Expect to Trip

Though my darling Fatty, the sweet love of my life, is 8 years my junior, he at times hits me with solutions so sound it's hard to argue.

Though we do anyway.

Fatty: It's very important for us to express our individual expectations.

Several months ago I was sitting a white linen and brown paper covered booth table with friends. On this table was a potted white orchid, a dog house gift from Fatty. It was the commencement marker for all the fights we will have in our lifetime together.

And believe me, there are plenty. The kind that reduce me to the emotional intelligence of a 6 year old jumping on the spot while stomping my foot accusing him of being a Crazy Bitch Bastard.

And meaning it.

But back at the table of linen and brown paper...
Along came a spider
Who sat down beside her.
Who said, "I'm going to Amsterdam
Wanna come?"

In the spirit of choosing "yes" over "no", I opted for the former.

But why just stop at Holland? Why not Belgium? Germany? The UK, too?

Hang on a second. All these countries share something in common.
Exemplary beers.

The Comrade: This could be Beer Tour 2005! Dear Spider, we'll see you in Amsterdam.

But things don't always go as initially planned.

My first alcoholic purchase was lemon gin. Don't try this at home. It will blind you. Tanqueray gin is lovely. That was my second purchase. I will find a particular drink and it becomes my drink of choice for years at a time. From gin I went to tequilla. Tequilla to single malt scotches. From the peat I went to pilsner beer and Russian vodka. Now I'm kind of off the beer.

Great.

In a vodka haze one night we learned that many of our cherished friends and family will be in that part of the world around the same time as we'd planned.

Interesting.

Hops/ Barley to
Friends/ Family

Works for me.

We are leaving tomorrow at 17:30, commencing the 2005 European Friends and Family Tour.


We fly from Toronto (YYZ) to London Gatwick airport. Once departing the plane we will hunt down the bus terminal housed within the airport. A six hour bus ride on the left side of the road will take us to Fatty's 90 year old grandfather who will hopefully remember to pick us up in his stately car. Seaside, the lovely retirement community Teignmouth (pronounced Tinmeth), in the southwest of the country, is the town.

Expectations of this trip:
Pints and curry.
Clotted cream, strawberry jam and fresh scones with the Earl of Grey.
Hearing the correct pronunciation of can't.
Anything more would be gravy on my steak and kidney pie.

After a 2 day visit we reboard the bus enroute to London Stansted airport. Hopefully there will not be a grudge match, which leads to the evolution of our current fighting - wrestling to settle a score. We need to sleep 5 hours to board a little plane to Verona, Italy.

Where apparently there will be an accordian player, handsome Milano models and Limoncello to welcome us upon our landing. If our welcome wagon does not show up, Fatty's parents have promised to pick us up. On sabbatical Fatty's dad, the doctor who did something major not unlike Russell Crowe had in the Insider, has rented an appartemento in the heart of the city. Apparently the apartment has a bidet.

These have always slightly creeped me out.

We're off via train to Venice for the day. Gondola. Gondola. Gonorrhea. I hope only to catch the first two.

Expectations:
Order something from a menu that I don't understand, but have to eat anyway. A person has to live with her choices.
Please, God. Please don't have me order horse. Or pig's feet. Everything else I'm pretty much fine with.
Visit the cemetery. (It's a thing)
Get drunk and laugh like mad with my future in-laws.
Mange, mange until I can't see.

Hungover, certainly, Fatty and I will board another plane. This one's headed for Amsterdam.

Expectations:
Visit and sample the selection offered at one of the many hashish bars.
Ride bikes while very drunk and slightly high.

Then we're off to Prague where we will be collected by Ack, the ex-husband/best friend, who will be acting as tour guide and translator.

Expectations:
Constant consumption of beige food.
Visiting the cemetery. (It's still a thing)
Drinking the best beer in the whole world.
Seeing a puppet version of Mozart's The Magic Flute.

Ack's borrowing his mother's car. She has a property in the Czech countryside that she lives in 6 months out of the year.

Expectations:
General passive aggression.
Aggressive bitching about her side of the family.
Listening to complaints about the recent scourge of Vietnamese immigrants.
(While reminding his mother of Monsanto's Agent Orange plant, situated in the Czech Republic, Ack said, "They're coming home!")
Smoking cigarettes with Ack's grandma.
4-6 hour hikes with Evil Ack, the goddamned hiker.
Being force fed pig's feet.

