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mallorys_cameraI’m reading a ghost story called The Little Stranger, a gothic horror novel that’s so well written that it’s actually scaring me – the way that famous Victorian short story about the yellow wallpaper scared me. Also a biography of Countess Tolstoy, Mrs. War and Peace, certainly one of the most put-upon ladies in all of literary history. Also some Sandman comic books.
###
I feel like I’m living in an animal hospital. About six weeks ago Milo had a flare-up of his old malady, demodectic mange. He had it as a puppy in the days when I could afford to take sick animals to veterinarians; kindly Dr. Koch informed me its presence indicated a weak immune system. Milo lost 15 pounds and almost all the hair on his hindquarters; developed a scaly skin condition, a staph infection in his eyes – and then all of a sudden he stopped wanting to move. I figured it was his old injury – kindly Dr. Koch had also told me it was only a matter of time before he developed arthritis in that left hip. But it happened so abruptly! One day he was prancing on the green thoroughfare where we saw the snapping turtle, my favorite walk; the next he could barely drag himself from room to room.
Then Meezer got attacked by something – raccoon? other cat? She’s got a dime-sized, bleeding wound over her left eye and her personality has changed – she’s stopped killing moles, she’s become affectionate.
Mizz Z a/k/a Xena the Wonder Russell’s only real malady is that she’s very old – fifteen – and the Master she pledged her doggie heart to doesn’t love her anymore, making her life a kind of passion play of The Velveteen Rabbit.
Nimoy, thank Gawd, is fine. I couldn’t find live crickets anywhere in Ithaca – for sale I mean – so I broke down and bought him pellets at PetsMart to supplement his apple slices and spinach. I take him outside, let him crawl around for half an hour every day or so. Hydrate him weekly in the kitchen sink. He’s quite sassy.
Been bathing Milo every other day, giving him aspirin in the morning, rubbing hydrocortisone cream into his flakey skin, putting triple antibiotic gunk in his eyes. Wormed him using this foul-tasting stuff prescribed for horses, calibrating the dose for his weight. Quite a challenge getting him to swallow the stuff, I practically have to burk him.
He seems to be improving slowly, slowly. Don’t know whether he’ll ever be my prancing beach buddy again though.
Meezer licks off the antibiotic cream and hisses when I try to bandage it. I tried keeping her indoors for a couple of days but that didn’t work.
I try to give the Dowager a little extra attention whenever I remember. In her youth, when she was the Cindy Crawford of the canine world, shallow, a doggie attention ‘ho. I didn’t like her that much. Truth be told I don't like her that much now. I do feel sorry for her – she was Max’s responsibility and he threw her off completely. And she didn't do anything! She just... got old...
When this lot dies, I don’t think I’ll have a dog again. That accelerated lifespan is just too much for me, it’s like being the Highlander or something. I don’t want to see them get old, I don’t want to see them die. I want them to stay young, I want me to stay young.
Cats are another matter altogether. Cats don’t really have personalities, you see. Predispositions, sure. Behavioral patterns. But they’re not organized in the social way the way that dogs’ are. You can project whatever you want on to a cat or you can ignore it completely. Useful properties in a love object.
###
The Milo regimen was Ben’s invention. One of the things I’ve always liked about Ben is that he’s very, very good with animals. When he came over Sunday – Father’s Day – to hang with RTT, he brought along a water turtle he’d found trying to cross Highway 366.
“So like whenever you drive anywhere, you always have an eye out on the side of the road for animals?” I asked.
“Pretty much,” he said. “For snakes and reptiles, anyway. Figure the mammals can take care of themselves.”
The three of us walked up the road together to let the turtle loose in Fall Creek. I tried to fantasize that it was a pleasant little family stroll but really it wasn’t – Robin had had to be bullied to make him leave the house and of course, Ben and I aren’t a couple anymore.
Ben looked good. There’s a kind of elfin quality he has when things are going well. I’d forgotten about that, it was… attractive. That morning he’d driven up to Trumansburg to attend a meeting hosted by some venerable, historic spiritualism society. The chairman of the society is a Professor of Computer Science at Cornell, well respected by his colleagues. I was intrigued by the cognitive dissonance.
Robin lagged behind, scowling, texting on his cell. Ignoring the countryside.
“Well, that’s how you get to have invigorating intellectual discussions with strangers,” Ben said. “You see something in the newspaper and you think, ‘That looks interesting.’ And then you show up.”
“I admire that in you,” I said. “I’m so lonely right now I wonder about my sanity. But of course you grew up here. That gives you an automatic social circle.”
