GIVE OF YOURSELF...

Short Fiction:

"Give," he'd said. "Give of yourself. Just...give. Give the Devil an inch, and he'll take a mile...I mean, your life."

She'd been scared. She'd thought that she had known him--albeit they had been together, as a couple, for "only" four months--she'd thought that she had seen into the Personal Him.

"Listen," he'd said, "I think about violence and carnage and God and sex and horrific movies and peaceful retreats and Love and pressing a screwdriver into--pop!--somebody's eyeball. Warranted, of course. I'd not do it for no reason. I think about coffee and times lost and rot-gut best booze and times lost. I am a circle with black and white. I am yin and I am yang. I eat meat, yet I love animals. I poo-poo tofu, but it tastes grand. I am just as comfortable in watching 'When Harry Met Sally' as I am watching 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.' I profess love for everyone, yet I harbor silent bigotries. I--" He'd stopped, examined her. She'd felt like a housefly, straight-pinned to corkboard. His eyes had travelled over her face, her breasts, her thighs, her Special Place. "I'm hungry," he'd continued, his eyes glazed with his ubiquitous opium. "How about a meal?"

Her heart had fluttered like a butterfly, flitting hither and yon. Through her panic-stricken eyes, he'd seemed to double and treble. Focus, she'd told herself. Just fucking focus.

His eyes had lit up, then. Brilliant-blue. "Scared? Don't be. I'll make the salad; you make the steak. Grill it just the way you do." He'd dropped an ominous wink. "You cook my meat the best that anyone ever has."

She'd shivered inside.

What, she'd thought, seasoned with arsenic?

And but then they'd eaten a meal together--the steak was perfect and the salad was otherworldly--and they'd actually watched "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" and then they'd had some popcorn and taken the cats for a walk and then had so-steamy three-minute sexual intercourse and then they'd fallen asleep, legs intertwined.

***

And...she wakes up this morning and this kernel of a thought is in her head.

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Just fiction.

That's it. Just fiction.

Don't get all bent out of your shape(s).

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In other news, my doggy Louie may have lymphoma. I took him to the vet's after Nay and Meeg and I (last) had noticed bimpy-bumps in his throat, right where the lymph nodes are. I was crying last Saturday when I took him to the doc's. They aspirated him and told me to call back on Tuesday or Wednesday. The doc left a message on Tuesday--and I called and re-affirmed on Wednesday--that the pathologist could not find any cancer cells in the sample. Good, right? Well, hopefully. In the message, the vet noted that, since it was early, the pathologist said that maybe it was just the beginnings of canine lymphoma, a certainly-deadly disease. Or...maybe not. I cling to "maybe not." It could be lymphoid hyperplasia. Um.... LH is a disease of the lymph nodes caused by anything from fungi to bacteria to a virus to an act of God. I have no fucking idea what caused the bumps in Lou's throat. I can tell you this, though: He's spry. He's fight-playing with Ollie-wag and he's eating his food (and the food, my food, that I give him...'cause I love him) and, though he coughs more than he has in the past, his nose is still cold and wet (good health) and his barking is just fine, and his playing, as noted before, seems up to par.

So, antibiotics twice a day. Okay! Whatever I have to do! Yes. Yes. Yes. But, then, this: If Lou does have lymphoma? I haven't the funds for his treatment. There. I fucking said it. If it comes down to me having to retch one- or two- or three-thousand dollars out of a dry stone for his treatments that may only elongate his life by eight months to a year, I'll say no. Nope. Can't do it. Emotionally and fiscally, I can't do it. And I won't.

Six-and-a-half-years-old is Louie. King Louis the First, I used to call him.... I knew, going in, how "blink-y" a dog's life can be. I knew that dogs live like a candle burning from both ends. Going in, I knew that the only fault that any dog-owner could lay on his or her pet was that they leave too fucking fucking fucking soon! I knew that, but I saw a little brindled puppy. His head was huge and his paws were big and his body was small and I just fucking melted. Couldn't help myself. And, through the next six years, we were inseparable.

That's not to say that I was Opie and he was my dog nor that I was the Lassie-boy-tool. I wasn't. I'm still not, even with his maybe-not-purported death staring him in his graying face. (And mine.) What I will say is that I have never felt such...what? Togetherness. He. Is. My. Boy.

And when he hurts, I hurt. When he coughs, I feel a tightening in my chest. When he looks forlorn, I feel forlorn. For the last six-and-a-half years, as he's gone, I've gone. Or? Vice-versa. See, that is the thing about dogs. They intertwine with a willing host. And I am more than willing.

So we sit and wait. I give the Sir antibiotics twice a day and wait. Wait for the bumps to go down. Wait for the throat to slim. We--I--wait for Louie to be the Louie of old, sans bumps, ready to pull me on my Rollerblades for block after block after block. I'll not expect anything less! LOL

No LOL.

No. I wait, patiently, like a dog for his "master" to regain his health. Or vice-versa.

This is not a comedic situation. There is much grief and there have been many tears dribbled.

(I named my fucking website after him!)

Argh.

Websites don't mean shit. The love behind them, however, mean a hell of a lot.

Time ticks and I wait.

As does Lou.

King Louis the First.

(Never to be a Second.)

***

Megan's healthy...I'm healthy...Naomi's healthy...Ollie is Ollie...Cutie-Pie is thirteen (bastard) and healthy enough...and Mister Bubbles is healthy.

All of that is good and fine. I expect that (except for a thirteen-year-old pussy fromping about). What I do not expect--nor tolerate--is my boy, my Luigi, getting sick when he is 6.72. Don't expect it and definitely don't accept it.

So get better, Lou-Dog. Yesterday.

loveandhugsandmemoriesandsadsmiles,

--A___