And some people say my expectations are too high.

I expect everything will change.
And I hope I embrace it.

Destination: South Pole

Something I am blessed with is the ability to know what I want. I'm not really the I don't know. What do you want to do? type person. This does not translate to knowing what I want long-term. I just know exactly what I feel like for dinner and exactly what I'm looking for in a movie, say. In this state I feel in greater harmony with myself. If I need something I will support the proper nourishment.

Like the occasional bout of the very fine Chester Fried Chicken, located 100m from my house.
Obviously my body is missing the essential minerals and fats found in these battered (in every sense of the word) and fried little parts of Heaven.

With a sprained ankle on the anniversary of bombs bursting in air, gave proof that I needed to watch movies that had nothing to do with humans. I am of the small percentile that actually likes humans, but there are times that I feel they lose focus on their objectives. Their vocations. Why they've been placed on this Earth. They have no meaning. Subsequently they create wars on any scale almost to validate their existence.

My left ankle is partially pooched. It's not the worst sprain I've experienced. What I consider the worst is not being able to touch big toe to the ground without Tchaikovski's tympani punctuated overture bursting from my left stump. That's bad. The last time that happened was around the tender age of 21. Who knew whole melons could be stuffed into the thin skin around a joint? This time it's not epic nor grande. It doesn't feel like someone has shot my foot off, or that I wish that someone would shoot my foot off. I've got the kind of sprain that makes me hyperaware. It's there beckoning me to be careful. More considerate. Please take your time, young lady. Weigh all angles. Consider all sides. Physical pain has always done that for me. It's sometimes been a gift.

It's a real feeling that the mind, this time, doesn't create. Well, I guess if you're talking biologically or scientifically, yes, the mind does create all that we feel, but when a tendon is stretched beyond its capability, really quickly, it is genuine physical pain. What's curious to me is how I am at my best at these times.

There is almost a sweetness that is attached.
I feel more for humanity.
I feel more for myself because I see beyond myself.
I become more deliberate, yet shyly tentative.
All the thoughts of feeling the need to do more... vanish.
In its place is a slower pace. A careful step. A reach for an arm nearby.
Real pain can make people better.
This one anyway.

But then sometimes a person feels trapped inside her home and needs to step out. To find nature based documentaries because it is with single-minded, near obsession that she needs to watch, say, Microcosms right then. Right there. Sometimes the world doesn't allow the things we really think we need at exactly when we think we need them. Out of freakish obstinance, however, some (okay, me) will do all they can to make something happen.

But then you park the car directly across the street from a video store. Step into the neon runway lights. Attempt to cross the street. A single voice beckons, but doesn't beckon. Barks at the night sky, more like it. A scratchy, booze and unfiltered cigarette enhanced esophagus straining the voice of an outmoded West Side Story Jet. Too old and grey to dance with switchblades concealed in leather jacket sleeves. Still slicking back hair, but raven is a much fiercer colour than what's left: a combination thin strands of white/grey/tobacco stain.

Former Jet: Why don'tcha PARK A LITTLE CLOSER?!
The Comrade: I'm sorry, are you talking to me?
Former Jet: NO! I'M TALKING TO YOUR BROTHER!
The Comrade: If you would like me to move my car because you can't seem to get out with 1.5' on either side of you, then I would be happy to. All you really need to do is ask.
Former Jet: OH NO! DON'T MOVE IT! YOU INCONSIDERATE (I can't remember the expletive)!

They've got nothing else it seems.

It's confusing sometimes.

Going to 4 separate video stores that night left me a bit disheartened. Why aren't there more video stores that carry fun and educational programming? That does not involve former murderers and Nazi governments? I don't wish to Dismantle the Third Reich. Or find the special formula used in the communion Kool-Aid.

Truth: I was just sore because I'd missed the last screening of The March of the Penguins that night.

Fatty, the love of my life, promised to take me the following night.
Hmph! I wanted to see it right away.

Sometimes I'm a spoiled little girl.

But then sometimes the waiting makes things a little sweeter. Gives you something to look forward to.

Iceberg, iceberg, ice floe.
Just the tip.
Underwater, it's massive in scale.

On deck are
Penguins.

They feed then travel 70 miles by foot to find a mate.
Just one that they will stay devoted to for a year.
One egg
That gets carefully passed to the father
Who balances it on his feet, keeping it warm under belly in temperatures below -80˚C
For months
While the mother leaves,
Trekking back to the spot of origin.
70 miles to feed.
Or she dies.

