Blind Along The Walls

Here's my day. I awake to the sound of my dog having yet another grand mal seizure. It's 5:00am and Gus has not emptied his bladder since 9 last night - until now. All over the kitchen floor (at least this time it's on the tile floor instead of the silk Persian rug) and then, if you've ever seen a dog seize you know this answer, he commences to drag himself through it over and over again. Complete with mucho frothing from the mouth.

Can you tell I'm getting used to this? I've documented his seizures and apparently this is going to happen every 2-3 weeks, ad nauseum or ad infinitum, whichever comes first. Because if nauseum comes first, I'm not sure what my decisions will boil down to. But I'm not there yet. So be it.

I clean up Gus and the kitchen for about an hour and then attempt to calm Gusgus, who is blind for about 1/2 hour, hence he paces along the walls, until he drops from exhaustion and then I try to fall back to sleep on the sofa. But Gus insists whining and licking my face at the same time with his pewy mug. This is not working.

Sasha, my absolutely NOT morning-oriented teenager, gets up for school and whines and badmouths the state of...everything, then paces along the walls until she leaves for the bus (okay, not really the "along the walls" part.)

I'm tired and I have no coffee. I must have coffee. I harness up Gus and ride him to Diva, where he proceeds to raise the hair on his back and snap at two small children, well-dressed in their regulation plaid Catholic school uniforms. Their well-coiffed Catholic mother flits about along the walls and tells me in so many words to train my dog. Okay, not along the walls here either, but she does flit and spit Catholically-correct fire at me.

I get home and have to get the papers together to meet my ex-husband for our next, most current notarization experience - we have yet another mortgage offer from Bank of America, this time at a lower price and as a result of the intervention of Senator Patty Murray. This should be a red-letter day for me, no?

And yet I find it necessary to pace along the walls, yes, along the walls because I want to be as blind as Gus is after a seizure and even more desensitized because I have to "see" my ex and endure what I know will be the regular recitation of the reasons I'm going to, in his weekly words, BURN IN HELL FOR ALL ETERNITY. Sometimes I can actually find it funny now, because it's become absurd in its roteness, but many times I cannot control how I will feel because I don't have control over all 54 people who live inside me, particularly the ones who remember what it's like to be put down regularly, both in childhood and other past "relationships," for various pathological reasons, several from people who threatened my BURNING IN HELL FOR ALL ETERNITY. Please see former post , among others.

But I do meet him at Bank of America and the receptionist signs us up for the next available bank exec and then makes the mistake of having us take a seat in the same waiting room as several other innocent bystanders. He sits across from me and begins his regular recitation of my failings, complete with names and dates and other assorted details and I grunt an answer rotely on occasion just to see if this time he will stop (what's that definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over expecting different results? Yep.) and finally I cut him off, giggling somewhat hysterically to the semi-horror of the innocent bystanders who have been listening, and I say, "Jesus, man, wouldn't this make a great scene in a really shitty play? Like Mamet, you are!" To which, again to the horror of the innocent ears not three inches away, he shouts, "Fuck no! Too wordy!! Mamet would cut to the chase!" To which we both laugh and then are totally silent. The room feels blown away by the insanity, like the persons sitting with us appear to want to get up and pace along the walls.

It is all executed and done in perfect silence, at least on the part of him - he signs in front of the notary, he flips the papers back in my direction, he leaves. It is sufficiently dramatic to win at least a Drama Desk, with maybe even a nod from the Obie's and I should feel thrilled to have had my mortgage cut in half, yes?

But no, I cry on the walk home because as he has pointed out I'm a loser who still does not have a job to pay for this and I never will since I am about to BURN IN HELL FOR ALL ETERNITY, only about half of which I really believe, but since I can't pace along the walls I have to at least cry to relieve the tension. I can pace when I get home right?

No. I get home and it seems Gus has gotten up all the way up to the middle of the dining room table and snagged Sasha's Easter basket, which was filled with chocolate. And its contents? All gone. Anyone know what 25-30 pieces of chocolate do to a dog? Generally speaking, it throws them into a seizure. But we've already had one of those today, you say? Yes, but I don't think Saint Gustavo, Patron Saint of Mutt Seizures keeps count nor shows mercy.

I call the vet who, of all things, laughs, and says I'll have to stay close to Gus FOR THE REST OF THE DAY. But I have appointments and errands? Gus will have to go with me FOR THE REST OF THE DAY. There shall be no escape nor respite.

I take Sasha (and Gus) to drop her at her first appointment across town and I think, jeez, it's nice out, maybe we'll go to Magnuson dog park close by and I'll let Gus out for a little spin. It's nice out today, sun shining, birds singing.

We get to the park and the first person we run into is...my ex with his dog. He's also there with his dogwalker "friend" who's 20 years younger and 20 pounds lighter than I am. "Tee hee," she says. Joy. Five minutes later, the heavens open up and we are drenched, me and Gus, while the ex, his stick girl and his designer dog drive off in heated-leather-seat comfort. Me and Gus pad back through the monsoon, slide back into my 21 year old vehicle with the door that won't shut all the way and the window that won't completely close and we head off to pick up Sasha. But not before I slam back into the bumper of a brand new Toyota. And I think, great, let's call the police now that it reeks of wet-dog-who-has-peed-all-over-himself in here.

But we all get out and and - Aha - made of rubber! I get my 13th dirty look of the day, smile back and thank the Patron Saint of Bumper Makers, St. Come-On-An-Hit-Me-Sucka. I pick up Sasha, who immediately points out that she is thoroughly disturbed by it reeking of wet-dog-who-has-peed-all-over-himself in here. Perhaps her father should have picked her up? Ah, the beautiful silence.

I'm tired. There have been no further seizures. I have not had any demonic spirit show up to DRAG ME TO HELL yet. Is there a conclusionary lesson to this essay today? No. I'm just grateful it's all over.