Monday, September 5

sign language.

i have basically one person i spend time with,
and he's not even a person.
yup, and nope.
crabtree is kind of a jerk.
a jerk who doesn't even really seem to like hanging out.

that HAS to be it-
despite my undivided and constant focus having shifted to play
and exercise with my animal other,
he still finds ways to almost die, and regularly.
somehow, and i honestly can't for the life of me figure out how,
he ate a F*ing giant clear plastic something or other,
and has been essentially exploding out of both ends for a full day now.
if it's a cry for help, i don't know how to help him.
there's no exxxtra time in any day for paying MORE attention to him,.
and if he has found a way to smuggle drastic plastic into his spastic colon
in the literally seven seconds i didn't stare at him in the alst week,
then he's determined to undermine his health
far more seriously than i am determined to prevent him.
oh. stop it.
and maybe relax for a second.
we obviously did the veterinary thing-
emergency blockage detection and so on and so forth,
on a holiday weekend,
at night.
everything i've ever loved has cost me piles of money in collateral damages.
the vets said what they say:
give him some rice.
...then wait and see if he can keep it in there.
i'd already given him some rice,
and saw it's encore performance outside the arena afterwards.
coming home to a heaping house of horrors is no flippin' good.
not one little tiny bit.
there was close to a pound of plastic wrapping mushed in among
the regurgitated ragnarok of vile bile and vicious viscosity.
i think he's trying to kill himself.
i mean,
why would anything eat a wad of petrochemical murder?
it can't taste good!
it certainly doesn't seem to feel good rocketing out of his prolapsed poopchute!!!
have i slept?
not more than thirty minutes at a time,
since 4 a.m. yesterday.
it's times like these i'd like to thank all those competent, communicative, capable
and reliable partners of mine for sticking around through neither thick nor thin.
the bottom line?
liquid bilial barf blasts from either side of the digestive system aren't my thing, man.
you can probably imagine how much worse it is for my little suicidal terrier.
poor guy.
as uncomfortable and exhausted as i am,
i'm not the one erupting on an hourly basis.
being in charge of a sick little dude is demanding.
no question.
and he might even be trying to escape his mortal coil,
and find sweet release from a life sentence of Folk Life & Libertarian warrior poetry.
maybe he's just tired of all these uphill F*ing walks.
i dunno what's up,
but i do know what's next.
and that's MORE.
more time, more tired, more cleaning up of waste and wreckage.
it's all really happening,
and while all y'all are out on the lake eating hot dogs and crushing brewskis,
or whatever the heck it is white people do on labor day,
i'll be doing what needs doing,
here AND at work,
all by my lonely,
as usual,
and in perpetuity,
like the little red hen of hard feelings and harder styles;
never quiet, never soft.....

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