When the egg is hatched, the father who hasn't eaten in months,
Has one tiny meal (lodged in the back of his throat)
To feed his young.
When the girls return,
Walking or sliding the 70 miles again,
The chick goes back to the mother,
Who just went to the store and will be back in a few minutes.

The chicks now with care,
The males then make the long journey for themselves.
140 miles.
And eventually come back!
To have a little family time.

They do this every year.

The suffering that penguins go through. The elements in which they survive. The complete lack of time saving devices they implement: Their methods are not efficient. Though they work as a collective, they are not the Borg. How they know exactly what they are supposed to do is confounding. To humans. All for the preservation of their species. Born of love.

There's no talk of which school one penguin is sending their child.
Or where they can find their child on the height chart.
There's no doubting their partner is going to cheat on them,
Or never return.

They are penguins.

God, I want to be a penguin when I grow up.

Pull Over to the Side of the Road, Ma'am

Something I never cease to marvel at is how the Universe has the most wicked sense of humour.
Irony... not just for breakfast anymore.

The old adage Ask and ye shall receive often gets transmuted in my little life as Well, fuck, I didn't ask for that, really. It was more a wanton plea in another arena, but now lookit.

In my last post I was looking for a way in which to relinquish my control.

My darling friend, Mr. Webster, is the fellow who looks not unlike a Jam era Paul Weller. He likes to kiss Comrades on the mouth, particularly when alcohol has lay claim all appendage faculties. He has a tendency to have a wake of swooning homosexuals in his every pass, though claims he is hetero. He had a birthday held at his best friend's summery home, located on one the islands that create Toronto's archipelago. My guests were my darling Fatty and Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend. Wrought from good neighbourly relations (and let's face it: no noise complaints), Mr. Webster's best friend invited the next door neighbour.

A very attractive woman in her 30's.

The Comrade: Would you like a seat?

I had gestured to a vacant spot on a makeshift outdoor bed replete with no mattress, just hard fibreboard with a saffron coverlet disguising the raw, chipped wood and glue surface. At the time of invitation, three sets of asses were perched on the side of this haremic lounger.

Attractive Woman: I don't know if my fat ass will fit.

I hate when women do this to themselves. I don't mind a little self-deprecation. My pork lusting Hebronic pals often successfully make this quite lovable. I just hate it when women make any derogatory statement about their bodies. Especially when the complaints are about their natural curves. Are they your thoughts or were they planted? We are curvy. Along with a minimum of facial hair, it is the distinguishing feature, that line that separates the boys from the girls.

Though it's hard to tell the difference these days.

The Comrade: Who are you? (she asked, thinking she was being charming)
Attractive Woman: Who am I? Who are you?!

So I tell her.
And ask her again.

Attractive Woman: I'm Sarah.

I learned somewhere that if you want to remember someone's name, you repeat it after they say it. Once repeated three times, it actually sticks.

The Comrade: Sarah! It's very nice to meet you.
Sarah: Oh, as if I believe that!
The Comrade: Sorry?
Sarah: You're dripping with sarcasm.
The Comrade: No, no. Actually, I wasn't.
Sarah: You're full of shit.

Ah! Someone smack dab in the red zone of crazy.
I haven't come across one of these in a while.
No matter. I was in a feisty mood that night.

Crazy Sarah: I want to know something.
The Comrade: Okay.
Crazy Sarah: What do you do?
The Comrade: A little uninspired, but I sit here sandwiched between yourself and a man with a brand new cast on his arm with a rather large penis drawn on it.
Crazy Sarah: Fuck you! What do you do?
The Comrade: Well! That was uncalled for. I do lots of things. Why is what I do so important to you?
Crazy Sarah: I'll tell you what I do.
The Comrade: I really don't care what you do.
Crazy Sarah: Of course not. You wouldn't be interested in me anyway.
The Comrade: It's just not my kind of question, Sarah. It's nothing personal.
Crazy Sarah: I want to know.
The Comrade: Well, I'm not telling you. Ask me about something else. Ask me about something that you've been thinking about. Something that bothers you. I'd love to talk about that.
Crazy Sarah: I'm FINE. I'm really HAPPY.
The Comrade: That's great that you've been working on your happiness. That's really important.
Crazy Sarah: I don't have to work on it. I AM IT.
The Comrade: Oh. Well, all I'm saying is there are circumstances beyond our control of happiness. Take for example a 6 year old child who is repeatedly abused...
Crazy Sarah: LOOK, I GOT PAST THAT! OKAY?