“True,” said Ben. “I know practically everyone in town. But it’s not like I don’t know how you feel. I felt that way for fourteen years in Monterey. And I’m not oblivious to the… let us call it irony.”
“Irony,” I said. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
“Oh, I like you fine.”
“But you’re happier not living with me.”
“It’s a great feeling,” he said. “Not being responsible for anybody’s emotional wellbeing but my own.”
“Have you got a girlfriend?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“Not yet.”
“So you’ve been out on dates?”
“A few.”
So fucking unfair, I thought. He was the fuck-up. But now he’s happy and I’m not. As if the old mental telepathy still existed, he said, “I’m sorry you’re not happy here.”
“It’s not the place,” I said. “I like it here. I like it a lot actually. It has gravitas, it’s a real place. California seems insubstantial in comparison. It even smells green here. I just don’t know anyone.”
“You have to join groups,” he said.
“I feel too repulsive to join groups,” I said. “Why would anyone who’s not repulsive want to talk to me?”
“Repulsive people weigh three hundred pounds and use those wheelchair things they refuse to call wheelchairs,” he said. “Therefore by definition you are not repulsive. And of course you could join the synagogue. They have to be friendly to you there, right? Otherwise God will smite them. You used to talk about joining the synagogue.”
“Yes, yes, Judaism! The great lingua franca of sarcasm,” I said. “I don’t know though. That Reform congregation looked pretty dippy when they were riding in the Ithaca Day parade, and of course, the Conservative congregation would drum me straight out the door.”
“Why?”
“I can’t keep a Jewish home,” I said.
As if to prove the point, I cooked pork for dinner. Very bland, tasteless, uninspiring pork. Pork is one of those things I never quite know what to do with.
Three of us sat down to eat. Then Ben thanked me elaborately for the meal and left for work. Sent me an email the very next morning thanking me again.
If he only he had gotten a job last winter, we’d still be together I suppose – even with all the bad, bad stuff that’s happened. No, I don’t want him back. But I enjoyed seeing him.
I feel like I’m living in an animal hospital. About six weeks ago Milo had a flare-up of his old malady, demodectic mange. He had it as a puppy in the days when I could afford to take sick animals to veterinarians; kindly Dr. Koch informed me its presence indicated a weak immune system. Milo lost 15 pounds and almost all the hair on his hindquarters; developed a scaly skin condition, a staph infection in his eyes – and then all of a sudden he stopped wanting to move. I figured it was his old injury – kindly Dr. Koch had also told me it was only a matter of time before he developed arthritis in that left hip. But it happened so abruptly! One day he was prancing on the green thoroughfare where we saw the snapping turtle, my favorite walk; the next he could barely drag himself from room to room.
Then Meezer got attacked by something – raccoon? other cat? She’s got a dime-sized, bleeding wound over her left eye and her personality has changed – she’s stopped killing moles, she’s become affectionate.
Mizz Z a/k/a Xena the Wonder Russell’s only real malady is that she’s very old – fifteen – and the Master she pledged her doggie heart to doesn’t love her anymore, making her life a kind of passion play of The Velveteen Rabbit.
Nimoy, thank Gawd, is fine. I couldn’t find live crickets anywhere in Ithaca – for sale I mean – so I broke down and bought him pellets at PetsMart to supplement his apple slices and spinach. I take him outside, let him crawl around for half an hour every day or so. Hydrate him weekly in the kitchen sink. He’s quite sassy.
Been bathing Milo every other day, giving him aspirin in the morning, rubbing hydrocortisone cream into his flakey skin, putting triple antibiotic gunk in his eyes. Wormed him using this foul-tasting stuff prescribed for horses, calibrating the dose for his weight. Quite a challenge getting him to swallow the stuff, I practically have to burk him.
He seems to be improving slowly, slowly. Don’t know whether he’ll ever be my prancing beach buddy again though.
Meezer licks off the antibiotic cream and hisses when I try to bandage it. I tried keeping her indoors for a couple of days but that didn’t work.
I try to give the Dowager a little extra attention whenever I remember. In her youth, when she was the Cindy Crawford of the canine world, shallow, a doggie attention ‘ho. I didn’t like her that much. Truth be told I don't like her that much now. I do feel sorry for her – she was Max’s responsibility and he threw her off completely. And she didn't do anything! She just... got old...
When this lot dies, I don’t think I’ll have a dog again. That accelerated lifespan is just too much for me, it’s like being the Highlander or something. I don’t want to see them get old, I don’t want to see them die. I want them to stay young, I want me to stay young.
