared at B: "I HOPE TO FUCK YOU PUNISHED HIM HARD!" B said he had, but in such a way that it was clear to A that his own version of hard punishment and B's were similar to a beating by a street thug and a horny ingenue's fan-slap. "He is doing it for attention!" A howled. B then muttered about taking a little longer to get me out and A cut him off, "NO! WE CANNOT FUCKING LIVE OUR LIVES FOR THIS FUCKING DOG ANYMORE!!! THOSE DAYS ARE FUCKING OVER!!!" Then he turned to me, picked me up and yelled so hard into my face that my hair flew back and my teeth rattled, "YOU!!! ARE!!! NOT!!! THE!!! BOSS!!!" I tried to lick his nose, which always turns him to mush, but he yanked back and added: "YOU GOT THAT???"

Er...my singed eyebrows and my eyes an inch deeper in my sockets from your fucking morning-breath suggest I do get it, asshole.

And now here we are. I tried to act up a little on my lunchtime walk with A just to see. Big mistake. He has no shame when it comes to shrieking at me in front of the neighbours or shaking me about to snap me out of "bad" behaviour. (B, on the other hand, let's me do damn near anything during a walk...suck-ah!)

In nine days there is the operation. Then we'll see who's weak and who's strong.

Sleep with one eye open, twathead.

September 12, 2009; Down Low

Keeping a low profile

When I was in the pound there was a rottweiler who had a more interesting sad story. (We all had our sad stories...yawn.)

He had belonged to a young, female student and he'd been given to her by her parents when she went away to university; his job was to protect her from the vicissitudes of the big city which the parents saw as blighted by crime and loose morals. But they needn't have worried; all the girl did was study, study, study and use the dog as a kind of sounding board for her work at school. Two things happened: the dog became amazingly erudite and the dog became progressively more squirrely. Needless to say, the poor beast needed to get outside and run about but she didn't really have the time and so once a day, near the end of the day, she would play with him and it was wild and mad and all it did was get him flustered and jumped up just before bedtime. In bed, the girl would go back to the books and he would try desperately to simmer down, licking his own dick like a contortionist queer on E.

Then, one day—and as happens to all reds (what we, in my world, call rotts)—the hound grew up—big and muscular—and the play was likewise. He bit her face, rather badly, and she brought him to the SPCA.

There, in the pen across from me, he awaited his fate with all the nihilism the dog of a philosophy student could have. He explained to me the work of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and her famous stages of grief (as he felt he was not only mourning his lost mistress but also awaiting the death that was surely and inevitably his as a biter). He explained he had passed through denial and anger, bargaining and depression (all this while the eggheaded little cunt was crying about her mutilated face and setting up the trip to the pound); he had done so in a series of simple acts—saying to himself, "She can't possibly do this...she loves me" then pissing on the floor and chewing a rug when he heard her pursue her plans, then sucking up to her like a jonesing crack whore, then just staring out the window and yay-yo-ing like like the broads in a Greek tragedy.

There, in the pound, he was accepting. (All for naught, as it turned out, 'cause the people at the SPCA saw his inner goodness and placed him with a nice couple covered in tattoos, torn leather and denim, and a-bristle with pointy things.)

All this to say that I must have been on crack when I wrote the last blog entry, and right now I would be more than happy if Mook A got hit by a bus. Indeed, I suspect Mook B would be similarly relieved if the bastard bit it because in the last few days he has been tearing around the stages of grief like a hyperactive housebound poodle with a flea up her cooter and has settled on anger. Sure he did a little bit of the other stages, in his own Mookie way.

Bargaining came in a convo with a nurse. Her: You might consider giving up smoking in preparation for the operation. Him: Not in a million fucking years.

Denial was this little diatribe. "Do you think God and the medical community can find more fucking ways of fucking torturing me? I cannot believe what the fuck is happening to me again—it can't be true! I keep thinking I'll wake up from it, but nooooooooo there the shit is on the breakfast table and just because you put maple syrup on the shit doesn't make it a motherfucking pancake, does it!"

That's when the anger kicks in...or rather, the rage. "Answer me! Does syrup turn a pile of steaming shit into a motherfucking pancake! Give up fucking smoking? Why don't I go out with a fucking bazooka and start smoking a few asses, while I'm at it? There's a whole world of fuckbrains who should share the misery, don't you think!" Then the list is elaborated upon: politicians (like the one who called Obama a liar), blue collar criminals (he'd like to dig up Ken Lay and kill him again) and the guy on the bike who didn't observe the stop sign and nearly mowed us both down during a walk (which was not a walk so much as a forced march with His Lordship muttering and bitching the whole time).

Mook B and I are doing our level best to stay out of his way—hiding in the bedroom, doing pretend work, not making too much noise...ever! But there is the bellowing A with his epic fits of wrath—cursing the fates and using language (in two languages—three if you count the gibberish) that is teaching even me a few tricks about blue material. The five-act opera with overture and ballet he performed for us over a fork left in the sink, yesterday, would have shamed a fat Callas and a chorus of castrati.

All we can do, of course, is wait it out. I thought the sobbing was bad, but this is absolutely mind-bending worse.

The only thing to be hoped for is a slip of the knife, on September 24th, and the two of us can stop sleeping with one eye open.