Need I continue? I am Art. I am Lemur. Hear me chickle.
The thing about allegories, these days, is that I have no patience to see them through. Call me a monkey.
King Kong takes a vacation, sometimes...mostly when I am on-call. When I am off-call, the Kong batters down the door, says "hello" with a backhand to the face. "Hi, Kingie," is all I can manage. "Good...um, it's good to see you again, sir."
Kong snarls and tears the door off of the fridge.
"I think there's some cheese in there," I offer from the living room.
How does a ring-tailed lemur support a giant gorilla on his back? It is mathematically-nonsensical. Yet it happens.
You think I, the lemur, am tough? You ain't seen tough yet. Look at Louie. I hope I am not jinxing him by saying this, but he is one tough S.O.B.
Every time I think I should needle him, he wakes the next day as spry as a four-year-old dog. Yes, he still has his bumps. And, yes, he still breaths like the cigar-smoking, 300-pound Cousin Alfredo. And, yes, he is all skin and bones. But the dude survives. Call it an apple from a tree.
I am pretty sure that, during the next week or two, shit'll hit the fan. Lou will have succumbed to his beast. I know that, intellectually. (I also thought the same thoughts two weeks ago.) I know, intellectually, that Lou-Bear be on his lastest leggums. I know. But I am amazed, and proud, at how strong the kid is. He don't wanna go; I certainly don't want him to go.
I am a sucker for strength. Be it physical, mental or spiritual, I am a sucker.
It warms my heart.
Strength. Now, while you may say, "Hey, lemur! Get off the sauce, you jag-off!" I would offer this: It takes a hell of a lot of strength to continue to pour toxic beverages down one's throat when one is ill as a hatter. I reckon it's kind of a toxic strength. But it is strong, nonetheless.
Lou is different. Lou is better. His is a White Strength, while mine is Paint It Black strength.
Like the Cat in the Hat, the bumps came back. I'd like to say, rhetorically, "Wha-?!" But I knew they would. Dude. Lemme tell you this--and I may be jinxing Luigi--I am fucking surprised at how the Lou-Bomb has dealt with his malady. The vet said a month about a month and a half ago.
Lou is as "sick as a dog." That's fer cheezy. But he still gets up and goes Outside. And he still ingests food and water (lots of water). He still greets me in the morning, looking at the Outside Door. He still, occasionally, stands up and puts his paws on my chest.
He is a fighter.
I feel little--and belittled, and emasculated--next to him. (And he has no balls.)
Dude sleeps all the time, now.
But I feel this: I feel that Lou's demise is to teach me one prominent thing: No throwing in the towel. It ain't over till the fat lady sings. Quitters never win and winners never quit. Sometimes Life throws curve-balls--swing accordingly.
There is a hell of a lot to learn from a dying doggie. Tons of stuff.
I think the most important importation is this: Live in the Moment.