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.