What's that? Cake's being served in the other room? Lovely.

The Nutbag got up to get herself another drink. Apparently she needed one. But like duck to water, she wormed her way back onto the makeshift bed scenario.

An immediate, yet accidental, or who knows, maybe on purpose, spilling of her drink splashed all over Fatty.

Crazy Sarah: What?!
Fatty: You were one who spilled a drink on me. I didn't say anything.

And then she turned coquettish.
This is another quality that appears in certain girls. A quality that I despise.

The Comrade: So, Sarah, since you did spill a drink on Fatty, shouldn't you apologise?
Crazy: Well, I was going to.

tick tock
tick tock

The Comrade: And any normal person would go get something to clean up the mess that she created.
Crazy Sarah: Oh, you think so?

She then reached around behind her and found someone's non-absorbent fleece jacket.

The Comrade: No, no, no. You don't do that. Go get a paper towel or something absorbent that no one has to wear later on when it gets chilly, you crazy bitch.

Yes, I did.
I always do.

We learned later that the best way to deal with a crazy person is to ignore said nutbag. It's a sad state when any attention is good attention. Alas.

Though there is a water taxi service that motors up to 8 passengers back to the mainland, a service we learned that is run by 2 brothers who were more than likely in the midst of a punch-up since they weren't answering their phone, the lot of the invited guests decided to catch the free public ferry whose last shuttle left the island at 11:30pm. Sharp.

No one likes being stuck on an island, especially when there isn't the slightest chance of winning a million dollars.

As it was 11:25, the only other recourse was to

RUN

Which we did.

I cycle, dance and drive very well.

I am no runner.
I wouldn't even place in the Special Olympics.

I was one of those kids. The ones with buckling knees and inverted skates scraping along the perimeter of any created ice floe. A Zamboni a distant memory judging by the evidence of other weak ankled scrapers. In my mind, though, I was an Ice Capader. One with giant plumes of ostrich feathers shooting from my cranium. My body housed in a yellow chicken costume. Gliding poetry.

Needless to say, I've sprained or strained my ankle twice before. Running to catch the last ferry, trying to shave a few seconds off the sprint, I took the grassy knoll. In the dark. The scaling the terrain at high speed, while high, was precarious at best.

Snap.

I hate being incapacitated. I do not convalesce well. I am a surly patient. I feel like a prisoner in my own home.
I have no control.
Thanks Universe!

One lesson I learned at the top of my class was: In the end, you only have yourself. You cannot rely on someone else.
Thus spake my mother.
But if you really, really want to help me, well then, I'll tell you what to do.
In step by step fashion.
Without leaving any room for improv or general creativity.

Fatty: You don't make it easy to help you. And you won't let me do it my way.

I can honestly say I'm really good at first person shooter games and making the men in my life feel like completely useless assholes.

Shift gears, darling (she said to herself).

Lying in bed last night, Fatty and I were talking into the wee hours like we used to. He suggested I caress his armpit just to feel how soft and fluffy his pit hair was.

The Comrade: No.

What I learned from Funny School was that the first rule of improv is never to negate. Always say "yes" to everything. As soon as you say no, the scene dies.

The Comrade: I'm saying "No" a lot lately.
Fatty: Yes you are.

What's happened to me?

The same thing that happens to me in nearly every romantic relationship I've ever had.

The Comrade: Oh my God! I'm a parent!
And then I heard myself.
The Comrade: Not apparent. A PARENT!

How did that happen?

I'd turned into an incredibly repressive, oppressive bitchy person that had become highly restrictive. But it's everything I'm against. Why am I so permissive with friends, yet harness free behaviour in my romantic relationships?

Brake.
Turn off ignition.
Pull out the map.

I'm fucking lost.

Stop by a gas station.
Ask for directions.

Girls can do that.

High Endurance Roll-on or Stick

I watched one more episode of that show I hate: Chicken and His Poo-Poo Pants, Episode 5 - the one where he's despondent, hides under the bed and comes out only to squat, leaving a brown viscous batter behind his behind.