Cats are another matter altogether. Cats don’t really have personalities, you see. Predispositions, sure. Behavioral patterns. But they’re not organized in the social way the way that dogs’ are. You can project whatever you want on to a cat or you can ignore it completely. Useful properties in a love object.
The Milo regimen was Ben’s invention. One of the things I’ve always liked about Ben is that he’s very, very good with animals. When he came over Sunday – Father’s Day – to hang with RTT, he brought along a water turtle he’d found trying to cross Highway 366.
“So like whenever you drive anywhere, you always have an eye out on the side of the road for animals?” I asked.
“Pretty much,” he said. “For snakes and reptiles, anyway. Figure the mammals can take care of themselves.”
The three of us walked up the road together to let the turtle loose in Fall Creek. I tried to fantasize that it was a pleasant little family stroll but really it wasn’t – Robin had had to be bullied to make him leave the house and of course, Ben and I aren’t a couple anymore.
Ben looked good. There’s a kind of elfin quality he has when things are going well. I’d forgotten about that, it was… attractive. That morning he’d driven up to Trumansburg to attend a meeting hosted by some venerable, historic spiritualism society. The chairman of the society is a Professor of Computer Science at Cornell, well respected by his colleagues. I was intrigued by the cognitive dissonance.
Robin lagged behind, scowling, texting on his cell. Ignoring the countryside.
“Well, that’s how you get to have invigorating intellectual discussions with strangers,” Ben said. “You see something in the newspaper and you think, ‘That looks interesting.’ And then you show up.”
“I admire that in you,” I said. “I’m so lonely right now I wonder about my sanity. But of course you grew up here. That gives you an automatic social circle.”
“True,” said Ben. “I know practically everyone in town. But it’s not like I don’t know how you feel. I felt that way for fourteen years in Monterey. And I’m not oblivious to the… let us call it irony.”
“Irony,” I said. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
“Oh, I like you fine.”
“But you’re happier not living with me.”
“It’s a great feeling,” he said. “Not being responsible for anybody’s emotional wellbeing but my own.”
“Have you got a girlfriend?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“Not yet.”
“So you’ve been out on dates?”
“A few.”
So fucking unfair, I thought. He was the fuck-up. But now he’s happy and I’m not. As if the old mental telepathy still existed, he said, “I’m sorry you’re not happy here.”
“It’s not the place,” I said. “I like it here. I like it a lot actually. It has gravitas, it’s a real place. California seems insubstantial in comparison. It even smells green here. I just don’t know anyone.”
“You have to join groups,” he said.
“I feel too repulsive to join groups,” I said. “Why would anyone who’s not repulsive want to talk to me?”
“Repulsive people weigh three hundred pounds and use those wheelchair things they refuse to call wheelchairs,” he said. “Therefore by definition you are not repulsive. And of course you could join the synagogue. They have to be friendly to you there, right? Otherwise God will smite them. You used to talk about joining the synagogue.”
“Yes, yes, Judaism! The great lingua franca of sarcasm,” I said. “I don’t know though. That Reform congregation looked pretty dippy when they were riding in the Ithaca Day parade, and of course, the Conservative congregation would drum me straight out the door.”
“Why?”
“I can’t keep a Jewish home,” I said.
As if to prove the point, I cooked pork for dinner. Very bland, tasteless, uninspiring pork. Pork is one of those things I never quite know what to do with.
Three of us sat down to eat. Then Ben thanked me elaborately for the meal and left for work. Sent me an email the very next morning thanking me again.
If he only he had gotten a job last winter, we’d still be together I suppose – even with all the bad, bad stuff that’s happened. No, I don’t want him back. But I enjoyed seeing him.
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no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 03:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 10:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 03:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 10:51 am (UTC)Robin is my 15 and a half year old son. Ben's his father.
I have an older son Max who just graduated from university. His father was my first husband.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 02:09 pm (UTC)I have son who will be turning 15 in September.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 02:45 pm (UTC)My oldest kid's teen years were a walk in the park. I mean when I finally found out what had been going on all those years, I was surprised & a little sad -- I'd put all that energy into being Mrs. Brady after all.
In comparison Robin (though I love him) is a complete brat, an e.g. of tyrannical teenhood at its most self-absorbed. Much of what I write here is venting on thatsubject.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 02:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 04:24 am (UTC)> "Cats don’t really have personalities, you see."
yeah, can't agree with that.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 10:52 am (UTC)Most people who have cats but no dogs don't. :-)
no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 02:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 04:14 pm (UTC)'course, in my experience, this doesn't really help with meeting people.