Monday, November 23, 2009

I am ill. I hate it. The misery I accept, the weakness I will admit, but the uselessness I cannot abide. I called in sick to work again today. Mostly I won't do that, but besides chasing after a bunch of mutts I also have to talk to potential adopters. No guilt finds me when I am spreading my various across the world from my native lands of Mehi-co, as Fox News accurately reports of all my kind. When I am visibly contagious; that is another matter. I must hide from the world lest they find out.

I hate feeling weak.

When Donaldo was wrestling in high school, he caught ringworm and brought it home. When a scaly patch the size of a dime appeared on my shoulder I was horrified. No fungo-bacterian terrorist was going to profit from my nourishing hide! I burned off the microscopic nuisance. I later discovered the existence of an over-the-counter ointment that was readily available, allegedly also effective at fighting ringworm. I looked into it; nowhere on the packaging did the cream claim to be as anti-fungal as the searing kiss of Man's fire. This reassured me for some years, but eventually I would come to admit that I was an idiot and should stop assuming that all my problems could be burned off.

In non-contagious news, my alleged pit-bull/greyhound mutt of a dog is thriving. The Noobers, Slinky, and Watson all went for a walk today. It was a majestic sight: my horse of a dog blazing a trail flanked by a dachshund and a Boston terrier. It was even awe-inspiring right until I got tangled up in The Noobers's Extend-O-Leash and almost fell headlong into a tree. My new official policy is to hold all the leashes in one hand so I don't get the ol' wrap-around. With this technique, the three leashes braid themselves into a festive braid, instead of turning me into a maypole, or as we Mehicans say, "mayo-polo".

Now my dogs are napping peacefully. The Noobers is dreaming of having his own butler that will scratch his tummy at the ring of a bell, Slinky is dreaming of winning first prize trophy for The Longest-Yet-Most-Useless Dog In The World, and Watson is dreaming of chewing up that trophy and scattering its bits all about the house.

I will dream tonight too, no doubt, and run with my dream hounds. Memory is our quarry; we dig up lost moments like delicate truffles. At times we uncover moments that never did happen; but we will always make room on our table. We are not always hungry for them now. But we were, and we will be again. I have all the time in this world.