The other day Fatty, the love of my life (though has of late been my opponent in the Relationship Ring),

And in this corner, weighing in at 140 lbs, wearing Aquaman Under-roos, the underwear that's fun to wear, with teeth baring, the undisputed nagging champion of the world... Theeeee Comraaaad.

said, "It's true what they say about pets and their owners acting alike."

I don't know about that.
Even if I could reach, I don't think I'd lick my own ass. I have had opportunity to lick others, but nary a sacred portal have I applied even a gentle kiss upon.

He is funny, though. I'll give him that. Having been a recipient of a rather prestigious scholarship to Funny School, I'm always first to say, "He got that from me."
He does does give excellent cheap shots and love bites, something his mother does to everyone in the household.
He plays a mean peek-a-boo.
He rarely complains.
He never wants my pity. He'd rather hide under the bed.

Bitching is a completely different matter, though.
He does that. And that he got from me. For sure.


I'm in a relationship with my dear friend of 4 years who has become my dear love of 6 months. My darling man who is flawed. Who does things that at first I had completely accepted because he was my friend. Now in a full blown relationship, one with the added bonus of co-habitation, he has of late been driving me absolutely bonkers. I have begun to enlist that thing that Chicken picked up so well from me: yelling. A little nagging here and there. Maybe more nagging. And then I turn into a full on cunt. I hate going out like that.

Why is this happening? And why does it all feel so familiar?

I came into this thing not wanting to repeat my past. When I said that I really meant I didn't want to have another workaholic or alcoholic or drug addict. I never again wanted to be usurped by something else. Tangible or intangible. I wanted to be the first priority. I'm very helpful. I'm very nurturing. I think of him often and do things that I know will please him. But in the end, I reach a saturation point where I don't think my rate of investment is garnering my expected ROI.

I do it for them. I reason that they should do it for me.
This is a pattern that has happened in nearly every relationship I've ever had.

And of course this reminds me of a date I had last year. This fellow had a cursed gift of being able to see frailties and blunderous quirks. Not of himself, but of others. His specialty was either identifying the very qualities we don't want others to see or (worse) the qualities unbeknownst to even ourselves. Of me, he said, "You're basically a good person, but you're prone to dissatisfaction."

Hello Hammer! It's me! Nail! Go on, I know you want to. Hit me! For old times sake!

I think the problem is I make myself indispensable. I do things that are far beyond the call of expectation. I do these things at first with a smile on my face, but in the end it's like standing in the receiving line of a wedding party where there are 300 invited guests you have to smile at. Shake the hands of. Be nice to. The face eventually seizes. A twitching grimace takes the place of a genuine toothy spread. The whole affair becomes obligation. Duty.

And then there is the Melting Point.

Of course the man never sees it coming.
You said you wanted to do that. You said you loved doing that.

It's true,
But I don't want to take care of everything.
I am capable of taking care of everything, but in the end all I feel is resentment.
This is the pattern of my life.

An interesting incident happened during the denouement of one of Fatty's and my epic fights. Oh, yes we do! He said that giving me help wasn't easy.

I would counter with:
You didn't do it fast enough.
Or the way I wanted you to.
Or with the intent I wanted you to have.

Control.
Another pattern in my life.

So, how does one relinquish control? That's my big question. Fatty's extraordinary at knowing that somehow things will always resolve themselves in the end. I was never gifted with that belief structure. What I was always good at was listening. I believed everything I heard. But when someone promised me something and faltered with that promise, another special gift of mine, I felt betrayed.

There's been a seismic shift somewhere in the old cockles. My whole life I had trusted nearly everyone I met right from the start. Tabula rasa. Clean slate. Getting to know them, I'd discover frailties (which were fine), blunderous quirks which were not so fine and the horrible little secret that they would try to keep from the populace, but I'd find out somehow. Somewhere along the way I'd find reason not trust them anymore. I'd power-spray the umbilicus tying me to them. And vanish.

And that is my first reaction.
To get the fuck out.

I'd discussed it with Ack, the ex-husband/best friend. Ack who in 2 hours is commencing break-up procedures with Truth/Freedom/Beauty. Grounds for dismissal? Fundamental lack of compatibility.

Ack: Maybe he's not good enough for you.
The Comrade: He is. But maybe I need a break.
Ack: You saw how good a break did us.

Though we've only been together, in a biblical sense, for a short period of time, I've had to present to myself the ultimate question several times: Would I rather be with him or not?

And it is that simple.

The answer is yes.
So if the answer is yes, then we have to enter the realm of Compromise because I can't live with how some things are panning out and he can't live with the constant nagging and upset.

The Comrade: Well, how about you don't give me any reason to nag you?
Fatty: That's fair.


It was after the 5th episode of Chicken and His Poo-Poo Pants that I bundled him in my blue sarong and hailed a cab, juggling keys, doors and a wrapped Master Chicken. I don't believe wholeheartedly in Western medicine. It is this reason alone that I have not taken him into the Hospital for Furry Fellows. The reason I chose this time to take him in was because I met a vet whom I could trust. Doctor Mark. From what I know of him, I know to be kind, patient and loving. He got into veterinary medicine for the right reasons; the love of creatures great and small. I know he's not the old jaded type who doesn't give a rat's ass about the little dudes, only interested in fleecing the frantic pet owner for everything she's got. I could picture him as a young boy bandaging a fallen robin. Never once having applied a magnifying glass on a line of ants. Banishing the thought of ripping the wings from a butterfly.

Chicken had no fever this time, but his stomach really hurt. All that hurt shot out of his eyes. All that pain sent me into a depression. Though I showered, I could smell the emanating reek of my armpits once stationed in one of the examination rooms. I no longer wear antiperspirant because I am convinced the aluminum will rot my brain. I don't usually reek, though in a crisis where I am dealing with a very sick, very small loved one, my body bears a combination odour of fear, fight and anxiety. This formula equals stink factor high.

Poke
Prod
Scrape
Squeeze
Spread
Pick

Which led to:
HISS

The Comrade: Sorry.
Dr. Mark: I'm used to it.

I don't know why, but I am always secretly delighted whenever Chicken hisses at someone.

I explained the recurring scenarios of what generally happens: frothy pools of vomit, land mine puddles of liquid bottom drip, despondency, self-imposed isolation, the releasing of one hardened turd, and then fine.

Dr. Mark: The water's not absorbing into his stool properly which is why there is mucus preceding it. It's not the diarrhea that should be addressed. The question is why is he having difficulty passing?

Dr. Mark explained common ailments that happen to older cats, ones that will be off to college soon. Issues with hypothalamus, kidney disorders, cancer. My armpits were working overtime.

After an ultrasonic urine extraction, Mark noticed Chicken's levels were at the preliminary stages of kidney disorder. Apparently quite natural in more mature felines. All around us in the reception area was kidney formulated cat food. Armed with a debit and 3 credit cards I could have bought every can in the place. If I was a native New Orleaner who had no money but had someone who relied on me, you bet your sweet ass I'd steal this stuff. All of it.

Every hospital has a Nurse Ratched. It's a fact. This hospital had one at reception. Dripping with saccharine, she was the wing ripping sort. Dr. Mark had instructed her to show me how to self-administer an IV into Chicken just in case he fell to extreme lows in hydration levels at home.

At first she wanted to use a saline bag with the names Fluffy and Margot on it. They were 2 extremely depressed cats in locked cages with plenty of fresh food and water, yet an absence of spirit. Both sets of eyes met mine. Both sets of eyes made an instant spring of saltwater elixir form behind my glasses. Dr. Mark instructed her to get a new bag of saline drip. She challenged him for a spell, but was encouraged with a little help from the daggers shooting from my eyes. With a fresh needle she demonstrated how to inject my loved one, pricking the skin of the area in which I routinely singlehandedly pick him up. She looked like she was sewing, for Christ's sake. With saline compound spurting from a newly created watery hump, drenching his furry side, it took everything in me to keep from punching her in her wretched face.

But it filled him out a lot.
He was far less boney.

Nurse Wretched gave me a clean, yet torn towel to carry Chicken home in. Walking down a busy Beaches street some people noticed us. Look at the Kitty Cat! Awww! He's not a Kitty Cat. He's a dignified Chicken.

He'd never been taken out for a stroll before. He was quite interested in everything he saw. Every new smell he encountered. It took his mind off of the recent violation he'd experienced.

He's home again. In the morning he had his old verve back. He had a good appetite. The IV drip's effects didn't last all that long, but he's pain-free and happy today.

He sits and cleans his head now. I could watch this for hours. Lick paw. Rub over cranium. Repeat.

I marvel at sixteen years of non-stop loving someone.
It is possible.
And it's only because I expect nothing of him but his health and his happiness.
I'm going to go squeeze my boyfriend now.